In another part of town, Casey Jones sat and watched his television set. He didn't like what he saw. A crime reporter named June was telling the public about more and more violent crimes. He tried another channel. A woman was about to be eaten by a gigantic monster from Japan. A third channel showed three men shooting their guns to the tune of a dozen police sirens. On another channel, cowboys and Indians were fighting one another. Casey turned back to the news. It was less violent.
"There is no end in sight to the crime wave, and a police spokesman today could offer no further information on progress. There isn't any," she said.
Disgusted, Casey turned off the television set. He looked around his apartment. The walls were covered with sports and martial arts posters. Almost every surface was cluttered with sports equipment. Casey liked sports, combat with rules, tests of skill where everybody had a chance. He didn't much like violence and he especially didn't like crime waves. The trouble was, what could he do about it? He looked at his hockey mask. He looked at his golf bag full of bats, sticks, and golf clubs. He got an idea.
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Down in the sewer outside the Turtles' den, Donatello rolled out some lazy S-curves on his skateboard. Michelangelo sat nearby, hunched under the manhole to the street that they thought of as their front door. Meditation was over, it was pizza time. Almost. If only the pizza would get there.
"Nice night," Donatello remarked, looking up at the stars through the grating.
Michelangelo wasn't in the mood for a discussion of the weather. "Pizza dude's got thirty seconds," he grumbled.
Donatello sat next to his brother. "Hey, Mikey, you ever think about what Splinter said tonight - like, I mean, what it would be like, uh, without him?"
Michelangelo didn't answer for a minute. He didn't like to think about serious things. It seemed to him that there were too many serious things in life. He'd rather think about pizza.
"Time's up! Three bucks off!" he announced.
Donatello understood that some things were just hard for Mike. It didn't mean he didn't care; it didn't mean he didn't think. Mike just didn't like to talk about it.
Just then there was a shuffling sound above, and the grumbling of an unhappy person who couldn't find his way.
"Swell! Where the heck is this dumb pizza supposed to be delivered?"
"You're standing on it, dude!" Mike announced.
The delivery man jumped three feet in the air with fright. "What the...?!"
Michelangelo stuck a note up through the grate. "Just slip the pizza down here, man," he said.
The pizza came down. Then the man yelled at Michelangelo. "Hey, you're three bucks short, man!"
"And you're two minutes late, dude!" Mike said. Then he began talking like a Chinese philosopher. "Wise man say: Forgiveness is divine, but never pay full price for a late pizza!"
Mike and Don hurried towards the den's door with their pizza. Above them on the street, the pizza man stared at the grate where he'd delivered a pizza, and been taken for three dollars. He shook his head.
"I got to get a new route," he said.
Down in the den, Mike borrowed one of Leo's katana and used it for what he thought it did best. He tossed the fully cooked pizza into the air. Before it landed, Mike swished at it four times, cutting it into eight exactly equal pieces.
"It slices, it dices, and yes, it makes french fries three different ways!" he joked, sounding like an ad for the dice-o-matic that he'd seen one night when he'd stayed up too late watching TV.
Eight perfectly cut slices of pizza landed right where the Turtles could eat them. Not a minute too soon!