Little Truths

“Say, Mikey...” April turned a soda in her hands. “You’re the only one with freckles, right? Why’s that?”
“Oh, they aren’t freckles,” said Michelangelo absent-mindedly, studying the label of his bottle.
“What are they then?” April eyed him curiously.
He looked up at her. “Pockmarks.”

Knocking out the last Foot soldier, Leonardo hurried to where his brothers stood in a huddle. “What happened? Why did Mikey pass out in the middle of a fight?” he asked quickly.
“It seems,” Donatello said carefully, showing Leo a pale ball, “that Michelangelo gave birth.”
“What?” Leonardo spat.
“He laid an egg,” Donatello explained.
“H... How is that possible?”
“What I wanna know,” Raphael waded in, “is who did it to him. ‘Cause I didn’t.”
“Don’t look at me,” Donatello defended himself, “I use protection.”
“Leo?” Raphael growled.
“Of course not!” Leonardo frowned indignantly.
A strangled groan caught their attention. Kneeling, they leaned closer to Michelangelo. “Dudes, don’t argue...” he rasped. “I think I’ve tried to prep myself with my cum...”
Incredulity flooding his voice, Donatello uttered: “Mikey has a baby with himself?”

“Raph,” asked Casey, lifting a dumbbell, “why do ya still wear those masks?”
Raphael looked at him in surprise. “‘Cause we’re naked without them. It’s like you humans and clothes – you wear togs, we wear masks.
“Plus,” he added after a second of thinking, “they keep sweat out of our eyes. And,” he grinned and nudged his friend, “don’t say ya could tell us apart without them.”
“Can’t argue that,” Casey sighed.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Donatello sighed, “what exactly makes master Splinter our master.”
Leonardo eyed him dubiously.
“I mean it. Have you an idea what the age difference between us is? Based on rat’s life expectancy, it can’t be more than two years.”

“Good morning April,” Leonardo said, jumping down from the windowsill. “Is Raph here? He hasn’t come back home yet…”
“Morning Leo,” April replied. “Yes, he’s here, he’s still sleeping. I couldn’t wake him up.”
“Right.” Leonardo rubbed his face.
“Say, I noticed something this morning. He has little scars all over his thighs. You don’t happen to know what made them, do you?” April asked curiously.
Leonardo’s face lit up. “I do. You won’t believe it, his sais do that. It’s because of the way he sheathes them – sometimes they twist and stab his thighs. But don’t tell him I told you,” he added quickly. “It’s a matter of pride.”

“When you’re in a jail,” Michelangelo said, “a friend like Leo will bail you out. A friend like Raph will be sitting right next to you shouting, ‘Damn, we had a blast!’”
Donatello sat in silence for a while. “That interpretation is incorrect,” he spoke up. “Aside from positioning Leo as a friend and Raph as the best friend, which doesn’t have to apply at all, you abjectly neglected the implications of being in jail. I would add: A friend like Leo will save you from being raped in the ass. A friend like Raph will rape you in the ass.”

Angling his head gawkily, Michelangelo complained: “I can’t reach your forehead.” Donatello nuzzled at his beak.
“Works this way too,” he said softly.

Donatello had been sitting at that table for hours in complete concentration, doodling strange diagrams, mumbling to himself, downing kettles of coffee. Leonardo couldn’t believe that the only result would be looking up and telling him: “Let’s shag.”

Being the last one to find his weapon of choice, Leonardo grew attached to his katanas. It was him who started dying the leather handles blue to mark them as his own.

Raphael had several reasons for his outings, but one of them was difficult to debate. As Mikey once put it:
“It’s like what Sun Tzu said about state finance. You can either collect taxes, or steal money from your neighbour.”
And the Foot’s weaponry did come in handy.

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