Limitless Evolution As a Snake

Luxury Red Danger Noodle

I woke up inside a jar.Maybe I am the jar? Holy shit, am I a literal glass jar? Did I get reincarnated as kitchenware? This is terrible. I'm doomed. Everything sucks.

I have a massive, infuriating phantom-limb sensation of having arms, legs, and thumbs. But when my nerves fire, nothing moves except a smooth, flexible red noodle. A vibrant crimson cord. I've been downgraded to an animated ribbon, fantastic. Thirty-five years of being a socially exhausted corporate slave, and my reward is becoming a forbidden string cheese.

A long, thin, forked tongue darts from my mouth on its own. It tastes the rot in the air, gathering information I don't know how to process. My brain scrambles for an analogy. Is this like how a dog smells?

The thought is immediately followed by a wave of pure physical revulsion. My mouth isn't supposed to do this, my tongue isn't supposed to be forked.

I am literally licking the air to read the room. I hate this. I hate everything about this.
When I close my eyes or whatever the snake version of that is, the world completely flips.

Suddenly, I'm tracking literal heat signatures. The super cold areas and freezing stone walls appear as an icy, neon blue fog, while any patch of warmth glows like a bright red target surrounded by orange.

Holy crap, it's actual thermal vision. Am I dead, high, or both?

Twisting, I finally see myself. Bright red, lustrous, sharp scales.

I mean, I don't exactly have a ruler on me down here, but I'm definitely well above average, way above average. Let's just agree on that right now.

Panic should be screaming through me, but my brain slams the door on it. Instead, a stubborn, ridiculous pride takes over. I'm not some drab colouration of a wild beast, I am vibrant crimson; these are glossy scales... this is a designer colour palette. I'm not a monster; I'm a premium exotic pet, probably.
Getting completely furious with my lack of thumbs and the smooth, cold glass pressing against my belly scales, I begin violently thrashing my body.

I manage to wiggle enough that the jar finally wobbles. The heavy glass tilts, slides over the thick carpet of grey dust on the shelf, and rolls over the edge.

The glass smashes, and absolute darkness rushes in. My brain chooses this exact moment to yeet me into a sudden flashback. Time to watch my own greatest hits reel.
Matthew Vane. Matt to my absolutely nonexistent friends. I am thirty-five years old, sitting in a windowless London office cubicle, drafting a passive-aggressive email to a manager who doesn't even know my name.

While watching the office bicycle crouch down to retrieve her dropped highlighter for the second time in twenty minutes, an act of physics that had nothing to do with highlighters, a sudden, crushing grip squeezes my chest. My coffee spills across the keyboard. I fall face-first onto my desk, my heart giving out at 4:45 PM on a Tuesday. The world goes black, and my last conscious thought is pure annoyance that I died at work. Truly a masterpiece of a life.

If I had to describe myself, I am the definition of "mid." Not ugly enough to pity, not handsome enough to notice. I spend my evenings eating lukewarm microwave meals, staring at fantasy novels, and jerking it to cat girl hentai on a cracked phone screen, a classic textbook nobody who let everyone walk all over him because I was too tired to care. For thirty-five straight years, I didn't take a single risk.

Well, screw that. No more playing it safe, I am completely done being mid. If I'm stuck in a snake body, I refuse to be a basic one. I'm going to make sure I'm impossible to ignore. I don't care about being a hero, and I don't care about being a villain; I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want to.

The flashback snaps shut.
I'm not a human anymore. I'm a vibrant red serpent with a dead man's brain, and the world is suddenly very, very big. But hey... no more spreadsheets or fake workplace small talk.