"The Rattlesnake Shake"

The misadventures of Bobby weren't all confined to the immediate St. Louis region. . . . . hell, no!

The family kept extended relations out in the countryside, in a tumble-down cabin by a pristine lake where rainbow trout leapt out of the water like porpoises. For once, saner heads mumbled together and figured "a stay out in the boonies" would be "good for the boys"-- 17 year-old Hayes and his cousin, "Uncle Perv" who stood next to his saner contemporary like a death-obsessed ghoul with dark circles under his half-crossed eyes and a hankering for the stench of putrefecation.

Get them away from the city, their dope-smoking friends, and the morgue! Please, Jake, please!

Big Jake didn't know any better, a jolly "winking uncle" who glad-handed with a red-faced wheeze over the rotary telephone as he assured the parents back in the city that he'd help the boys "develop character in that fresh Ozark mountain air". Of course, he was half-deaf and "drunk off his gourd" anyway when he made that promise, and not that much better at 8:00 in the morning when he let the kids drink beer and handle knives as they cleaned fish.

Uncle Jake hitched up his britches, hung his hands over one knee, and had a good 'ole fashion country bargain for them-- if the boys could clean all the fish n' game this experienced woodsman could catch, then he would let them take home a 50 year-old barrel of whiskey to roll into the house, none to be the wiser.

If they "punked out", the boys could split up all that catch they cleaned themselves. Character building? Uncle Jake laughed with secret knowledge as he went off into the woods with his rifle, fishing rod, and hip flask of whiskey stuffed in the pocket of his overalls.

Meanwhile, Bobby and "Uncle Perv" were dutifully cleaning fish, dreaming of that whiskey and the party they could have with it for all their dope-smoking friends. The hours flew by, and Uncle Jake kept coming back with more trophies, piled on the picnic table like the cornucopia horn of furry/scaled plenty. . . . .

But the boys kept at it-- DAMN IT, they wanted that whiskey to show off to their stoner buddies! Their muscles were burning. Their hands were sticky with slime, and they were all covered with bee-stings and fly-bites from the insects attracted to the stench. You could hardly but grip a beer can, the situation was so stinking miserable.

Finally, it was getting around evening and they still weren't finished.

Big Jake came back and dumped a skunk on the table, and whipped out a snake from his pocket for good measure before laughing and going back inside the cabin. Bobby had not begun to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, when he heard a rattle. . . . . that snake was alive!

It was slithering toward him ominously, bearing its fangs! Nothing seemed apparent here but the pink of its evil mouth going for the muskrat's potato nose! It was all he could do but to grab the snake and hold it aloft at a distance, panicking and gibbering and falling backward with the bright tin foil edge of panic. The whole picnic table fell on top of him with the slop of fish guts and dribbling beer as Bobby screamed for help.

"Kevin! Kevin!" (-- that was Uncle Perv's Christian name) "Get the axe! Get the axe!"

But "Uncle Perv" was drunk and agitated, his ego bruised along with his ass on the ground. And was in no shape to be of any help. He was clearly a danger to himself and to others, which was his natural state anyhow. But he hefted the axe-- taking giant practice swoops like a man at a country fair about to take a chop at a pumpkin but not having the most reliable of aim. Bobby didn't particularly want his head split like a cantaloupe, and rolled away with the snake hissing and coiled around his wrist. . . . .

Then his gang of younger cousins. . . . . 5, 6, 7 years old. . . . . came over and wanted to "pet" the snake.

He was squirming, hollering: "Get away! Get away! It's a rattler!". His hands were slippery, and his grip was becoming unreliable. The more tenuous his grip, the harder he squeezed. The harder he squeezed, the angrier the snake got. And the angrier the snake got in his tightening grip, the closer the snake oozed toward his face with its dripping, hissing fangs!

Finally, Bobby rolled onto his knees, rose, and ran screaming into the house. . . . . Uncle Perv drunkenly struggling with the axe like an axe murderer chopping into the ground with poor aim.

"SNAKE! SNAKE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

But the gaggle of women just stared at him bovinely, like a herd of crocheting cows sitting around the pot-boiler stove.

Bobby ran over to the sink and splashed his hands into the soapy dishwater. . . . . the snake just got into agony and started thrashing around, BUT YET IT WOULDN'T DIE.

Half-remembering a documentary he had seen about the Native Americans, he jerked it out of the water and began to chew on the snake's head, grinding his teeth back and forth, ripping through skin, sinew, and bone-- the damn thing thrashing like mad-- and finally bit the rattler in half. Animal blood spewed out of Hayes' mouth, and this bitter, acrid, evil taste wouldn't leave his senses. . . . . and there the snake was. . . . . down on the floor in two pieces.

Actually, make that three pieces when the corpse began squirming again and our wild-hearted son laid into it with an electric turkey knife, spewing bits of flesh everywhere like live chunks of reptillian confetti and leaving deep scratches on the hardwood floor.

Finally, he collapsed, weeping from the ordeal. Then Bobby had an idea. He picked up the largest chunk of rattlesnake, took it into Uncle Jake's bedroom where the woodsman had snored through it all (-- he was half-deaf, remember?) and threw it on top of him. He shook him awake, hollering "SNAKE! SNAKE!".

Uncle Jake awoke, his eyes the size of dinner plates, thrashed about and went for his gun. Then he blasted the snake remains to pieces, mattress feathers flying everywhere.

Bobby told him what happened. . . . .

"I thought that snake was dead!"

So much for getting away from the coiled vices of the city. . . . .