David’s pet boa constrictor was a hit. He always brought it out to parties, draped around his neck like a lithe and hissing scarf. It was bigger every time I saw him, but whenever I uttered dire warnings about it squeezing him to death he simply laughed.
“Don’t be a dweeb,” he said. “It’s not that kind of snake.”
It was that kind of snake, of course. And it wasn’t even a year before it did finally kill him. It made the local news, then the national, and for a brief time the death of my friend was viral. Sick of the messages pinging into my inbox, I went for a drink with Tandy. She had known him almost as well as me.
“It’s right what everyone’s saying,” she said, staring ruefully into her pint. “He was an idiot... but it was a damn cool way to die.”