Spanish Cobras. Weeks ago, they were a street-fable in my unschooled head, a rumored group supposedly floating on the horizon of our hood. But here they were now, about ten of them, encircling in on my scrawny physic with there chopping-away grins and slicing stares, as we all stood within the time-beaten school yard, crowed over by on looking students. I had become entrapped, and as the Spanish Cobras constricted around me my mind Atari-exploded inside; looked like the game was over for me.
Just yesterday, as I stood in the playpen of the wood-paneled game room, that me and the other members of my gang---the Beldon and Knox Gaylords---hung out daily in, we were abuzz with the plans that we had just air-drawn up. Earlier, we had gotten word from one of the game room-clinging girls, pouty-lipped Karen with her silk-shine hair, that the Spanish Cobras were day-camping around the school that she was enrolled in, just about four blocks away, and that they were openly chess-challenging us to our rights to our hood. With that, the Gaylords hyper-drew up plans to meet up at the school yard, the next day, to teach these new hood arrivals a harsh lesson.
Up until this point, at 16 years of age, I was in my infantile experimental stage. Another gang actually U-Hauling into the general area had not really entered my dense-skull. Sure, we had an occasional run-in with rivals, but the more seasoned Gaylords usually polished that opponent or two off, before I even had the chance to eye-savor the experience. Then I was hearing about these alien-curious Spanish Cobras, showing up on our southern shores, Armitage-n-Cicero. Reportedly, they were a new breed on the scene, as most of neighborhood was working-class whites.
These days, the activity of the hotdog selling-smelling game room had my rookie ass geared-up on giddy girls and Gaylord graffiti, as I cool-sprawled on my easy-throne of a game room booth. Buck-wild Gaylords corralled around the game room daily. All this revved-up activity went on right across the street from a fast-food-serving Wendy?s that was window-sloganing, ?Where?s the beef??
?Where?s the Gaylords?? I kept asking myself. I had showed up, as scheduled, just as the ending-bell rang for students to school exit. I spotted pouty-lipped Karen in the exiting out-rush and she motioned over to a cluster of snaky spanish dudes, who were closing in fast on me.
Just then, as I gazed to my right, the blaring trumpets sky-rocketed in my head. The Gaylords, led by Red and his brother Kenny, were marching mass whole out of a grimy alleyway, with a wild-horses rage, to engage the Cobra specie. The cavalry had come just in time to save my ass. A strong sweep of inner relief erased all the anxiety in me. It was a glorious moment that would forever be carved in my brain; which heightened my pride for my gang even more.
The Spanish Cobras became panic-eyed, so overwhelmed by the gallant Gaylord charge that they shrinky-dink-shrank and bolted off at full speed. They made a successful retreat, as the Gaylords wave-flowed out into the school yard as the reining champs of the area.
However, within the hour, the Spanish Cobra sent awkward-word that they wanted to peacefully meet. Red, our sweataholic, G. I. Joe action figure, agreed to. Neither of our groups had a complete understanding of each other, and I guess we all wanted to hound-sniff. A raw recruit, I was eager myself to get a better look at the new area life forms, so I foot-accompanied Red and some others to the other side of Armitage, inside some crude-cradle, walled by train tracks and factory back ends.
Understandable why the Cobras wanted to peace talk as they really did not look like much compared to brawny Red, who was presently haggling out elbow room and breathing space in the area, the Cobras were just munchkins. In the end of the pace talk, Red agreed to let the over-joyed Spanish Cobras roam freely on the other side of Armitage, as long as they stayed out of our way. Honestly, they seemed harmless, compared to the gigantic-monsters that we had on our side, back at the game room. We left the Cobra meeting content, that we had plugged a problematic hole.
Months later, the nerve-racked owner of the game room decided to close shop. I think we gang-murdered off his business by Gaylord saturating it daily. It had been an ultra-cool place to hang, but now the owner was closing shop, The Gaylords, in turn, were left shopping around for a new hang spot. And as it turned out, many guys just decided to move on with their lives in other fashions. We all just seemed to splinter off in different directions, off from our game room spring-board, and vanished into the mists of own personal adventures.
Within a year, the seedling of Spanish Cobras in the area street-mutates and eventually spawns the reputed corner of Armitage-n-Cicero, which entirely desecrates the once clean-easy habitat.