Margarita on the Half-Shell

A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fanfic by Myst Knight


Disclaimer: TMNT is owned by Mirage and various other groups. I write this without consent, and am making no money off of it.

WARNING FOR FLAMERS: This story has strong implications of sex between a human and a mutant turtle. If the thought of such a thing is intolerable, for heavens sake, don't read any further! I'm been having some trouble lately with people who just don't approve of my offbeat ideas. If people continue to proceed despite strong warnings, I don't think I should take all the responsibility.

This story is dedicated to fans of classic TMNT, cool-but-rude Raph, old-school Shredder, and our favorite romantic receptionist, Irma.


The sunlight broke through the early morning smog that hovered just above the skyscrapers of New York City, piercing downwards in a series of golden spires fit for a Renaissance artist's landscape. The never-sleeping-city was already lively and bustling, with street vendors selling their wares to passerbys, and the odd shoplifter running from an angry shopkeep. At a modest housing complex in the better side of town, in an open fifth floor window, the wind blew the draperies softly like a scene in an animated movie. It seems the waking hour was encouraging all to get into gear and greet the oncoming day, no matter how much of an energetic night they had.

In the small bedroom on the single bed, the covers were rummaging slightly with the petite, little woman stirring beneath them. Irma was just starting to awaken, and was still a bit out of it. She had gone to sleep with her traditional ponytail still up, so her hair has a tangled, messy quality about it. But the pile of brushes, hair spray canisters, and coffee cluttered at the kitchenette insured that the bacholerette would be well prepped and fueled for another harrowing day as office girl.

The brass-bell alarm clock started ringing on the nightstand beside the bed, as if in sync with its waking owner. A slim hand clumsily reached out to turn it off, knocking it onto the floor in the process; Irma was not a morning person. Searching just to the side where the alarm formally stood, the young woman grabbed a pair of pink glasses and placed the hooks just behind her ears, squinting a few times to get used to the new focus. She groaned groggily, taking in a heavy breath of the flowered fragrance wafting in the open window in a vain attempt to refresh herself.

"Gosh, does anyone know the company that runs the subway that hit me?" Irma groaned, still practically half-asleep. "I'd like to give them a piece of my mind! Oooh...!" A sharp throbbing erupted in her head, and she grabbed the sides of her skull in pain, trying to shake off whatever was giving her the shakes this morning. When the throbbing subsided, she sighed loudly and flopped back down onto the pillow. She stared at the ceiling fan, almost hypnotized by its whirling blades, and tried to get her thoughts in order and figure out why last night's events were so hazy.

Despite her head traumas, she felt surprisingly rejuvenated this morning. It was the same kind of honest energy that came from a hard day's work and a good night's sleep. It made for an awkward amalgam of strength and fraility, but she was willing to run with it. In fact, with a good breakfast of cold cereal and toast, she felt she could take on the world.

"Maybe I should take the 10:35 more often?" Irma pondered to herself, putting a finger to her right dimple. Her mouth erupted into an enthusiastic smile, eyes shining behind their frames. "Hey, I bet I can even get that promotion today!" With a renewed sense of confidence and pep, she bounced on the bed slightly, already plotting how she could use her advancing career to get close to the handsome stud in the executive's lounge. Because while a job was important, a girl had to have her priorities.

She was only able to giggle about this a moment more when she felt the weight on the bed shift to the other side, electing a small gasp from her. Her eyes goggled nearly out of her head as she spied a large, moving lump in the sheets right next to her. Someone was in here with her. Her heart started pounding rapidly, stories of young damsels awakening with open mouths and slit throats running through her head like a child's looping train set.

Reaching back behind her for her trusty frying pan, she slowly leaned forward over the lump in the sheets. Whomever was under there hadn't seemed to notice her; he seemed just as lethargic as she had been a scant five minutes ago. Tentatively, she gathered up the top of the bedspread in her hand, sucking in a large breath between her teeth. Then, she whisked in up in own swift motion and brought her frying pan up to bear, ready to treat this unsavory man to a dose of seasoned punishment.

Irma was certainly surprised to find that what awaited her under the covers was not a man at all, so to speak. Instead, she found a large, humanoid turtle, one of the esteemed Ninja Turtles in fact, wearing a belt, arm and knee guards, and a purple headband to cover his eyes. "Donatello?" she said, recognizing him on sight. She let out a laugh. "Oh, what a relief!"

Then, her mind suddenly clicked. "Donatello, here?..." she murmured, a sickening feeling of dread crawling from the pit of her stomach. She slowly looked down at herself, and found she was wearing even less than her green companion; nothing at all, in fact. Though her memory of last night was already starting to trickle in, it didn't take a techno-genius turtle to figure out what had happened.

In times like this, there was only one thing to do:

Freak the hell out.

"Aieeeeeee!"


The whole thing started off as an act of good-will on Donatello's part. He heard from April that Irma had been having a hard time as of late, and was often moody and depressed at the office. Yesterday, a quick phone call revealed that Irma had never arrived at home, and April was worried about her touring the streets of NYC in her condition. Though the turtles and Irma were not really close, a request from the hip young reporter demanded action from all those who sought honor, and Donatello answered the call.

When at last he found her, it was around the time of night the turtles usually went patrolling in the Party Wagon. Irma had turned up at a bar primarily for forty-year-olds looking for a good time, surrounded by empty margarita glasses. Her heavy lidded-eyes indicated she was halfway in the bag, as did the streamer of lime-flavored drool leaking from the side of her lip. She hi-cupped twice loudly, a bubble of fruity alcohol floating slowly from her mouth and bursting a moment later in the musty air of the seedy joint.

"Hey, Mr, Bartender," she burbled to the proprietor. "Can I have two more of these green, slushy things?"

The bartender cocked an eyebrow at the intoxicated young woman. "Don't you think you've had enough, little missy? he asked with a disapproving frown.

"I'm not a child," she insisted somewhat loudly, causing a few patrons to look at her in drunken curiosity. "I can (hic) handle it."

He shrugged. "Whatever," the man replied, going back to the rack to mix up another drink. "Just call a cab when you're all done here."

Standing at the doorway, Donatello sweated nervously at Irma continued to put it away even after receiving her sixth drink. This was not good. Irma wasn't even in the condition to call that cab, was barely in the condition to even walk out the door. At this rate, she could be taken advantage of by any number of unsavory individuals, with her man-hungry ways no doubt furthering them along. He had to get her out of here, and the sooner, the better.

Clad in his tan overcoat and fedora, he nudged his way past a few old men playing cards to get to her stool. "Irma?" he ventured slowly, hoping that he could even get her attention, as drunk as she was.

"Who's that?" Irma slurred, looking around hazily for the speaker. "Is that you, Uncle Henry?"

"Irma, it's me, Donatello," he said, trying to make his voice as clear as possible. "April asked me to find you. She said that you were having some trouble."

"Who's having trouble, Unky?" she responded, lifting the glass to her lips once again. "I've never felt better!" With a loud hurking sound, she spat up a sizable amount of margarita onto the worn, wooden bar. She stared at the congealing liquid for a moment before bursting into teary laughter, as if her sickened behavior was somehow comical as self-parody.

Donatello's face soured. "Ah geez, Irma, you're totally smashed!" he said, getting frustrated. "It's Donatello. You know, green skin, genius I.Q.? C'mon, let's get you back to your apartment." He reached out to grab her arm and pull her off the stool.

Irma shook the offending appendage off. "I don't care if you're President Reagan!" she gurbled, taking up a defensive posture. "I'm not moving!"

Donatello reared back, shocked by her stubbornness. "Irma, why are you doing this?" he asked slowly, trying to reason with her as best he could. "What are you gonna gain by sticking around this dump?"

Her response was swift and unabashed. "Boyfriend (hic) material." She took another sip of her margarita, miraculously managing to keep it down this time. "Only the drunken, deadbeat losers hit on me! So that's why I'm here! To get (hic) hit on!"

At this new information, the purple-banded turtle was left at a loss for words. "Irma, I...well, uh, it can't be that bad, can it?" he tried, feeling like his query was going to come up with a big negative.

"Uh huh!" Irma exclaimed, slamming her glass down on the bar. "I haven't had a date in two months! I hit every singles bar I could find! Nobody was interested in me, except that one woman when I accidentally went into that lesbian club!"

Twitching slightly at this odd confession, Donatello waited out the brief pause in dialogue as she took another sip of her umpteenth margarita. "So now, I'm just going for the common, everyday man," she continued, a sense of finality in her voice. "No more studs and hotties for me! Hey, I'll even take a (hic) tattoo artist if he's interested!" She slumped down on the bar in defeat, nearly knocking down her glass in the process.

Donatello looked down at the miserable woman, and started to fill a little miserable himself. As goofy as she could be, he had never seen the usually vibrant Irma so down in the dumps like this. She had experienced ups and downs with the dating game before, but it had never come to this: offering herself up to the lowest common denominators (and actually knowing they were the lowest common denominators). Her sorrow was infectious, and his heart flew to her.

Scooting onto the seat beside her, he put a three-fingered hand on her shoulder. "Come on, you don't have to lower your standards like this," he told her gently, putting as much comfort into his words as he could. "You're a very nice looking woman!"

"Really?" Irma looked up at him with wide eyes, like a child in need of convincing that she wasn't the worst softball player on the team.

He couldn't say no to eyes like those. "Sure!" he said with false enthusiasm, favoring her with a weak smile. "I mean, you're nice, and funny, and...er...you have really cute brown hair!" Though the last part came out somewhat weak, Donatello was determined to finish up strong. "Anyone would be lucky to have you!"

At that, Irma's eyes widened for a moment, the statement slurging its way through her scrambled brain. Then, the eyes narrowed into lazy slits, like a lioness spying an easy catch. "Anyone...like you, handsome?" she inquired, a sacked sexiness in her voice.

"Yeah...w-what?" Donatello did a double-take at the amorous office girl, subconsciously wrenching away from her. The look in her eyes was not unlike those in the eyes of Rocksteady and Bebop, a look that clearly said: 'I'm dumb, and full of trouble.'

"Come on, you...off-colored stud," she crooned, putting her own arm around the turtle's fat neck. "Tell me more about my brown cute hair, and I'll tell you more about...your features." She took a glance at his crotch, and started raising her eyebrows suggestively.

The reptile man was starting to panic now. Gizmos and gadgets were his forte, not drunken women. "Irma, this isn't like you," he said, pulling away as far as he could while still remaining on his stool. "You don't know what you're saying!"

Irma suddenly went into puppy-dog mode again. "You mean you don't think I'm nice and funny after all?" she whimpered, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Donatello froze up to her pleading expression. "Well, um..." he babbled, his mind wracked with finding a solution to this dilemma. A genius he may have been, but he had nothing.

She took his indecisiveness as a sign of apology. "Great!" she cheered, then turned to call the barkeep. "Hey Mr. Bartender! Two more for my friend here."

"You sure he outta be drinkin'?" the bartender asked, looking at the turtle sceptically. "He looks kinda green around the gills."

"It's alright," she assured him. "He's a giant, mutant turtle, you know."

The bartender shook his head with disdain at the slovenly lady, then walked off to get more top-shelf booze. And Donatello was at a loss for what to do. He was effectively trapped at the bar until he could convince Irma to come along with him. "Well, at least she doesn't think I'm her uncle anymore," he muttered to herself, looking with trepidation at the dizzy dame.

The bartender arrived with the drinks, and Irma immediately offered one to him. "Alright, bottoms up!" she said, thrusting it right in front of his face.

Donatello stared with mild worry at the alcoholic beverage in front of him. He had never drunken anything stronger then coffee, and that was only for keeping him working late nights. But if it'll make Irma happy... he reminded himself, slowing taking the glass from the woman's outstretched hand. He ventured a sip, letting the crisp flavor spread over his large tongue. This will probably go well with pizza...

Six drinks and a drunken turtle later, the rest was history.


Back in the present, Irma was busy hurling any object not tied down at the teen turtle. "You green-skinned barbarian!" she shrieked, holding a towel in front of her body with one hand, and a pawn-shop vase in the other. "You scaly scoundrel!" she continued, throwing the object on a collision course with his head, which he was just able to dodge. "Defiler! Perv! You...water imp!" A fashion magazine, a pillow, and a ceramic duck all found themselves flying in the general direction of Donatello, who was scrambling faster and faster to keep up with the impromptu projectiles.

"Now, let's just calm down now," he tried, suddenly jerking to the side to avoid a desk lamp. "I mean, it was an accident, right?"

"Do you know what this is going to do to my appeal!" she hollered, grabbing a handful of newspapers and flinging them at him. "I won't even be able to get a date with a truck-stop jerk! They can smell 'turtle' on you a mile away! I'm ruined for life!"

"Ruined for life?" The turtle was goggling at the insulting implication of her words. "Now hold on a second, Irma...!"

"And not to mention my career!" Irma stopped tossing debris long enough to throw her hands up in exasperation. "Channel 6 wouldn't just fire me if they found out, they'd make me their top story! I'll be front page of the National Enquirer within a week! 'Crazy Office Girl Shacks Up with Amorous Amphibian!'"

"No one's going to find out!" he insisted, desperately trying to get through to her. "I'm sure this was just a one-time thing!"

"You bet it was!" she roared, turning on her heel and heading over to the kitchen sink, clasped the edge of it. "Because I don't want to see you or your friends within ten feet of me ever again!" With a herculean effort, she wretched it clear out of the cabinet, making Donatello's eyes goggle at the secretary-turned-superwoman. "You...teenage...mutant...ninja...TURTLE!" Deciding that was the worst insult she could come up with, she hurled the sink straight at him like a cyclops hurling a boulder, knocking him straight out the open window and into the dumpster below.

Surrounded by mounds of trash, Donatello looked up wearily towards the fifth story window, trying to make sense of this whole crazy situation. Then, he grabbed onto his head, and groaned loudly. "Man, I've got a hangover..." he muttered, trying to shake off the effects of the alcohol.

He konked out shortly thereafter, as Irma started to scrub her body with a scour in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the scent of turtle.


When Irma arrived at the Channel Six building ten minutes late, she didn't head over to her desk. She didn't stop at Burne Thompson's office to apologize, or even at the snack vendor for a cheap pastry. She went right for April O'Neal's office and grabbed the reporter by the front of her yellow jumpsuit. "April, help!" she cried, nearly strangling her with the intense grip she had on the other woman's apparel. "I just had sex with a mutant turtle!"

"W-What...?" April stammered, trying to make sense out of what she said. "You..."

It took only a few minutes for Irma to blurt out the entire story to her best friend, with lots of strong gestures and exaggerating throughout the explanation. When at last she was done, April adopted a sort of angry-matron expression. "Irma, how could you!" she reprimanded, shocked and appalled. "Taking advantage of a poor turtle like that!"

"I don't know how it happened!" she protested, waving her arms frantically. "I was lonely and drunk!" Then, she blinked, an oddity in April's question making itself known to her. "Wait, why aren't you grossed out that I did it with a talking reptile?" she asked, curiosity overtaking the panic flooding her system.

"Oh that?" April's eyes were wide, honestly shocked. "Well, I guess I've just spent so much time around the guys, that I don't give the idea of human/turtle relationships much thought," she decided, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.

"Aprilllll!" Irma wailed like a petulant child. She couldn't believe what she was hearing!

"Oh, come on, why are YOU so grossed out?" April countered, as if Irma was the one who had lost her mind. "I mean, for heaven's sake, Irma, you date robots!"

"That's different!" the mousy woman insisted, folding her arms. "Rex was a stud!" Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a photo featuring a beefy-looking robot in uniform. "Oh Rex! Why did you have to take that construction job in Ohio?" Irma's eyes watered over with unshed tears.

April sighed, and laid a hand on Irma's shoulder. "Don't worry," she comforted her. "This will all come to pass, you'll see. You'll be back to your old self in no time, and you'll practically forget all about this."

Irma wasn't convinced, and continued to stare at the picture of Rex. "How can I forget about making love to a turtle?" she asked in disbelief. "I know I'll never forget about making love to a robot."

April sweated. "I...don't think I needed to hear that, Irma," she said in between clenched teeth.


Next- Part 2 of "Margarita on the Half-Shell"