The Shredder, leader of the Foot clan of ninjas, criminal mastermind, and soon to be Great Evil Overlord, indulged himself with a small, but very evil cackle as he watched the feedback from one of his secret surveillance cameras. This one was strategically placed in a sewer line. On the screen, his lackeys were chasing an awkwardly proportioned woman in a yellow jumpsuit. Shredder cackled again. Now his mysterious, nasty scheme would remain hidden from the world. At last, he would be rid of that meddlesome reporter, April O'Neill!
Suddenly, one of the men was jerked out of the camera's view. There was a yelp and a thud; the man did not return. Shredder leaned forward. Another ninja had his chain yanked out of his hands just before he was beaten over the head with a stick. Shredder began to feel some amount of concern – but not for his lackeys, of course. Lackeys were expendable; otherwise, what was the point of lackeys? There were gobs of people out there only too willing to be enslaved into doing his dirty work. It was really fortunate for Shredder that so few of them had both the bravery and the lifespan to collect their pay. Anyway, his concern was not for his lackeys, but for the success of this particular venture. If April O'Neill escaped and spread this story, he would have to crank out some serious evil genius strategy – and he would have to go shopping for more lackeys.
Of course, the shadowy figures effortlessly dispatching his hired muscle could point to a larger problem.
Shredder settled back in his imposing metal chair and stroked his cat thoughtfully as he scrutinized the screen. All of his lackeys had been neatly disposed of. The O'Neill woman was facing away from the camera, staring at something in the shadows.
"You're… you're… you're turtles!" she gasped shrilly.
Shredder blinked. That was definitely not what he had expected. He had no idea what she was going on about. The bright side (which Shredder didn't visit very often; it was all well and good to be an overconfident villain, but being considered optimistic was just embarrassing) was that if O'Neill had gone stark raving mad, then she was no longer a threat. Even so, turtles triggered a very distant memory….
"I can't handle this," she whined overdramatically, and then she collapsed. Instantly, her unconscious body was surrounded by four… things. They had hands and walked upright as humans did, but they looked like… turtles!
"Well, she's no fun," one grumbled. "She fainted!"
It couldn't be! "What the devil!" Shredder growled, slamming his fist into the arm of his chair – and immediately gasping, horrified. His cat was now hanging limply on the arm of the metal chair, stunned and rather squashed. "Oh, Fifi!" the villain cried, forgetting the images on the screen in his effort to comfort the injured feline. "I'm so sorry, Fifi! Please forgive me!" He clutched the cat to his chest plate for a moment before setting it back on its perch. "Are you all right, Fifi?" he cooed. "You want a bowl of milk, don't you? You, there!"
The unfortunate Minion Number Fifty-Three froze in mid-step. As he approached the Shredder, he forced the appropriate mixture of fear, awe, devotion, and ninja-worthy toughness into his expression. He also tried not to notice that his master was tenderly stroking the arm of the large metal chair. "Sir?"
Shredder's eyes gleamed with the intensity of a leader who needed something done, and now. "Go retrieve some milk immediately," he commanded.
Minion Number Fifty-Three's jaw twitched. He knew hesitation could be deadly. Staring at the way his overlord was rubbing a certain spot on his chair, he decided, could also be deadly. Shredder could have certain Vader-like tendencies that made for quick promotion, but not much hope for retirement. "Would you like a straw, sir?" he asked respectfully.
"Don't be daft, man!" Shredder snapped. "Cats don't drink out of straws!" While something inside Minion Number Fifty-Three's mind short-circuited, Shredder addressed his chair. "I must admit that I have never seen a cat attempt such a thing," he rumbled. "Fifi, can you do it?" He paused, and then nodded and resumed petting the arm of the chair. "Right. A bowl of milk with a straw, then." He glared at the dumbfounded man beside him. "Well, don't just stand there. Go!"
"Yes, sir!"
Minion Number Fifty-Three scrambled out of the room, still trying to recover. It didn't help that Shredder was still talking, and not to him. "I didn't mean to, Fifi. Please don't be angry with me. Yes, you are a good cat, Fifi, and together WE SHALL RULE THE WORLD!"
Fifi never got any milk. The next day, Minion Number Fifty-Four was promoted.