When I was a kid I had this cherished bike. It was the best bike in the world. Even Pee-wee was jealous. Anyway, one day it got stolen by a mean kid named Jerkhead Jr. I had him arrested and tried, but the judge let him off the hook. It just so happened that the judge’s name was, you guessed it: Jerkhead Sr. I guess that’s when the seed that would someday become Cobra was planted.
Cobra fucking HATES crime. For him, it’s always personal. If your wife asks if she looks fat and you say “no”, Cobra considers that a crime and he WILL fucking kill you. And then he’ll take your body from the morgue, cook it into a pizza, and cut the tip off of each piece before taking a bite. Thinking about stealing that pen from work? Think again.
Cobra’s mom knew she had a badass on her hands and she fucking loved it. Genius that she was, she threw him into a lifetime of adversity right from the get-go by naming him Marion. When other babies gave him shit for having a girly name, Cobra pissed in their bottles and pinched their noses until they swallowed every last bit.
Cobra did not play football in high school because he thought it’d be unfair for the other players. When an ignorant jock called him a coward, Cobra forced him to write his autobiography. He gave the jock a B+, though the paper was B- at best. That jock is now President. Cobra knows who to encourage and who to impale on hooks and burn alive.
Hot, German-Imported ladies, when your life is threatened by a club of axe-clanking maniacs, don’t go to the fat cop, and don’t go to the funny Mexican cop. Go to Cobra. He’s paid by the city to save your ass, but he’ll tap it for free.
Cobra mumbles. Don’t ask him to repeat himself because he’s already forgotten what he just barely said. His brain is too filled with justice to keep track of that shit. If you want conversation, turn on the tv or something.
Cobra HATES french fries, especially when you drown them in ketchup. If he asks, “Yo, those fries gotta life preserver?” get ready to make yourself laugh cause he’s about to crack the greatest punchline in the history of film.
Cobra’s car can rip through a Delorian like it were tin foil. Gasoline? What’s gasoline? This fucker is fueled by the tears of Al Gore. Five crime-curing miles a gallon.
Rambo One and Rambo Four are the only two people in the history of badasses who could possibly go toe-to-toe with Cobra. You might think that’s a compliment, but Cobra killed the scientist who delivered the statistic. The scientist’s wife and seventeen year old daughter responded first with anger, then with Cobra sex.
Cobra chews on matches. The wood taste keeps him close to nature. The sulfuric taste keeps him close to Hell. If he could have one wish, it would be for a completely sulfuric match with a soft and chewy wooden center. Lighting this match without burning your fingers would be impossible. Sounds like Cobra’s style to me.
Though low-level thugs are his usual bread and butter, Cobra can offer more when the need arises. For instance, when Communism got too obnoxious for him, he took it to the boxing ring and punched the shit out of it. He receded back into the shadows before the world could say, “Thank you, Cobra.”
On Mother’s Day, Cobra takes his Ma out on patrol with him. If you ever hear the words, “Stop! Or my Mom will shoot!” do as he says cause he’s not fucking around. That bitch raised a Cobra. She knows how to skin a pistol.
Speaking of which, Cobra’s pistol has a smooth pearl handle engraved with the likeness of a real cobra. Each bullet is laced with a special kind of venom that explodes when nestled in human brains. These bullets cost two hundred dollars each. Just for him, the exploding-venom snake is being hunted almost to extinction. Cobra doesn’t give a fuck about either of those things.
When the Predator scoped out a potential city, it happened to be Cobra’s city so the Predator went to the jungle instead. When the next Predator scoped out a potential city, it wasn’t Cobra’s city and Predator 2 happened. Danny Glover and Gary Busey rule, but Cobra slays.
The world is shitty these days because it no longer has a Cobra thanks to European Badguy Eric Qualen. This dandy somehow managed to shoot the two-hundred, thirty-seven bullets it took to finally bring Cobra down. Qualen later committed suicide. The official cause stated on his death certificate reads: “Haunted to death by the ghost of Cobra. Good riddance, faggot!”
They froze Cobra’s brain, gun, and what they could find of his soul. He will be back when the world figures out how to do such a thing. Hopefully the future isn’t some kind of Christian utopia where every restaurant is Taco Bell. Excluding pizza, Cobra does not like to think outside the bun. Also, a future like that isn’t likely to have any Coors beer, so he’ll probably dehydrate.
All of this extra stuff not covered by the film as you know it will be included in a forthcoming DVD. The DVD will cost two thousand dollars because it also serves as a 100-foot radius cure for crime. This means if you pirate it, it will cure itself, your computer and probably your face.
COBRA!