_-*~ The Cobra Master Strikes Back ~*-_
This morning, at about 3 or 4, I began the burdensome endeavor to re-create some semblance of a plot from the Cobra Master.
Episode 2:
The Cobra Master Strikes Back
The Cobra Master sat pensively, like the legendary snake-charmers of India, in a state of nirvana while piping a somber tune from his flute for an emerald green cobra called "Delilah." Delilah swayed back and forth to the tune, her beady jeweled eyes transfixed on her masters soft, delicate hands.
As the tune progressed, the godlike cobra charmer slipped into a resurgence of memories he hadn't reminisced in quite some time.
_-~*~*~*~*~*~20 years ago, Jamaica~*~*~*~*~*~-_
The Cobra Boy's Picture"Boy, bring me 'dem bags, so we can pack up dese snakes." Ibi Jamman, the poorest fisherman from the villiage of Rapamon, said to his peculiar son.
"Dad?" The boy asked.
"Wha 'tis it now, boy?" Ibi said frustrated.
"Dad, why am I different from everyone?"
"Son, you mean dat' thin you do to da snakes, da way yous controll dem?"
"No, Dad. Why am I the only white kid on this whole island? Where did I come from?"
Ibi paused suddenly with an apparent worried look on his face.
"Yous . . . Yous . . . Der is NOTHIN wrong wit you, boy."
"But dad," the cobra boy pleaded imploringly, "Why is my skin so li. . ."
"You jus haven't been out in da sun long enuf, boy," Ibi interrupted his son, "Happans to everyone."
Nestled among the tropical brush, a full-camoflauged British bounty hunter, aptly named "Stryker," aimed his gun at the small boys head. Just as the projectile lined up perfectly, Strykers finger pulled the trigger.
The cobra boy bent over, retrieving the snake bags, just as a bullet grazed his hair. The bullet went on to pass through the chest of his father.
"Father!" The cobra boy shrieked, running to his side.
"Yous be brave now." Ibi sputtered. "Son, yous come from a different place, yous mother sent yous here to protect yous. Go . . . go on, yous cannot stay here any minute more. Go, go now . . ."
Ibi died.
Back in the jungle thicket, Stryker was repositioning the gun, lining the target up with the boy once again. Stryker pulled the trigger, just as the boy took off at lightning speed, running through the jungle brush, and eluding Stryker once again.
Stumbling over the vines, the small boy vowed to avenge the death of his father- no matter the cost.
_-*~ The Cobra Master ~*-_
A friend of mine found this literary gem, probably extracted from the core of stupidity located somewhere in the festering brain of an acne-pocked, nose-picking high school student.
Keep in mind, there's no one with balls big enough to take the blame for this literary pile of shit, so until some sorry SOB steps up to the plate, we'll leave this as "anonymous."
The Cobra Master
THE PRESS CONFERENCE(As reporters scurry about, flash bulbs ache to illuminate an immortalized moment. Much chaotic, the scene is the audience floor for the press conference. . . wait. . . Press Conference for what?)
(Bringing the masses up to date: Syko, "The Goblin," needs to be replaced, but by whom? The higher powers decided to make an executive decision, and now they plan to reveal it to the public.)
(Who can it be?)
Reporters: BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH!!!
(The reporters come to life as Ron, Dan, Justin, and some fat guy going by "Stryfe," walk out, and take their seats at the looooooong table. . . Ron takes a moment to shuffle through some papers, then gets up, going to the podium at the center. )
Ron: As you all know, Syko was found dead today in a bog located somewhere in Louisiana. . .
(Harshly, a chorus of murmurs arises, stopping Ron in his tracks. . .)
"He was?"
"I heard he was missing. . ."
"I didn't see that in the news. . . "
Dan: -Cut throat motion.-
Ron: errr. . . What I meant to say was. . .erm. . . He'll PROBABLY be found in a bog. . . somewhere in Louisiana… . . . Tomorrow, perhaps. . .-Shifty eyes.-
(Those in attendance shrug, and Dan wipes some sweat from his brow. )
Ron: Anyhow, we found a WILLING replacement for that bum. . .
(Suddenly, doors at the back of the room are kicked open, and 4 guards, dragging what appears to be a struggling human in a bag, move swiftly to the elevated floor where the powers-that-be reside. . .)
Ron: I give you all. . .
(Suddenly, Ron clutches his chest.)
Ron: I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME!!!
(The room gasps as Ron drops dead again, but luckily, Dan takes the podium!!! )
Dan: Without further adieu. . . I GIVE YOU. . .
(Dan gives the guards the nod, and with that they prepare to flip the bag over. . .)
Stryfe: DAMMIT!!! I CAN'T FUCKING STAND MY STEP MOTHER!!! I HELD A KNIFE TO HER FUCKING THROAT!!! THAT'LL TEACH HER TO RAPE ME!!!. . . . . Oh my god. . . I can't believe I said that in front of you all. . . I'M A VIIIIIIIIIICTIIIIIIIIIIIIIM!!!!!!!!
(Suddenly, Justin stands up and fires five rounds into Stryfe's chest with a .45, then drags his corpse from the now silent room. )
Dan: Well, now that our semi-annual visit from Stryfe is past, we can look forward to another 6 whole months of. . .
Guard: AAAHHH!!! I'VE BEEN SLAIN!!! ALAS, I AM DEAD!!!!
Dan: WHAT THE?!
(The bag EXPLODES!!!)
YOU FOOLS!!!!
DON'T YOU KNOW?!
YOU CAN'T CANTAIN HIM!
HIM WHO IS NEXT TO GOD!!!
Dan: AHHH!!! SEDATE HIM!! SEDATE HIM!!! SED-GAAAK!!!!
(Dan's cries are cut off by a hurled cobra that now constricts around his feeble and cowardice neck!)
Dan: I'VE LIVED A LIE!!!
(Dan dies. Meanwhile, everyone tries to escape…)
(BUT NOTHING CAN OUTRUN A COBRA, YOU FAGGOTS!!!!!)
Cobra Master: HIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!
"HELP NO!!!"
"GOD PLEASE!!!"
"THIS IS WORSE THAN A YEAST INFECTION!!!"
"NOT MY NEW SHOES!!! ANYTHING BUT THAT!!!"
Listen to their cries. . . For they won't last long.
_*~ You Don't Really Give A Damn, Do You? ~*-
I found myself trying to fall asleep at 5-something this morning, you know, those times where nothing and everything comes to mind. I realized something: You bastards don't give a damn about a webpage about ME, do you?
No, I didn't think so.
So the rest of this time, I'm going to dedicate my blog to pissing every last one of you worthless bastards off, starting with an advice column. You ask me advice, I give it to you, you follow it, you maybe die. Either way, you selfish a-holes wouldn't care about a page about me, UNLESS it fulfills your nerd-like desire to communicate with some heinous bitch online. So here you go, ask me a question, and I will make fun of you, I mean . . . answer it.
=)
