The scent of rotted pig flesh assailed my nostrils, but I only inhaled deeper. The putrid aroma, commonplace on our farm, was one of my favorite things—along with watching the soupy sacks of greenish hog carcass splatter across the rock pile beside the creek when we hauled them there for disposal.

Still, everything paled in comparison to Saturday morning cartoons. Those I simply couldn’t live without, though I’d found ways to cope ever since our reception went fuzzy two weeks ago.

I spied my masticating, wriggling enemies and narrowed my eyes. “Farewell, Turtles,” I squeaked in my best prepubescent rendition of Krang’s voice. “You’re about to be flushed.”

I aimed my bottle of Conklin Care soap and water mixture and squeezed the trigger. A stream jettisoned out and struck the intended targets. I cackled like the brain-like villain I was portraying and shot again.