Karl Arnold was a brilliant little boy. His smile had once a genuine happiness in it, his pearly white teeth blinding everyone in sight. His laughter sparkled with contagious joy. His mom loved to tend to her garden in the backyard. His father was always in the open garage, fixing up cars then selling them off once his was through fine tuning everything to perfection. Karl spent his time either lounging in the green grass humming meaningless tunes to himself and watching the birds flutter around with their colorful wings or in the garage, watching as a heap of dull metal transformed into a thundering behemoth worthy of kings. He was happy with his mom and dad but, when he was seven, everything changed.
They changed so much.
The bright and cheery house everyone grew to know and love turned dark. The atmosphere once so relaxing now ran shutters down the spines of the hardiest of souls. Neighbors no longer greeted them with friendly smiles and gentle waves. The family began to drown in its own despair. The mother was weak with an unknown sickness, wasting away her healthy figure. The father drew into himself, head cast downward lest he blind himself with the brilliant light. The son grew angry, fists clenched and eyes losing its innocence.
Within the year, the mother rested under six feet of earth. A tragedy to begin a chain of eternal tragedy. The father tasted the forbidden drink of the gods; the elixir in which he drowned the merciless dogs nipping at his heals. He became a snarling demon at the slightest breath. His large meaty hands pounded the sole creature within his grasp; Karl Arnold. The angry boy grew with bruises all over his poor body. The people around him turned their heads unwilling to see his suffering, his darkness.
The anger turned inward. He was but a boy unable to defend himself. His father, the person who was supposed to be strong, to protect his son and his small fragile flame, instead was weak. Weak. The father with his enormous presence was so weak. He could not handle his life disintegrating into a million pieces. The shards falling to the ground faster than he could catch them. He was weak! The head of household is supposed to be strong. They are supposed to keep the family afloat no matter what. His father was a spineless tragedy. Because the head was weak, the body died. Death of the family unit is what happened to Karl Arnold.
The day he left his house of hell, he grinned for the first time in years. Off the college to start a career, he left his old life. Not long after – a day perhaps – the charred remains of his father were found in the smoldering skeleton of his former torture chamber. The police didn't look into it much; they knew what kind of monster he was. They couldn't intervene. In that time, police interfering in domestic matters just wasn't done. They were glad of slaying; one less useless shadow, one that breathed death and cruelty.
Yes. Karl Arnold left is weak pathetic self behind him. Yes. His eyes glistened with strength. A new purpose was given to him. It was him job to show them – all of their worthless skins – what a true head should look like.
Thus, Karl "The Fox" Arnold was born.