You know that old saying, “a turtle is like a tank”? You might not because I just made it up in the Greenhouse when I was smoking some of the desert plants. The agreed upon meaning of this ancient metaphor is “just because one object looks like another, doesn’t mean you have the right to stay out at all hours of morning, you fool.” The meaning that most people have accepted is “you need a lot of explosives to kill a turtle.”
The creamy center of the turtle (called the “TurtleMan”) is the brain control. It looks like an ugly, angry old man who can’t get up because you pushed his fridge on top of him. So he lays there, sprawled out on his stomach, streching his neck and limbs out as far as they can go, reaching, pleading with his beady eyes.
I would imagine.
Turtles, despite their looks, are actually quite intelligent creatures. A given turtle may appear slow and dullard, but it may in fact be planning your death. The truth is that scientists have no idea what makes up a turtle. It could be a “shell” and “muscles” or it could be “satan” and “magic”; we really have no idea. What we do know is that they have an organized religous society.
This I came across accidentally with my brothers. Bryce, Ishmael, and I were having ourselves an enjoyable Fourth of July. At the time our ages were 11, 10, and 12, respectively. Behind our house in Big Stone is a large wooded area. We had shot some of those parachute fireworks (the lame ones that we didn’t buy from that day onward) and the parachute man had ejected into our wood.
The three of us raced into the woods to find it. Ishmael was in the lead. He had decided to bring his bag of fireworks with him (and a punk) as we might spy something that we wished to destroy. We happened upon a turtle.
This was no ordinary turtle. He wore a flowing purple robe with a white pointed hat. He stood upright and stared at us with his wizened, wize eyes. We stopped, the three of us, at his feet. He began to speak.
“My friends, I am the Master Turtle. I am a true Hero in a Half-Shell. I want you all to know a very important event is about to -”
“Let’s blow him up!” Shouted Ishmael. That kid. He grabbed the turtle before we could grab him. He took off running, shoving a bottle rocket down into the Master Turtle’s shell.
“My son, please do not -”
“Shut’tup! It’s lit!” He tossed the turtle as far as it would go and covered his ears. The rocket let out a whistle and the turtle hit the ground. Then there was a loud *pop* and a spray of green shot out of both ends of the shell.
“You idiot!” I screamed. Bryce has started to run back to the house. “He could talk! That didn’t seem weird to you?”
“It was just a turtle, Miles,” Ishmael said. I could tell that he felt less sure about his “ultra-cool” stunt now. The sky was getting dark. Suddenly, all around us, sprang up turtles in different colored robes.
“Who destroyed our Master?” Both Bryce and I pointed at Ishmael. “Take him away.” From the dark of the forest came two very very large turtles both of which stood about 10 feet tall. They each grabbed one of Ishmael’s arms and began to drag him off.
“I’ll tell Mom you love her and all that,” Bryce said.
“We won’t set you a place at dinner. I have a feeling you’ll be eating out,” I called after him.
“Guys! Help!! Save me!! PLEASE!!!” His cries echoed into nonexistance. He was gone. One turtle remained. “We can spare your brother if you wish. We are not without compassion.”
Bryce and I looked at each other. “No, that’s really okay. I didn’t like him.”
“Yeah, he’s yours. Do whatever. Just leave his sack of fireworks here. We can go torture frogs.”
“As long as they don’t talk, that’s fine with me.”