John Godey - The Snake

From Washington, a member of the New York congressional delegation: "The good people of my district are being bitten to death by this deadly snake, and it has got to stop. If the mayor is unwilling or unable to do the job, then I say let's get someone on the job who can do the job. I have been trying to reach the governor in Albany, requesting him to send reinforcements, whether it be the National Guard or a contingent of state troopers, or both. My constituency must be protected."

A half-dozen new groups pledge their support for the march on City Hall in the morning. Shots of militant women, clamouring for the attention of camera and microphone. Following a commercial, the telecast continues with a shot of the same cobra that had been seen on the 6 o'clock news, then of a giant anaconda being held in the air by six men, then of a sidewinder rattlesnake slithering across desert sands in California.

Finally, a close-up of a Russell's viper being milked at a snake farm in Brazil. "Not all snake poison is malign. The venom being taken from this Russell's viper will be used as a coagulant for persons suffering from haemophilia."

An interview with the curator of reptiles of a Midwest zoo, filmed in front of the glass cage of a puff adder that had bitten him six months ago. The curator assures his interrogator that he harbours no in feelings toward the snake. "I made him irritable, you see." Touching a scar on his forearm. "Fortunately, with the prompt administration of antivenin, I recovered without any lasting ill effects."

In her modest but thoughtfully furnished apartment, responding to a hushed and commiserative reporter, Ms. Arline Simpkin, friend of Roddy Bamberger, second victim of the snake in the park: "Although it was only our first date, I realized that he was a rare type of person warm, cultivated, and so in tune with life." Large eyes brimming with tears.

"And to be struck down in the full flush of virile manhood." She pauses, ponders, seems to wonder if her remark is open to sexual interpretation, and flushes. "It isn't fair. It just isn't fair."

The anchorman: "Ms. Simpkin's statement provided the police with their first clue as to the possible whereabouts of the snake. It is, or was, in the environs of the Delacorte Theatre."

— hi a cluttered kitchen, with two small, solemn-eyed children wandering in and out of camera range, Mrs. Carmen Torres, mother of the deceased Ramon Torres, pretty, plump, wearing her hair in a towering beehive, rattles away in animated Spanish that is translated by a tall lean man with a scarred face and deep black eyes. The interpreter says, "She say her Ramon is a good boy." Mrs. Torres rattles on. "Once or twice he is arrested and the police try to frame him because he is Puerto Rican, but God is just, and he is sprung." Mrs. Torres waits impatiently for him to finish his translation, regarding him with a glittering, wary eye. She spouts Spanish again. "He was the sole support of herself and his three little brothers and one sister. And now that he is gone, who is to pay the rent and for the food? She wishes to know this."

The reporter asks the interpreter what Ramon was doing in the park at 3 o'clock in the morning. The interpreter puts the question to Mrs. Torres, who answers indignantly. He translates: "She say he is in the park to cool off, and because it remind him of the verdure of his beloved Puerto Rico.

So he stroll in the park, never expecting to be stung by a snake." Wrapping up, the reporter asks the interpreter if he is a member of the Torres family. "I am Roberto Ortiz, lawyer. I represent Mrs. Torres in this matter. We are filing a suit in the morning against the city for negligence. One million dollars for depriving this fine lady of her sole support and darling son." Mrs. Torres says in English, "Wuh mee-yun dolls."

The anchorman presses his earphone with a finger, listening. "We're going to take you to Columbus Circle for an on-the-spot report, live, from Marcia Brooks."

"This is Marcia Brooks, live, from Columbus Circle, where, as you can see, there is plenty going on."

The camera pans over a crowd milling around near the Merchant's Gate entrance to the park and clustered around the marble Maine Monument.

Standing out among dark complexions, bare chests, shorts, is a group of young, well-scrubbed, neatly dressed young men and women who seem to be haranguing the crowd, or any part of it that will listen. They are jeered at, laughed at, mocked, but they seem impervious to it.

Marcia Brooks whispers into her microphone, "These self-contained young people are Puries, members of the Church of the Purification, followers of the well-known religious sect led by the Reverend Sanctus Milanese. Let's listen."

She insinuates her microphone near a pale intense young man in a white, open-collared shirt, who is speaking to a young black man wearing a colourful bandanna around his head and an earring in his nose. "The snake is Satan, or rather Satan's messenger, who has taken the form of a serpent. It has been sent here to earth by the devil to subvert and proselytize and recruit sinners for the legions of hell."

The young black man: "Man, you full of…" His bad word is alertly blipped. "Onliest thing it recruit so far is two stiffs."

The crowd cheers, laughs, slaps thighs. The young black man grins and takes a bow.

Nearby, a young woman wearing a light blue, crisp dirndl, her eyes flashing, says, "You are deluded if you think it is funny. The snake is truly Satan's messenger. It is wily, it is evil incarnate and it will easily elude the police. It fears only the pure in heart and spirit, the army of Christ."

Marcia Brooks has edged toward the young woman, but before she can question her there is a commotion. The black man in the bandanna has suddenly become threatening. He is shouting, raging. He takes a boxer's stance, dances, draws back his fist. But before he can throw his punch, he is seized around the neck by a tall young man dressed in a dark suit, and hurled to the ground. The crowd surges backward, then forward, there is a flash of fists, some shoving, but by now six cops are there, pushing the crowd apart, breaking it open.

Marcia Brooks backs away from the fray. Somewhat breathlessly, she says that the Puries appear to be out in force, not only here in Columbus Circle but near the Pulitzer Fountain at Fifth Avenue and 59th, as well as at other locations on the perimeter of the park. It is her impression that the tall man who threw the man in the bandanna to the ground is a member of the Purie security squad, who call themselves Christ's Cohorts, but whom some people have bluntly characterized as a strong-arm squad.

Behind her, the police seem to have quelled the outburst. "The Puries took to the streets about ten o'clock this evening, and these ardent young followers of the Reverend Sanctus Milanese have been spreading the word that the snake has been sent to earth from, well, I guess from below, to…" She pauses, listens to the voice in her earphone. She nods, then says quickly, "I asked one of the Puries if they would be among those represented at City Hall tomorrow morning. I was told that they would not, definitely not, because, and I quote, 'we do not seek intercession from mortal man, but only from God Himself, Who speaks to us with the voice of the Reverend Sanctus Milanese.' That from a Purie-"

She is cut off. In the studio, the anchorman says hurriedly, "Thank you, Marcia. We take you now, live, to Purity House, the Fifth Avenue mansion of the Reverend Sanctus Milanese."

A tall blond man wearing a black suit, a white shirt, a dark tie, stands in the opening of a high, carved, gleaming doorway, facing a thicket of microphones. He says expressionlessly, "The Reverend Milanese is not available. He is at prayer." Reporters shout out questions. He responds, "Yes, I believe he will make a statement." "When?" "When God instructs him to."