The muscular snake, Michael, tastes the air and slithers its thick, scaly body over the ground as it prowls in search of prey. Its cool body makes it imperceptible to anything scanning for heat. A rat, out for supper, feels its neck SNAP almost instantly as Michael sinks his fangs into its body and sucks its blood. The death is immediate—its effortless acquiescence is surprising.

With a full belly, the snake decides to rest. Its eyes close, and it dreams.

In the recurring dream, a king beheads his most valiant knight after the knight defeats the empire's most terrifying dragon.

The following morning, the snake lies incredibly still, waiting for its next victim. A scorpion walks by—and SNAP—its pincer breaks off as the snake clamps its jaw shut. Fangs pierce through the scorpion's armor, penetrate its skull, and exterminate it. As if nothing major has happened, the snake curls up and returns to sleep.

Over the next few days, the snake suffocates and eats a rabid raccoon. It eviscerates a Komodo dragon. It blinds and bleeds to death a jaguar. It paralyzes—and then devours—a man armed with a gun.

All in all, a typical week in its pleasant life within the walls and yard of the Marco residence.

Marco has no idea Michael even exists, let alone that they’ve been cohabitating for the past 25 years.

On the evening Michael is finishing his meal of the gunman, the weapon grates against the floor, falls into a drain, and reverberates through the yard. The noise wakes Marco. Alone, terrified by the unexpected sound at night, yet determined, Marco runs to the yard to investigate. At first, he sees nothing—until, from the corner of his eye, he notices a scaly tail lumbering away.

Upon closer inspection, Marco realizes he has walked upon a snake halfway through devouring a man.

“Stop!” he yells, his voice trembling.

The snake ignores him. In part by choice—but mostly out of necessity.

Marco runs to his shed, tripping several times as his knees and ankles buckle, numb with fear. He can barely keep them steady. After finally reaching the shed, he grabs a rusted sledgehammer and returns to the snake.

“Stop!” he shouts again.

The snake lazily bares its red fangs and returns to digesting its meal.

Marco lifts the hammer with great effort  and brings it crashing down on the snake’s head. Blood splatters onto his face. Bones crunch. A wet pop echoes as the snake stops moving. Iron from the cold blood sears the air.

Marco rushes to pull the man from the snake’s body in an attempt to save him.

But it’s too late.

He is dead—and unrecognizable.

After the police investigation clears Marco and deems the death a horrible accident, the coroner takes the body.

Marco returns to his apartment in the dark and quietly closes the door.

“I am the KING here,” he flexes and says sternly, reassuring himself as he sinks into his couch to sleep with his TV on and the news playing as background noise.

Hundreds of pairs of red eyes, surrounding the apartment from a distance, inch closer.

"The Coast is Clear Now."