"That damned rug...

I'm sorry, I can tell by the puzzled expression on your face that I am probably getting ahead of myself again, but you see, I've found that the best way for me to get through all of this is by a speedy narrative.

You asked me how it all started, and I was merely telling you that it was the rug. The rug in the bathroom that is, you know the one I'm referring to. It's the one with the U-shape cut out of it that allows it to partially encircle the stool. Awfully nice and useful on those chilly mornings, keeps the feet from getting too cold while you conduct your business.

Rambling again, aren't I? Well, back to my story.

I got to noticing that the rug was out of place every morning when I went to the bathroom. Of course, as there are only two of us living in this house I automatically assumed it had to be my wife moving the rug,(elementary, my dear Watson), as it wasn't I.

I mentioned all of this to my wife, and she, of course denied any wrongdoing. She even brought to my attention the fact that there was always a certain amount of moisture on the floor whenever the rug was found to be disturbed. I figured it was a ruse on her part to throw me off, but I followed through with a dogged determination to get to the bottom of this dilemma I found myself involved in.

No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't find the leak. I even went so far as to remove all the water from the tank and bowl, then filled them with the blue Tidy Bowl Duck so that I might pinpoint the problem with more accuracy.

All of these Herculean efforts garnered me absolutely nothing of use.

There wasn't a blue stain showing a leak anywhere on the tank, nor on the bowl. This frustrated me to no end, and further intensified my determination to resolve this matter. I removed the entire toilet and inspected the wax gasket. It was as good as new, and I couldn't find anything else wrong, but I installed a new one just for the heck of it.

All was well, or so it seemed, until two days later when I found the rug out of place and the floor damp once again. I immediately scrapped the toilet and replaced it with a brand new Super-deluxe model, guaranteed to give me twice as many flushes for the same amount of water.

I awoke the next morning truly believing that all my problems were now behind me. I was set to take my daily constitution with my feet safely and warmly ensconced on the dry rug, when out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the slightest bit of movement coming from the open closet where my wife stored all of her shoes in the boxes they came in. This is a considerable amount as she has approximately a gazillion pair, (although she never seems to have the right shoes to match what she is currently wearing, or according to her, they are hopelessly out of style).

Back to the movement that caught my eye. It was that least fragment of something being out of sync, I know that you know what I am talking about.

Haven't all of us seen something that perhaps we weren't supposed to see?

It was the slightest swelling of the bottom row of shoeboxes that had caught my attention. I don't know if I can explain it to your satisfaction, because it is hard for me to visualize it now in my own minds eye. I guess you could say the boxes moved out away from the wall for just a nano second of time, then settled back into their customary position. It all transpired so quickly that for a moment I wasn't even sure I had seen it. I looked steadfastly at the spot where the incident had occurred, but something told me that I would never see it again if I continued to stare directly at the boxes.

I was becoming increasingly frightened, and I know not what of, but my anxiety level was climbing at an alarming rate. I thought momentarily of calling out to my wife, but what would I tell her? What concrete proof did I have? Other than to say that I believed a bogie-man to be in the closet, which would certainly give her a good chuckle to start the day.

So there I sat, All broken hearted Came to shit But was too afraid to even fart, because to make any sound might cause whatever was in the closet to seek me out. Can you imagine my predicament?

I was most assured that I was about to be slain with my pants down around my ankles. And not to be merely killed, but to be hideously tortured and murdered by something in the closet that wasn't even large enough to be seen above the two-foot stack of boxes. I resolutely set about slowing my heart rate by using yoga, which I knew absolutely nothing of, except for having seen it on television and in movies. The controlled breathing and closing of the eyes appeared to be doing the trick, because at least I could breathe again. I don't have any idea how long I had sat there holding my breath, but I was extremely light headed when next I was conscious of my surroundings.

My resolve became hardened, and I was determined to find out what had moved the boxes. I arose from my perch, pulling hastily at the waist of my pants, and hesitantly approached the area that had caused all this consternation.

Of course, you guessed it! There was nothing there. It had to have been a trick of my over-active imagination, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that nothing could be further from the truth. At least I had come to my senses in time and had saved myself the embarrassment of calling out to my wife.

The incidents with the rug, and furtive glimpses of movement continued, but I put them from my mind, blaming it all on my wife's sadistic streak.

We had been arguing, more-or-less for the past thirty years, and I presumed she was making a last ditch effort to drive me over the edge so that she might draw some form of assistance income with which she could do all the things she had always wanted to do, but without me in the way.

Plans go awry, as plans are wont to do. I had to be out of town for at least three weeks seeking out machinery for the company where I was employed. I kissed my wife goodbye on the day of my departure as I had done everyday for the past thirty years, not having a clue that it would be the very last time that I would ever see her.

I phoned her several times out of habit, but only got the answering machine. I assumed she was pissed at me about something, imaginary or real, and believed herself to be punishing me for the act by not speaking.

I finished my business and returned home intent on taking two weeks of vacation time. I called out to my companion of so many years, only to have silence answer me.

Something was calling me to the bathroom, a compulsion I couldn't deny.

Fear of what I might find etched lines of worry upon my face. I willed my shuffling feet to turn from their course of the room I dread, and headed for the wet-bar instead. I meant to have only one drink to calm my nerves, but woke up ten hours later with a banging hangover.

I had to enter the bathroom, not just to discover clues of my missing wife, but also to relieve myself of the alcohol burden I was carrying.

Then I got to thinking, (why do today, what can be put off until tomorrow), and headed for the upstairs bathroom.

We only had an upstairs because we had once thought to have children someday, but this dream like so many others had fell by the wayside. We had bought the house at such a bargain that the thought of getting a smaller place had never occurred to us. We simply spent all our time downstairs, using the upstairs only when company stayed overnight.

My morning business conducted, I slowly made my way downstairs to the kitchen. Exploration of the refrigerator revealed spoiled milk, along with several moldy leftover dishes. This was concrete evidence that my wife had not left on her own. She had no family to speak of, these good many years, so visitation of the duration in time that we are speaking of was out of the question. Could she have been stricken with some form of malady, and recuperating in a hospital? I believed not!

Somehow I sensed that my answer lurked in the bathroom. I needed to, no; I MUST go where angels feared to tread. With my heart jack-hammering in my chest, and my feet sluggishly obeying my commands, I shambled toward the room I knew entombed my wife. I felt something brush my shoulder, and jumped out of my skin when the picture that hung in the hall clattered to the floor with a crash much too loud for such an incident. I gave serious thought to returning to the wet-bar, but my pounding head wouldn't allow such foolishness.

I turned the corner of the hall, and hesitantly nudged open the bathroom door. I immediately swept my eyes in the direction of the shoe closet, but then was drawn to the toilet just in time to see the last five feet of a gigantic anaconda slither down the toilet bowl. I recognized the species because of a fascination I have always had for snakes. Judging from the diameter of the amount of reptile that I saw, I'd have to say the snake measured over fourteen feet in total length.

Now that the identity of my mysterious bogie-man had been established, I calmly surveyed the room for clues to my mates disappearance, but only after I had crammed as many towels into the opening of the stool as I could force in there. I used the handle of the plunger to really tamp them down.

Now we come to the end of my story, and to the best of my knowledge what I am about to tell you is an honest assumption. I was never arrested for the disappearance of my wife mainly due to the writ of habeas corpus.

According to the law, if there isn't a body, then most times there is no crime.

What happened to her? you ask. I propose that at one time or another someone either released or allowed the escape of an anaconda snake. The snake in question has somehow or the other managed to survive our harsh winters by living in the sewer system of our small community.

I assume by the crease in the middle of your brow that you still aren't following me. The snake...ATE... her! You are wondering how a snake small enough to come through the toilet could eat an adult person. Well, this is something that I believe I can explain to your satisfaction.

I've had time since that fateful day to do a considerable amount of research on the subject, and while what I am about to tell you does stretch the realm of probability, it is possible none the less. From the water on the floor and other clues, I have deduced that the snake ambushed her when she stepped out of the bathtub. I presume that the snake had lain in wait in its usual haunt behind the cover of the shoeboxes. It had slithered over undetected while she showered, and then had grasped her foot when she stepped out. I don't know whether or not you are familiar with how the constrictors of the reptile family kill their prey, so I'll lay it all out for you.

After grasping her foot with its powerful jaws, the reptile had rapidly encircled her body with coils of its own. It had then began to methodically squeeze her with muscular contractions. Every time she would exhale to get another breath, the snake would apply enough pressure to keep her from refilling her lungs. In short, she suffocated before being eaten. The snake continued constricting until all her bones were crushed, smashed to pulp. It then began the pulling and tugging with the body coils until she was an elongated, if you will, human sausage. The snake unhinged its jaws, and then starting at the head it began swallowing, engulfing the length of her body. It would take quite a while for the snake to digest such a meal, but I figure it all happened on the day I left on my business trip. The extremely high acidic content of the reptiles digestive system starts to work on the food the moment it reaches the stomach. It had only just finished the majority of the digesting when I returned. The extra night with my bout of drinking is what gave it time to slim down enough to fit through the plumbing of the toilet. As remarkable as it may seem, this is what I believe to have truly happened.

Did I report it?

Of course not, for who would believe such an incredible story.

Do you?

No...! What I did instead was to install a one-way valve in the sewer line. Shit can go out, but nothing can come in.

Should I have reported what I found?

Of course! And I really do feel bad about it now that old lady McUrdle from down the lane has been reported missing..."