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"Get out, you idiot!"
I couldn't move because I was gagging for air. My front side was completely numb from the impact, and I was choking on the mixture of chocolate and muddy water. My friends dragged me up the side of the bank and stood in silence watching the snake glide effortlessly and quietly through the middle of our innocent young lives.
"Didja see me? I caught it, didja see it?" I gasped.
"Lookit the size of that dude," Kenny said in awe. I looked for the first time and saw a huge cottonmouth water moccasin. With head triumphantly aloft, he slithered slowly and deliberately through the water only a few feet from the bank on which we were standing. Never again could I freely and without fear immerse myself in the cloudy green water of the Junction. The intruder, symbolic of another snake in another garden of innocence, paraded triumphantly the entire length of the pool and then returned as if to mock us one more time. We watched in helpless silence.
Then it happened. From the very top of the willow tree a trumpet call sounded forth across the fields.
"EEE-iiijjjhhhh," blasted into our ears from above. Plummeting through the air, descending straight down toward the huge cottonmouth, was none other than Wayland T. Jackson. "Snnnnnaaaaake diiiiiiiive," he cried. The once-performed, never-forgotten snake dive.
He hit the water directly on top of the snake and disappeared. The cottonmouth was nowhere to be seen and neither was Wayland T.
"Wayland T. is crazy!"
A dark spot appeared just beneath the surface of the water. It was the burr-head haircut of Wayland T. as he came up laughing and gasping for air.
"I got 'im," he screamed.