Sorry About The Snake

I want to say sorry. I want to say it in person, and maybe one day I will. For now, my counsellor at the prison has suggested that writing this may be a step towards closure—and, eventually, forgiveness.

I’m not expecting a reply. Though that would be nice.

We never really spoke directly. Most of our interactions were through lawyers, across a courtroom, which isn’t ideal for this sort of thing.

You probably wish you’d never heard of me—and likely hope you never do again.

That’s understandable.

Unless…

You don’t know the full story.

You know how it ended. Or at least a version of it. But only a small part.

So I’m going to start at the beginning.

There was a girl I liked.

If that sounds like the start of a terrible romantic comedy—something starring a budget version of Hugh Grant—then I understand your concern.

The girl’s name was Anna. Though, given I’m writing this from prison, I’ll refer to her as “A.” moving forward.

She was the kind of person who brought her own atmosphere with her.

I was sitting in a café, minding my own business, when I noticed her—long, slender legs, each inked with colourful snakes that seemed to slither as she moved to the counter.

It was a busy day, and as I was the only lonely sod sitting by himself, she asked—in the most heavenly tone—if she could sit down.

It didn’t feel like a situation where refusal was expected.

Sadly, if I had, I might not be serving at His Majesty’s pleasure.

A. introduced herself and said she was in a pickle—relying, as she put it, on the kindness of strangers. I did think the phrasing was odd, but I also noticed the absence of a ring. I allowed myself to believe that, if I played the part of knight in shining armour, I might at least get a date out of it.

I got a lot more, as it turned out.

She had a painting and a snake. Or rather—she had had them.

An ex had taken both.

“He took Monty,” she said, “and my Constable. As revenge for me falling out of love with him.”

I’ll admit, I had certain expectations when she said “Constable.” A painting, perhaps—something pastoral and expensive. I’ve always leaned more towards Matisse, Van Gogh, or Munch myself, but still.

I was wrong.

The Constable in question was a plastic, pop-up police mascot from a station in Perthshire. It had been stolen—apparently as a Valentine’s Day gift by her husband, Sleekit Sam. She’d grown rather attached to it.

Monty, on the other hand, was not a metaphor, nor a nickname.

Monty was a snake.

A real one.

With a pissy personality and a short temper.

She noticed my car keys then—just a glance, but a deliberate one.

“I can’t drive at the moment,” she said. “But I do know where he’s keeping them.”

I should have asked more questions.

I didn’t.

I told myself it was harmless. A quick trip. A good deed. The sort of thing that might, if I played it right, turn into dinner.

I got a lot more than dinner.

As it turned out, the place she had in mind…

was your next-door neighbour’s house.

So, after we’d finished our coffees, we headed to my car. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a rental. Not when I felt I was only a few good decisions away from romance.

The plan, as she laid it out, was simple.

We would drive to the house and wait. Once it was clear the owner—a friend of her husband’s—was out, we’d head in through the back door and retrieve what was hers.

She said it like it was nothing. Like we were picking up a parcel she’d missed.

I should have said no.

Not hesitated. Not considered it. Just no.

But she had a way of making me feel… chosen.

No one had managed that since Melissa, back in high school—and even then, that hadn’t lasted.

So instead of doing the sensible thing, I got in the car.

No sooner had I started the engine than she slipped her hand onto my leg.

For a moment, I thought I was about to get very lucky.

I wasn’t.

It was a balaclava.

She suggested—quite casually—that once we reached the house, we should wear those. Along with gloves.

I should have changed my mind.

There’s nothing wrong with changing your mind. It’s a mature, sensible thing to do.

I didn’t.

Loneliness is a powerful thing. So is the quiet promise of something waiting for you at the end of it. In my case, that was her—and, failing that, half a bottle of Jägermeister at home.

I told myself I wasn’t stealing anything.

I was helping.

Reuniting a damsel in distress with her snake and her plastic police officer.

That’s not thievery.

That’s… civic duty, if anything.

We pulled up outside the house and put on our balaclavas.

It was only then I noticed she was holding a stun gun.

I’d never seen one up close before. Certainly not one with “STUN GUN” written on the side, as if there might be any confusion.

I should have run.

Left the rental.

Changed my name to Pete Sharkey—an off-kilter nod to poor decisions, the Undertones and the Buzzcocks.

I almost did.

But by then, I was already in it. My fingerprints were on the car, the balaclava—

and, when she pressed the device into my hand—on the stun gun as well.

“Don’t look so worried,” she said. “It’s for the snake, silly.”

I felt reassured.

In hindsight, I should have questioned why anyone would need to stun a snake they supposedly loved.

I didn’t.

We crossed the street, walked past the house, then doubled back into the garden of the one next door—the one with the For Sale sign.

Two six-foot fences. Three feet between them.

It didn’t look impossible.

I used to be quite a good climber.

Granted, the last thing I’d climbed regularly was my own bed, but still.

She went first. Cleared it effortlessly. Landed like something between an assassin and a gymnast.

Or at least that’s how it looked through the lens of poor judgment and mild infatuation.

Then it was my turn.

First attempt—I slipped and cracked my head off the fence with a noise that, in hindsight, could probably be heard in Perthshire.

Second attempt was marginally more successful. I made it over, though with considerably less dignity.

I got the distinct impression she saw me differently after that.

Still, we pressed on.

Instead of anything sensible—like a key—she handed me her thong.

Apparently she’d removed it while I was struggling with the fence.

“Window,” she said. “Nearest the handle. Break it. Reach in.”

I hesitated—but not enough to matter.

Her thong was barely a thong at all. More suggestion than fabric. It wrapped around my knuckles with all the protective qualities of optimism.

I swung.

The window gave way with a sharp crack.

So did my skin.

Blood pooled almost instantly, soaking into the thin strip of fabric.

Brilliant.

I let out a low groan—but before it could become anything louder, she clamped a leather-gloved hand over my mouth.

“Quiet,” she whispered. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just… certain.

That was somehow worse.

She led us inside.

The house was wrong.

Not empty—just wrong.

The air carried a thick, sour smell. Rotting meat and burnt weed—not the harmless, dandelion sort. Something heavier. Clinging.

Nothing moved.

Nothing made a sound.

No snake. No plastic constable.

“Upstairs,” she said. “Master bedroom.”

I followed. Of course I did.

The vivarium was there.

And the mascot—sealed inside a glass display case on a shelf above it, like some kind of shrine to poor decisions.

That isn’t even the worst of it.

Monty was not alone.

There were three other snakes in the enclosure.

Ones she claimed she had never seen before.

I should have run.

Again.

But by then, I knew—if I tried, she wouldn’t hesitate.

The stun gun wasn’t for the snake.

I climbed on top of the vivarium. A small latch caught my attention.

“This should work…” she muttered. Then she spotted the tomahawk. Its edge glinted with some dark residue. I didn’t ask questions. I just kept moving.

Removing the blow-up bobby was easy enough.

On the way down, I slipped.

My elbow caught the lid of the snake enclosure. Crack.

The glass split.

I froze. Then watched in horror as the snakes began to curl and fall out, one by one.

A. grabbed the one she said was Monty and dashed.

I didn’t need an invitation. This was my only chance to get out alive.

I bolted.

A snake coiled around my ankle. Panicked, I stumbled forward.

Only in the daylight did I realize my leg hurt badly.

I called for help.

Before I could make a move, she pressed the stun gun to my leg.

The snake freaked, slithering off into your garden.

And that’s when you came into the story.

As you know. The snake bit you, and as there was no evidence of A. actually existing or being the owner of the snake or the police mascot, I was left to take the fall.

Didn't even get dinner or a visit from her in prison.

So you see.

I am sorry. But it wasn't all my fault. Not really.

I was just trying to do the right thing, I didn't mean for you to get bitten, to fall and break your back.

I do hope you are out of the wheelchair now and walking without assistance.

Maybe we can get coffee some day and laugh about it.

Prison has taught me the error of my ways. Fools rush in and all that. There is still no sign of A. If they was ever really her name I guess I'll never know.

I am glad you testified against me.

I know now not to speak to strange women in coffeehouses who want to steal snakes.

Forever sorry,

Pete Sharkey

Author's Notes - the police mascot part was taken from a real story I read about. It's still missing from its Perthshire home to this day and has been replaced with a female version .
https://news.stv.tv/north/perthshire-community-shocked-after-pop-up-police-officer-jim-stolen