Author: Stephan

MATTHEW ANDERSON!

As promised, Matthew is now the proud owner of this My First Raph, complements of GoGreenMachine.Org! Congrats Matthew!

Here is the holiday story Matthew sent in! As a reminder, the winner is chosen at random. The quality or length of Matthew’s story had no bearing on his winning. Hope you all had Happy Holidays!

I’m Dreaming of a Mutant Christmas
By Matthew J. Anderson

It was three days until Christmas, and the Turtles were hard at work decorating the lair. Donatello had actually gotten all the lights to twinkle, Michaelangelo was busy in the kitchen baking cookies, while Leonardo and Raphael decorated the tree, ninja style.
“Fifty-four, fifty five,” the pair counted off as they flung ornaments at the fragrant spruce like shuriken.
With nothing left but the star for the top, Raph commented “Next time we see Shredder, let’s take some garland.”
Leo laughed, and called his other brothers in, “Do we want to wait for Splinter to get home to put the star on?”
“Yeah, he’d like that,” Mikey said, passing a warm cup of cocoa with whipped cream to his brothers.
A knock on the door took the Turtles by surprise. Splinter was out inviting their friend Casey Jones over for the holiday, and April was off on assignment. The Turtles didn’t usually get much company.
“Could be Usagi,” Donatello offered.
“Could be trouble,” Leo warned in a low harsh tone.
The foursome crept toward the door, and opened it quickly, poised to jump on whatever foe lie behind.
“Rat King!” they cried in unison as the hulking sociopath filled their door frame.
“Well,” the Rat King hissed, “Merry Christmas to you too, neighbors. Do ninjas always receive guests with weapons drawn, or is that a purely amphibian response?”
“Actually, turtles are reptiles,” Donatello corrected as they put their weapons away.
“Oh, my bad.”
“So what brings you to our lair, Rat King?” Leo asked, side stepping the entourage of vermin that swarmed the floor around their master.
“Maybe he want to borrow a cup of sugar,” Raph offered, much to Mikey’s delight.
“Actually, I’m just spreading some holiday cheer to my fellow sewer dwelling neighbors,” the Rat King said, producing a small loaf of bread from the satchel at his waist, then with a gnarly smile “Fruitcake?”
“I’m not touching that one,” Raph said, “Pun or food.”
“Why thank you,” Leo said, accepting the gift, and almost dropping it when a rat shot down the king’s arm in a last ditch effort to get a bite. It was then Leo realized it was quite gnawed on.
“It’s my grandmother’s secret recipe, I do hope you enjoy. Until next time, Turtles,” the Rat King said, slinking off into the dark with a trail of rodents.
“Did anyone else notice his goodbye sounded like a veiled threat?” Donatello asked.
“Did anyone else notice that he had a grandmother?” Raph added.
“C’mon guys,” Leo scolded while closing the door, “It’s Christmas time. People always try to come together around the holidays.”
“Well I’m not eating it,” Michelangelo said, “But it looks like it’d make a good puck for some sewer hockey!”
“Hey guys,” Donatello summoned, “April’s news report is about to begin!”

Down in the bowels of the earth, aboard Krang’s battle fortress, the mighty Technodrome, the mutant thugs Bebop and Rocksteady pitted their combined, yet still dim, wits against their greatest foe; Sargent Redfeather, last boss in the new Ace Duck video game.
“C’mon Bebop, throw an egg grenade,” Rocksteady screamed as he mashed chaotically on the control pad. He pleas were too late, as Ace lost his last life, ending a ten hour playing marathon.
The enraged punk hurled his controller at the console, which exploded in sparks as it fell of the top of the TV.
“Um, I think you’re over-reacting,” Bebop casually offered.
Denied it’s input, the television returned to the only channel available 100 miles underground, Channel 6. The yellow clad figure of April O’Neill came on the screen, a large dormitory-style building in the back ground.
“This is April O’Neill, reporting only a few days before Christmas at the H.C. Andersen Children’s Home, where the holidays might not be so merry for the children living here.”
“Hey,” Rocksteady shouted, “I grew up there!”
“Every year the Children’s Home relies on the generous support of the community to provide donations to supply the children with toys,” April continued, “But in these tough economic times, the funds this year have come up short.”
The camera cut to a short man standing next to April, “Mr. Cratchet, you’re the director of the Children’s home, how bad is it this year?”
“Well Miss O’Neil, we have about three hundred children living here, and sadly, only enough money to buy gifts for about half. Or, enough to get half a gift for each child. Either way, we’re running out of time.”
The camera turned back to April, who looked a bit perplexed by the response, then stated, “Also with me is little Stacy, a resident of the Children’s Home. Stacy, are you worried about Christmas?”
Stacy appeared to be about seven, all bundled up against the cold and missing her two font teeth.
“I’m not worried,” she said, “Santa brings toys for everyone, he won’t forget us.”
April smiled, “Well, there you have it folks. No matter what happens in life, we always have the optimism of youth, and the spirit of the holidays. You can find the children’s wish lists on the back page of this week’s paper, and drop off any donations to the Channel Six office. For Channel Six news, I’m April O’Neil reporting.”
As the weatherman came on, Bebop noticed a faint sound of sniffling. Looking over, he saw tears streaming down his friend’s face.
“What’s wrong Rocksteady?” he asked.
The thug let loose with the water works, sobbing “I remember when Santa didn’t bring me Christmas at the kids home. I don’t want little Stacy to not get Christmas!”
Unsure of how to handle the situation, Bebop offered “Maybe we can help Santa this year, the list is in the paper, and I think Shredder gets it delivered every day.”
Rocksteady looked up through the tears and snot that a bawling rhino could produce, “You’d help me?”
“Yeah,” Bebop said, “I often think that if I’d had a better childhood, I might not have turned to a life of crime. Besides we gotta do something good to make up for everything else.”
The duo made their way to Shredder’s room, a private retreat made to look his home in Japan. The ninja master sat meditating by his koi pond.
“What do you two want?” he growled without opening his eyes.
“We came to borrow today’s paper,” Rocksteady said.
Shredder’s eye shot open, “You can read?”
“I mostly like books with pictures,” Bebop replied, “Or the funnies.”
Shredder shook his head sadly and sighed, “It’s on the credenza.”
“Thanks boss,” Rocksteady said.
About ten minutes later, the pair returned.
“What now,” Shredder said impatiently.
“Um, what’s a credenza?” Bebop asked.
“The counter in the living room, moron!”
“Oh, thank bosss.”

The task of supply almost two hundred toys had taken it’s toll on Bebop and Rocksteady. For several hours they had smashed every piggy bank they had, meticulously counting each coin, only to realize their combined wealth of thirty-four dollars and ten cents wouldn’t cover it.
“We could steal the toys,” Bebop suggested.
“No,” Rocksteady replied, “We can’t steal for Christmas.”
“What about Krang’s thing making thing, maybe we can make the toys?”
“Oh, you’re so smart Bebop, let’s go ask him.”
In the command center of the Technodrome, Krang, warlord of Dimension X, wringed his tentacles impatiently. His jaw was clenched, his eyes nearly bugging out of his brain.
“C’mon John,” he encouraged the comatose character in his favorite soap opera, “Wake up. Marsha deserves you, not Steve!”
As the doors slid open and the henchman entered, Krang quickly flipped the show off and began pushing buttons and pulling levers, screaming “Yes, this will make the people of Earth learn to fear me.”
“Oh oh,” Bebop asked, “Did John wake up from his coma in time to stop the wedding?”
Krang stopped the charade, biting his lip and saying, “Well now I won’t know because you two interrupted me.”
“Sorry Krang,” Rocksteady said, “We just wanted to know how to use your thing-maker machine to make some Christmas presents.”
“Ooohhh,” Krang squealed, “How thoughtful, my favorite Earth holiday.”
The giant brain flung a datapad at the two, “This can access the specifications for anything made on Earth for the last twenty years. Find what you want, and the machine on deck 136 will make it for you.”
“It’s that easy,” Bebop asked.
“For the sake of time and the person writing this story, yeah, it’s that easy. But try not to go overboard, it drains the Technodrome’s batteries.”
“Thanks Krang, we’ll make you something nice too,” Rocksteady said as they bolted our the door.
Krang frantically turned his show back on.
“If anyone one can give reason why these two should not be wed,” the priest was saying.
“I do,” John said, still in his hospital gown.
Krang wiped a tear from his eye, “I do love happy endings.”
About twelve hours later, Bebop and Rocksteady, along with a half dozen Foot Soldiers, finished wrapping the last present. True to Krang’s assurances, it had been that easy.
“I guess now we wait until tomorrow night and put the presents under the tree,” Bebop said.
“We should get Santa costumes,” Rocksteady added.
“Yeah, we can make the Foot Soldiers our elves,” Bebop chuckled.

A pair of Channel Six news van pulled up to the H.C. Andersen Children’s Home around 11:30 on Christmas Eve. April, Irma, Vernon and the rest of the crew got out, quietly beginning to unload the last few presents dropped off at Channel Six.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t get someone else to unload these,” Vernon whined, “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Oh Vernon,” April said, “It’s not like you have anything better to do than sit at home and wait for your lump of coal to arrive.”
“I’m hoping my good deed will earn me a man in a stocking,” Irma added.
The vans were nearly unloaded, when the ground outside the Children’s Home began to shake. Suddenly, a tunneler emerged.
“Uh, that’s usually a sign to flee,” Vernon said, tearing through a snow drift back to the van. The other helpers followed, leaving April and Irma in the cold. April flipped open her Turtles com as Bebop, Rocksteady, and their Foot Soldiers emerged, clad like Santa’s evil helpers. Not surprisingly, Michaelangelo responded, bright eyed and turtle tailed.
“Hi April, I couldn’t sleep either,” he bobbed enthusiastically.
“Well, get everyone up,” April said, “Irma and I are at the Children’s Home, and so are Bebop and Rocksteady!”
“Oh no,” Mikey exclaimed, “Don’t those guys ever take a break!”
“What’s worse is they’re unloading some sort of presents for the kids!”
“Dude, that’s so bogus! We’ll be right there!”
Inside, Bebop and Rocksteady guided the Foot Soldiers in their task of placing presents under the tree, checking off every kids name from the paper as their gift was placed. The creak of a door and the gentle sound of a little girl’s voice caught them off guard.
“Santas,” came the unsure assumption.
Bebop and Rocksteady recognized Stacy from the news report.
“Uh yeah,” Rocksteady said, “I’m Kris Kringle, and this is my friend Bebop, he’s helping me this year.”
“I knew you were real,” she exclaimed, running out and hugging Rocksteady’s legs, “Then stepping back and asking, “Why are you animals?’
“We’re wearing extra masks so no one knows it’s us,” Bebop said.
Stacy stood and blinked a couple of times as the statement soaked in. Fortunately, Bebop’s logic made sense to a seven year old, so she quipped, “I’ll go get you milk and cookies.”
“That’s be nice,” Rocksteady said.
The Turtle Van pulled up in front of the Children’s home where April and Irma stood shivering. The four Turtles and Casey jumped out.
“Some evil doer’s are gonna get a baseball bat to the face for Christmas,” Casey said, smacking the hickory stick to his palm.
“Whoa there turbo,” Raph said, “Why don’t you hang back and protect the girls, I mean, kids these days see enough violence in Saturday morning cartoons.”

The Turtles made their way around back, spying on the Foot Soldiers hauling arm loads of presents inside.
“So what do you think the evil plan is,” Raph asked.
“Maybe the boxes are full of mind control devices,” Donatello said, “So Shredder can raise an army of zombiefied children no one will fight.”
“Could be a bunch of empty boxes, so as to ruin Christmas for all these kids,” Leonardo said.
“Man,” Mikey said, “That seems pretty low, even for Shredder.”
“Well I guess we go find out,” Leo said, leading the crew in through a back door.
Rocksteady glanced down his list, saying “I think we have about fifty more presents to bring in.”
“Make that zero, punk,” came the voice of Raphael.
“It’s the Toidles,” Bebop shouted.
The Foot Soldiers dropped their gifts and produced an array of ninja weapons.
“Turtle Power,” came the unified battle-cry.
While Michaelangelo and Donatello assaulted the Foot Soldiers, Raphael and Leonardo turned their sights on the diabolical duo. As Leo came down with a flying kick, Rocksteady returned with a vicious uppercut, sending the fearless leader flying. Bebop countered Raph’s attack, and flung the wisecracker into his two still standing brothers as they demolished the last Foot Soldier.
The Turtles were back on their feet and about to lunge again, when the sound of sobbing made them freeze. Everyone turned to see Stacy, holding a plate piled high with cookies.
“Don’t hurt the Santas,” she pleaded.
“Oh, so was the plan to turn kids against us,” Raphael asked.
“No you idiots,” Rocksteady said, “We made presents for all the kids, but now we can’t unload them ‘cus you broke our elves.”
“Really,” Leo asked, “You two actually did something nice?”
“Surprising, huh,” Bebop asked.
“Well, all things considered,” Donatello said, “And they’re really just toys, not mind control devices meant to raise and army of undefeatable children.”
“Hey, it’s Christmas,” Rocksteady replied.
“Well guys, I guess we should help, since we did interrupt,” Leonardo said.
“You have to put on the elf costumes,” Bebop said with a smile.
April, Irma and Casey came in to help the Turtles unload the rest of the presents, while Bebop and Rocksteady sat next to fireplace eating cookies with Stacy. The task finally finished, the Turtles offered another apology, and wished the thugs a merry Christmas.
“Hey,” Rocksteady warned as they were about to leave, “Don’t tell anyone about this, we’ve got reputations to uphold.”
“Don’t worry,” Raph quipped, “I don’t think anyone one will believe us if we do.”
The Turtles and their friends made their way out, each trying to ignore Irma who had placed herself conspicuously underneath a strand of mistletoe, eyes shut and lips puckered. To her surprise, Bebop sprang at the opportunity, blushing and giggling as Rocksteady drug him back to the Tunneler.
“Well, he’s half human, better then most of my dates,” Irma shrugged while her companions stared in horror.

Back in the Turtle Lair, the brothers, Splinter, Casey, April and Irma decided it was time to unwrap presents.
“I still can’t believe those two did something so selfless,” Leo kept saying.
“Well my sons, I hope you learned you can’t always judge a book by it’s cover,” Splinter said.
“Hey,” Mikey called from the kitchen, “Where’s that fruitcake go?”
Splinter looked sheepish, “Sorry, I’m afraid I have a sweet-tooth for such things. I may have eaten it all.’
“Uh, Master,” Donatello said, “You know the Rat King gave us that, right?”
“Well then,” Splinter said stoically, “I guess you can’t always judge a fruitcake by it’s baker either.”

-Dun dun dun dun-duh-