Diamondback


Dead summer’s bright Arizona sunset sparkled through an open garage door. Removing the filter, I sensed something, squirming.

There it was. Reptilian tongue flickering, testing the atmosphere.

Don't breathe. Stop shaking.

Six-foot-long rattler slithered toward my feet, which protruded from little wife’s Jeep underbelly.

Only possible weapon near-by -- oil-changing wrench.

Nasty looking reptile glided forward. Unconcerned, unafraid. Searching.

Gulping more air. Oh God… up on one boot. Slowly, inching toward trembling chest.

Squeezing the wrench and swinging. Screams … then, darkness.

***

Three broken ribs seemed a small price to pay for pest control.