Yeti Steaks, Chupacabra Braised Short Ribs, Nessie-Eye Soup, A nice salad.
A placid August afternoon in the Queen City of the Ozarks: sunlight through stately walnut trees casts dappled shadows on an empty park. Sidewalks are silent in the normally bustling downtown. Front porches, reliable sources of neighborly smiles or a cool glass of lemonade, are bereft of both. Underneath the silence some quiet menace thrums. What ominous force has driven the residents of Springfield behind locked doors?
Somewhere in the city, just out of plain sight, slithering in the periphery, an unknown number of Indian cobras are laterally undulating their way into the collective nightmare now remembered as the Cobra Scare of 1953.
(The story continues below.)