~~ This was originally going to be the beginning of a real story, with chapters and action and everything, hence the random details about the flight and Australia and such. Still might be. Who knows?
First time posting any writings of mine. Well, if I'm being honest, this is my first time actually WRITING any writings of mine. . . until today all of my fanfictionesque musings have remained locked in my head. Maybe after this I'll realize that it is better that way and my laptop will stop glaring accusingly at me every time I look at a blank document. Maybe . . . we will see.
I'm not going to beg for "R&R" or anything. It would be nice, but not necessary. I think I'll keep writing my original idea for the story no matter what unless something terrible happens; like I get kidnapped by Cap'n Hook and shot out of a cannon or Leo and Raph portal to my dimension to punish me for what I plan to do to them and their little bros if the story actuall happens. . . *evil chuckle*
I guess I should stop ranting now and let you read the first section of chapter one, which is only slightly longer than this note. . .
Chapter one:
'What are the Foot doing here?' Michelangelo thought as he caught an incoming blade with the chain of one of his nunchucks. 'Don't they have something better to do? Like robbing old ladies or de-linting their black pajamas or something?' Twisting the chain, he yanked the blade out of the hand of the ninja in front of him and flicked it behind him, catching another in the face with its hilt just as he was sneaking up on the turtle, effectively knocking him out, before returning to the first Foot-member with a loud *crack* as the wood of his nunchuck struck the skull of the off-balance minion-of-evil. 'I mean, seriously. Dude. You're taking this kill-all-turtles thing a little far, doncha think?' Mikey continued his mental tirade against the Foot as he fell into the familiar rhythm of combat. Block. Kick. Dodge. WHACK. Block again. Punch a face. Whack Whack WHACK.
'Can't a mutant turtle hitch a highly illegal ride on an international freighter plane from Australia back to New York without having to put up with pajama-clad maniacs stealing his in-flight peanuts and trying to knock him senseless?' he ranted in his mind, dodging a knife as it was thrown at his head. Apparently not. The in-flight peanuts were only in Mikey's mind, of course; after ten hours of flying cramped in the back corner of the cargo bay, he had already longing for the cheesy deliciousness of native New York pizza, Doritos, gummy worms, and unlimited cans of sweet Dr. Pepper. Being reminded that their journey wasn't even halfway over did nothing to ease the pain in his aching stomach.
A sharp kick to his midsection brought the youngest of the turtles rudely back to the present. 'Oh, right. Foot ninjas. Duh.' Falling backward, Mikey angled his body so that was able to push off of the floor and flip back to his feet rather than crash flat on his shell. He faced the half-dozen figures in front of him, blinking in surprise that the last second acrobatics had actually worked. The shock only lasted a moment before a self-satisfied smirk plastered itself on his face. "Who da turtle?" Mikey asked the hesitating ninjas, nunchucks out and spinning. When they answered by tightening their grips on their weapons and advancing threateningly, he carried on in his best pro-wrestling announcer's voice: "That would be the one, the only, MICHELANGELO!" His words were punctuated by thuds and meaty smacks as he leaped into the fray once more.
To Be Continued . . . ?