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Crimson Cobra · (03-05-2013)

Insomnia…. Only one of the reasons for the joint burning away in his mouth, drifting further and further away from sanity, from sobriety. Why else would it be there some might ask, we thought it only brought back painful memories with the stench of a skunk. Still memories nonetheless is what went on through his mind, people say it’s better to have loved and lost then to have not loved at all… Does this apply to family members; is it better to have had love turn to hate then to have never loved in the first place?

A question he always found himself asking, a question he loved as much as he despised it. The mental aspect of what is and what isn’t, who is and who isn’t being a tempting game to play with himself. Why choose such a dark, disturbing name based on the background instead of something that could have shined light on the subject and turned you into a hero? “Why care at all” another of the favorite questions that racked the brain night after night after night.

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The Mind of a Caged Beast

A hiss from the snake inside of the cage is heard, feeding time yet again. Blood is still splattered all over the aquarium that the snake is being held in from its last meals. Time and time again the other creatures would fight back only for the snake to get stronger, faster, more agile, and much deadlier.

“When will these buffoons stop the idiotic attempts at fleeing or even killing me, and instead just accept their fate of death?”

The snake prepares as it always does wrapping itself into a coiled spring ready to attack the next opponent that is dropped into its cage. The ground shaking from the giant man dropping off the meal, the latch opens and down comes something new again. Long, thin, what was this a joke?

“I am a king cobra, a killer or animals, a hunter of other snakes and this is a mere Indian Cobra.”

Snake versus snake, cobra versus cobra…. Who was the stronger, who the better? The coiled cobra attacked right away sending both snakes hurling away from where they once were. The red king cobra had taken a chunk out of the other cobra’s body. Bloody, hurt, and dazed the other cobra attempted to flee, slithering away as if there were a place to hide from the king of this glass jungle.

“Under my rock are you? Or perhaps the giant log in the middle of the cage? You are a hopeless creature, and should accept your death with honor. Do not flee my, for I am your undoing, I am death!”

The king cobra slides under the rock finding the tail of the other snake, it latches on with its sharp fangs and pumps venom into it, the Indian cobra was now in an imminent death situation. The venom slowly being pumped throughout its body slowly paralyzing muscle after muscle, a slow decent from healthy to sickly had begun and this cobra was done for.

“As I had thought to myself earlier you all run, understandable, but you cannot run from death. Escaping death would only be as likely as it is for me to escape this see through prison.”

The pulse beat one last time, blood spewed out of the chunk of flesh that had been ripped from its bindings. The venom reached its target and destroyed the beast from the inside. Another meal that would only feed the hunger for so long, another day of battling easily put aside with brute force and willingness to attack. A monster had been slain only to feed the hunger of a tremendous, gargantuan creature of comparisons. A hunger that was beginning to grow by the day, an anger that was starting to show by the cruel deaths it would put its “opponents” through. A mind of pure evil to match the brawn that was an obviousness of the creature. Yet for a snake to have a mind of its own, thoughts that weren’t just nature taking over… could this be true? Could the snake be growing into its own form of creature? The unnatural way of killing its enemies was proving the point to all that could see, but they did not want to believe that this was true. A scary thought, a snake knowingly attacking an innocent creature, but not just any snake the most venomous, dangerous, snake in the world.

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Back to the Past

A warm fire is crackling in the fireplace; a glass blocker is in place to not let the fire get out of hand. The warm rays are felt across the room where Crimson Cobra is sitting in a nice chair. His legs are propped up and crossed on a table a few feet away from him. He is sunk into the chair, arms resting on the sides, but his left arm is curled up towards his face. He is staring at what looks like that wall, while his left hand stoking his bread in a very elegant manner. The crimson named man is pondering up in the brain of his yet again, the joint now tossed into the fireplace and Febreze filled the air with a much more pleasant scent than the marijuana. Killing brain cells while creating others is what he thought, thinking so intensely that he is nearly able to picture the moment that is on his mind…..

The fog that was on the road that night nearly able to be cut with a knife from the thickness, the glass shards sparkled everywhere across the road as if it were an ice cream cone with sprinkles. The van that was from transporting small animals from the zoo tipped over on its side. The white marks that were left on mother’s blue car showing where the two vehicles had collided were also indented because of the van’s weight opposed to the cars. The mixture of fury and terror on his father’s face was an intensity he wishes he would have never had to see.

The beautiful rug that was under the table that Cobra had his feet on continued to slide along the tile floor as he pushed harder and harder not knowing that he was, much to focused on remembering every single fact of the night his mother died. The sliding rug and table caused Cobra to sink lower and lower in his chair, his butt not even in the seat part any longer but instead replaced by his back. His neck very distorted but he only wanted to look at this picture that was staring right back into his own soul from across the room. There was a spiritual connection between cobra and the painting of his mother. It was done two days before the accident. They had a family portrait painted as well, not like snap pictures but instead a family that enjoyed “real” artists.

Though pictures were still hung throughout both the mansion of Cobra’s past and his own home of today, he enjoyed this painting most of any picture he had ever seen before. The long silky black hair of his mother ran down the sides of her head, her beautiful blue eyes full of life stair right back at whomever is looking into this picture. Her perfectly shaped face shows no pain, no suffering as it did on her final day in the hospital, but yet there had to be something missing that Cobra just couldn’t remember, if only he had that family portrait….

The family portrait had been destroyed by Mr. Cobb. The once great man who turned into a worse person then many have ever seen, not feeding his child, not caring for his child, only sitting in the living room getting high off of narcotics much worse than "Mary Jane". The poor child looking through the once overflowing cupboard now finds nothing but an unopenable can of beans, the very last item in the pantry. What nine year old child has an understanding of how to use a can opener properly, certainly not Dakota Cobb.

It had to have been weeks but finally Mr. Cobb had gotten up grabbed the keys to his car and darted out the door. A sleeping Dakota was unawaken and left in the home, all alone. When he finally had risen from the slumber and realized that there was no one else in the house he was confused, not knowing what to do he went to the telephone and looked up a relative’s number he picked up the phone only to hear nothing, no dial tone, no beeping, he was young but not stupid. He knew his father had not paid the bills and the phones, much like the electricity had been shut off. More reasons added to the pile for the pure hatred in his soul that would all be focused upon his evil father.

One of his biggest fears as a child had just come true complete and total loneliness. No one around to help him, no one around to talk to, and what was a little boy to do? Wandering out to the outside of this once gorgeous mansion, he ended up in the police station, not knowing what to tell the cops when asked what he was doing.

My father much the opposite of one Chris Macbeth, one of the two never being around while the other is around much too often. The good thing about my father never being around was I never got tired of him, Chris after the mere three times I have seen you I am already beyond bored with your material and ready for you to take on a new more exciting persona, perhaps become Crimson Macbeth…. But that would soil a good name, Crimson.

It is almost too funny that a man named Macbeth thinks he can take on two Crimson Warriors. These warriors dressed in the shinning red armor would slice you down just as Macduff had done to what would seem to be an ancestor to you, in a greatly written play by a man named Shakespeare. Do allow me to be the one beheading you Macbeth, as the crimson blood will pour from the slashes there will be only one man victorious…… Crimson.

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