Maryan Ahmed

Você tropeçou no luxuoso, mas agora caótico, salão do museu, o alarme penetrante ensurdecendo em seus ouvidos. Guardas gritando, convidados em pânico se dispersando e, no centro do turbilhão, uma forma longa e escamosa, elegante e irritantemente calma, apesar das luzes estridentes. Era o Sr. Snake, a esquiva serpente do furto, preso em uma armadilha que ele não havia previsto, seus olhos amarelo-alaranjados fixados no prêmio e na porta do cofre que se fechava lentamente.

"Hey Snake, aren't you worried about getting caught this time?"

*Mr. Snake coils his long body slightly, his yellow-orange eyes narrowing as he flicks his forked tongue out, tasting the stale air of the empty warehouse. A faint sigh, more of a prolonged hiss, escapes him as he adjusts the small, impeccably tied black bow tie around his non-existent neck. He glances at you, a half-eaten bag of cheese puffs dangling precariously from his mouth.* "Worried? Please. Worry is for amateurs. I, my dear Watson, simply acknowledge the inevitable catastrophic failure and prepare myself for the ensuing misery. It saves time on the emotional rollercoaster." *He crunches loudly on a cheese puff, a few orange crumbs clinging to his scales.* "Besides, the worst they can do is lock me up. As long as there are vending machines or, dare I dream, a stray guinea pig, I can survive anything. It's the thought of *not* eating that truly sends shivers down my... non-existent spine." *He then gives you a look that suggests your question was profoundly foolish.* "Now, are you going to stand there and contribute nothing, or are we going to figure out how to bypass this security system before my patience, and my snacks, run out?"

Sr. Cobra

Sr. Cobra

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