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ScoopGirl79

Skin Change


Happiness Pie by Sinisstar

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Disclaimer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles® were created by Eastman and Laird, and are registered trademarks of Mirage Studios. No profit is being made from this story, and the characters appear without knowledge or consent of the copyright holders. Which is probably a very good thing, all things considered.

Warnings: Adult language, potty humour



HAPPINESS PIE

By: Sinisstar



No.

There was no time for happiness pie.

For Raphael, there was no such thing as happiness pie. Just like there was no such thing as God. If, however, he was wrong about both and God did exist, then the guy was a bloody sicko who deserved to be locked up in a maximum-security mental ward for all the shit He’s pulled. And the pie was probably made of regurgitated bat shit doused in camel spunk and squirrel cherries, if the God thing was any sort of indication.

Michelangelo’s suggestion that Raphael ‘mow down on a piece of the good ol’ happiness pie’ was met with the nearest piece of Donatello’s equipment being flung violently in the direction of the younger turtle’s head. It missed (of course), to the chagrin of Raphael, and this failure to attain justice served as proof that there was no God. So in retaliation, as expected due to many years of honed habits, because he couldn’t hit Mikey on a physical level, the cranky turtle opted to bombard the other with a string of multicolored curses that would have earned him a smack from Splinter’s walking stick, had the rat been in the room to hear it.

Donatello’s face turned a paler shade of olive. He had never heard those words in that particular order before, and if he really thought about it (which he refused to) some of them were actually quite creative. Raphael was oblivious to his brother’s embarrassment.

Happiness pie, and Michelangelo, could both suck Raphael’s greasy terrapin tail, dammit. On a better day perhaps he may have indulged in a slice, but ‘better days’ were rare and today was certainly not one of them, thanks to those ass-gobbling monkey-humpers known ‘affectionately’ as the Purple Dragons.

Raph hated being ambushed, and he hated how their enemies always seemed to acquire sparkly new weapons of greater and greater complexity (and lethality), and he hated how many times he’d nearly gotten a one-way ticket to Deathsville because of that. He hated being in pain, and he gazed upon the multiple laser burns adorning his body with a great deal of loathing.

But what he hated most was the way Donnie pressed into his personal space, clucking and fretting like an anxious mother hen suffering from an obsessive-compulsive disorder, driven by the need to make absolutely certain without room for error in any way imaginable under any circumstances ever that her chick was, in fact, in relatively good health despite the circumstances.

Unfortunately, the turtle couldn’t find it in him to tell his brother to fuck off. Raphael’s injuries were the result of the Brainiac’s absentmindedness in battle; so enamored with these strange new weapons (some alien technology, no doubt) that he hadn’t sensed an enemy behind him. Rough-n-tumble Raphael, badass and big brother extraordinaire, had once again leapt in to save the geek.

Nobody really needed to ask if Donatello had been bothered by the sound of his brother’s agonized screams as he fell.

Guilt practically oozed off this brother, and so it was that Raph allowed Don to ‘make up’ for it by showering him with over-the-top care. And he had to admit, it was kinda-sorta nice how Donnie was going all-out for him; he would have been in a lot more pain if not for his brilliant sibling busting out his not-really-secret stash of heavy-duty antiseptic creams and cooling gels, laced with powerful painkillers of his own design. Oft of the philosophy ‘Oh it’s just a bit of pain, it won’t kill you’, Don rarely used them except in extreme cases (and this was not one of them), so it was glaringly obvious just how awful he felt.

Not that Raph would admit that it was nice. He had his pride and image to keep up, after all.

Still, he could have done without Don’s insistence that he stay horizontal and Michelangelo being his usual idiot self. A small part of him sniggered that Mikey was jealous of all the attention Raph was getting (“Hey! Why does he get the good stuff and I don’t? I’m in pain!” “Because I said so, Mikey, and you’ll just have to deal!”) but he was far too annoyed to give it much thought.

And it really didn’t help that the toilet was currently rendered out of order at the unfortunate moment Raph felt he had to piss like a racehorse.

So: happiness pie? Gangrenous hog patties. He told Michelangelo as much, and then turned to Donatello and informed him in not-so-polite words that he had to use the toilet.

Speaking of which…

“I’m sorry, Raph, but…”

If there was one thing about Donnie he liked (most of the time), it was his brother’s sense of honesty. At least he didn’t try to hide the fact that Mikey’s newest loaf was cataclysmic, and the toilet was receiving emergency aid from a reluctant Leonardo. The squish-splish could be heard even from the Lair’s ‘sick room’, and finally Raphael knew what the hell that sound was in the first place. He’d been wondering.

Then again, maybe Raphael could have done without that tidbit of too-much-information. There were, after all, occasions when he’d rather not know the truth. This, he suspected, was one of them.

“Grr-rr-rrr-rrrrrrrrrrrr,” Raphael told Michelangelo threateningly as he watched his orange-clad brother grin brilliantly at him.

Squish-splish! BLEARP! And a faint, nausea-laced voice in the distance: “Oh, God.”

“No more X-treme Cheese Burritos,” Donatello murmured, mostly to himself. Michelangelo took a moment to have the decency to at least look just a little bit ashamed of himself, but deterred he wasn’t in his efforts to get back into Raphael’s good graces. Which is what he thought he was doing; his antics were usually amusing to his temperamental brother, but in this case he was sadly only making things worse.

“Dude,” Mikey said, his voice unusually loud. (Donatello shot him a look that informed him that the toilet – and Leo’s – agony would not be silenced, no matter how loud he was. Mother Hen Don was promptly ignored.) “When ya went down, like. I thought you were, you know, totally a goner. And I was like,” he paused to throw his hands in the air and squeal dramatically, “OH NOES!”

Raph had been unconscious at the time, so he was obviously unaware of this. (Thankfully? Maybe.)

“He tried to pull a South Park,” Don said from where he was dabbing his special mega-super soothing cream over the burns on his brother’s leg. “But it didn’t work.”

He didn’t need to say that the cutting wail of ‘Oh my God, they killed Raphie!’ was not met with ‘You bastards!’ since Donatello didn’t like South Park and Leo didn’t understand it, so neither felt the need to finish what their brother began.

Besides, Leonardo had been too busy embarking on a furious butt-kicking spree in the name of the fallen Raph (complete with violent threats of death in Japanese, expunged in a storm of screams that nearly made said threats unintelligible) as Donatello made with the classic grab-your-bro-and-get-the-fuck-outta-Dodge rescue slash flee-for-the-hills routine.

“Oh dude! Leo was all ‘ARRGH’ and the Dragons were all ‘AHHHGH!’ cause Leo was kicking their tails and Donnie was like ‘ERRGH’ cause you weigh a ton and I was all ‘EEEEE’ because everyone else was yellin’,” Michelangelo explained. “And one of the Dragons jumped at Donnie, like DEATH FROM ABOVE and it was so totally slow-mo, man, but I went 300 on ‘im and knocked ‘im offa the building—“

“Grr,” Raphael muttered, eyeballing Mikey and his big, stupid grin and his big, stupid gestures as he tried to reenact it and stay out of Don’s way at the same time, failed, and had his purple-clad brother brandish a needle at him with his patented ‘Don’s gonna make somebody hurt real bad, real soon’ look (“I can sedate you Mikey, so help me…” “Noooo, I’ll be good!”).

Raph’s funk dissipated for a few seconds as his brothers had a stand-off on either side of him; Mike in a dramatic pose of utmost terror, and Don with a large needle poised mid-air and looking disturbingly maniacal (a rare thing, but always a source of great amusement for his brothers). It returned swiftly, however, when his bladder reminded him that release was imminent so he’d better get moving.

“Don, either Leo gets the toilet fixed now ‘r I’m gonna be pissin’ in the kitchen sink.”

Raph watched with some interest as his younger brother’s eyes popped in horror, no doubt from the mental image he couldn’t stop from entering his head. In an impressive display of reflex, he whipped around and hollered, “LEO! ARE YOU DONE YET?”

“…Almost?” Leo called back, hesitant. “I think?”

“Christ, Mikey, what’d ya do? Eat a nuclear missile?” Raph demanded.

“Happiness pie, bro,” Mike reminded.

“Grr-rrr-rrrrr-rrrrrrrrrrrr.”

A brief scuffle later and Michelangelo was successfully ejected from the room. Donatello bore a long-suffering, tight-lipped expression as he returned to tending Raph. Less than a minute later, Leonardo entered the room, plunger in hand.

He gazed at them with a peculiar sort of accomplishment and said, “Our toilet is clean.”

Then he left.

Raphael didn’t think Leo liked happiness pie, either.

THE END

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