The Butcher and the Snakes
Rob Walsh

So many times in the last year snakes had gotten into women's apartments and tried to survive under the bathtubs, where it was dampest. When she heard the news she hired the butcher to come inspect.
The way her bathtub was set, a combination shower-bath with no legs or space between it and the floor, snakes could not possibly be living there. It was quite impossible. Yes, she said, that was what she thought, that it was quite impossible. But she had been burned before by the impossible. The butcher concluded his inspection by rapping the bathtub, with his knuckles, three times, letting this reassure her.

After finishing coffee, he was about to leave, when she said to wait. A minute later she was crying. She put herself in a position to be comforted. Her head was filling up, about to topple over, unless a man's chest could support it. The butcher got his chest ready.

During sex, she started crying again. The butcher saw snakes crawling under her bed from all corners. The butcher had never been so excited. She was geysering little columns of salt and eyeliner. That's what's called a gusher, his friends at the bar explained.