mnt_raph | (no subject)

(no subject)

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.

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Snufflesnufflesnufflesnuffle. Stitch emerges from room 132, nose to the ground. ears fanned to detect any suspicious sounds. Where are you, Bar? The trail leads to... another closed door.

"Grrrrr." Fine, the scent trail wants to go in there? they'll go in there. It's hardly begun and this is already getting annoying. Stitch knocks. And quickly scales the doorframe to the ceiling. No point in wasting time on introductions. Can't let the trail get too cold.

"It's open."

Comes the gruff reply.
Yeah...like Raph is going to get off of his butt to answer a door.
Right.

The door opens. No one enters. Not from floor level anyway. If one were expecting such things, they may spot the small blue creature crawling around on the ceiling. Or perhaps they'd notice the very audible noise of something scenting the air. Stitch hoovers in scent molecules, eyes narrowed slightly as he takes stock of the place.

Coffee. Leather, furniture, carpet, turtle, waffles, elephant...? He blinks. And shrugs. Snufflesnufflesnufflesnuffle.

Raph looks up from his magazine and over to the door to catch a glimpse of...wait...no one?

The fuck?

Then he hears the snuffling, and looks up.

"The fuck?"

Stitch peers at him, upside down. Oh well, nothing for it now.

"Hiiiiiiii. Looking for Bar. Mike." Shrug.

Raph's eyes widen.

"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?"

The day's not even half over. How could an individual cause him this much agita before lunch time?! Stupid Bar! And now he has to explain things to this guy. And as much as he appreciates a good expletive? He's just been over this with Steph!

"Chubugga" no accurate translation's available at this time. Let's just say it's not polite. He heaves a sigh. "Okay. Mike? Not Mike. Is Bar. Bar is... Aka..." He mimes walking with two fingers.

"Well...yeah, duh. I'm a shut in, don't mean I'm stupid. What the fuck are you supposed to be?"

This grin is subtly different from the usual one, it's less a smile and more a slight baring of teeth. He's not sure he likes Raph's tone.

"My name Stitch."

Stitch isn't alone there.
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?"

In response Stitch releases his hold on the ceiling, twisting in midair to land on all fours.

"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.~~

Oooookay. That...that was a thing.

"Ain't seen'er. If she's still him, that is. I take it Mike's still Poppin' Fresh?"

This news is met with a rather frustrated sigh. Still there are only so many places Bar could be hiding, right? It's not like this place leads to innumerable worlds or anything.

The question gets a nod even if Stitch doesn't get the reference.

Raph chuckles.

"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.

(deleted comment)

"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'."

Despite being slightly ~~spooked~~ concerned 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.

Raph shrugs in return. Not caring if the freakish blue thing stays or goes. He's got quiet and a whole crap load of magazines to get through.
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'."

"Emba-chua." Whatever, dude.

Stitch turns and scuttles towardthe door, nose close to the ground.

"Yeeeaaah, right back'atcha. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

Sheesh, weirdies.

Stitch grumbles a few choice words about the man's grandmother as the door closes.

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