His literal chrome dome was everywhere
on billboards, bus stops, park benches,
and especially outside of unsold properties.
Life hadn’t been easy after the Joe team won
and the ruthless, terrorist organization determined
to rule the world that he had been a part of for so long
had finally and forcibly disbanded, but Destro
was making the most of it. As his assets had been frozen
for a period of time assigned by the judge who had handled
his case, there was no going back to his family’s castle
in Scotland and there was no hope of rebuilding an army.
There was only hunger and there was need for rebranding.
Through a correspondence course, he got his real estate
license while still in prison.
He missed none of his compatriots really, who had all but
moved on as he was trying to. Xamot and Tomax became
hedge fund managers, Zartan and the Dreadnoughts roadied
for Megadeth, Dr. Mindbender got an R&D job with Pffizer,
Serpentor became a celebrity poker player, and least surprisingly,
Cobra Commander became a televangelist.
It was only the Baroness he missed with her raven hair
and shapely figure framed in skintight leather, her nondescript
accent and her cunning stunts, her handiness with a laser pistol
were all but distant memories now. There was someone else though.
Not as exciting, but Sheila was fine. Sheila would do. They had
met at one of his open houses. She was actually scouting for a filming
location and they had stayed in-touch until they finally had dinner
and she had let him touch her. She had stared into his neon green pupils
surrounded in pools of deep, dark blackness and caressed his silver death mask.
He had felt nothing, but it had meant
everything that she accepted him as is.
She accepted the fact that he was
an ex-con on an epic, cartoonish scale.
She accepted that he’d always have trouble
going through TSA at the airport. She accepted
that he would often wake in the middle of the night,
sopping with sweat, screaming, "Cobra!" Sheila was
nothing but understanding.
She was nothing.