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Raph is seated on the living room floor, his back resting against the arm of the couch. Strewn about on the floor before him is a wide arch magazines. Some are about motorcycles, others about martial arts weapons, but mostly they're fitness magazines.
In the background the dulcet tones of Shaolin Soccer can be heard.
In the background the dulcet tones of Shaolin Soccer can be heard.
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"My name Stitch."
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In fact Stitch might want to take a number and join the line that forms to the left.
"How nice for you. Any particular reason you're on my ceiling, Stitch?"
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"Looking for Bar." He repeats. The eyes narrow slightly "Helping Mike." And, y'know, satisfying his own curiousity.
And ensuring it's safe for him to sleep at night.no subject
"Ain't seen'er. If she's still him, that is. I take it Mike's still Poppin' Fresh?"
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The question gets a nod even if Stitch doesn't get the reference.
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"That's some sick shit, that is. An' people wonder why I ain't been down in for-freakin'-ever."
Someone is pleased by the inconvenience of others.
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spookedconcerned by the prospect of a wandering Bar, Stitch snickers quietly as well. Snickering is contagious."Bar's not here?" He offers a shrug and points to the doorway. No real point in sticking around then. He's on a mission.
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It's the simple things, really.
"Not that I've seen. 'Course, I ain't really been lookin'. She's quieter than Mike is, an' I'm kind of diggin' the vacation from his yappin'."
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Stitch turns and scuttles towardthe door, nose close to the ground.
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Sheesh, weirdies.
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