Donatello's Demise

My collection of fireworks had grown since I set the bush in the backyard on fire. A bag of firecracker, small but loud, and bottle rockets.

The walk home from where the bus dropped us off from high school was always slower on trash day. We could look through the trash our neighbors had put out early, for broken hockey sticks, to become swords, for small electronics, or magazines, some of which were interesting for all the wrong reasons. On this particular trip, under a tree covered and dropping little yellow-green buds, we found Donatello. He was missing his characteristic Bo staff, it would have taken a lesser fan to identify him, and a leg, probably why he was in the trash. His purple mask/bandana told me it was him, though.

In what world is a pizza munching, radioactive turtle, going protect his identity by covering the area around his eyes? How unrealistic?

Anyway, he was our one find on this trash day, but his days of ninja-ing were behind him. Things were not going to go well for Don.

We stood in the parking lot of the Knights of Columbus hall nearly across the street from my house. I imagine the two story yellow building looking down in us with interest, watching us while my friends and I watched the turtle on his shell.

He lay there, his hand still curled as if around an invisible staff, watching the clouds cross the sky. His good leg stuck in the air, the other leg was been replaced by a bottle rocket, the business end filling the socket. He balanced on the center of his shell. If he was looking to us for mercy, he would find any from the kids from the neighborhood, Justin or I. This was science.

I knelt beside the experiment and using the long stick moved it around so I could see the wick. I let go and lit the match using the fold over method, when you use the card board flap to hold the match to the striker. While the match was still in its initial flare up, I placed it on the wick, which almost instantly disappeared into the rocket.

For half a second it was just a flare from the rocket ganging out from the missing leg. Then, when it was enough force to break the friction, he started spinning on his shell. I imagine delight and smiles on every face as this contraption became a blur if green shooting sparks in a circle, but I didn't dare look away. I didn't blink. Faster and faster, like a Chinese celebration.

The flare stopped, and while the momentum still had the action figure spinning, the normal small pop became a shrapnel spreading crack. The turtle was gone. Nervous, joyous laughter escaped the group and we began looking for shrapnel.