They never found the snake. Probably died of alcohol poisoning. Maybe not, but at least the man it’d attacked had a remarkable tale of survival to tell. Or at least he would have if he’d ever been sober enough to not slur his words. Fresh from his usual bender in the local bar, he’d staggered off with a couple of litres of port to tend to his marijuana crop out in the bush. Inadvertently treading on an aggressive tiger snake, he’d multiple bites, each laden with deadly venom.
Too stoned to seek help for several hours, lesser mortals would almost certainly have died. Even he’d had to be airlifted to intensive care in Melbourne. Despite the delay in treatment and considerable amount of venom injected by the snake, either usually fatal, he’d pulled through. Eventually returning to his normal incoherent self.
The only plausible explanation for his survival seemed to be the sheer amount of alcohol in his body acting as an inhibitor to the poison. Suppose this explained why he’d never given up drinking. Saved by the bottle.
