Kevin, the marine
—
It was clear we were on our own.
Our unwelcome visitor was still coiled in the corner, watching us, when our former marine neighbor arrived home.
Kevin would be my first choice as a bodyguard or for any distressed situation. He was young, strong and sexy but not too bright. He would not comprehend the danger of the venomous reptile, and with brute force, he would dispatch the creature and then catch me as I fainted.
“Thank God, Kevin’s home. He’ll know how to kill it. He’s killed people, right?” I asked. I didn’t want to know the answer.
“Kevin!” Blane called.
[MORE BLANE; sexy pants squarehead…]
We were casual acquaintances at best. Kevin walked toward us and stopped near where we stood. It wasn’t like us to call him over like this, so he must have thought it strange.
“What’s up … guys?” He hesitated.
“We’ve got a rattlesnake in our garage,” I said.
He stopped, then stepped back. “Where?”
“There in the corner, see it?”
Kevin did not move. He leaned forward, appearing to get a better view.
“We need to kill it!” Blane said.
“Dudes, you’re on your own.” He turned and walked quickly back toward his house. In his pressed, pinpoint white cotton shirt and tie, he wasn’t quite the ruthless killer we needed.
My fantasy of the bodyguard, the former marine, was diminished that day, along with a bit of my dignity. In retrospect, I knew he wasn’t your average marine–not a Texas marine anyway–who would have seized the always-loaded rifle from the gun rack of his shiny new pickup truck and blown the fucker away.
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