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“Pops, why did I just get a call about you breaking into a zoo enclosure for turtles.”
Butch yelled over from the couch, “Ask if his eyesight’s going. His girlfriend’s in the mammal section.”
Somehow this got a chuckle out of Boomer. Brick rolled his eyes, resting his back on the kitchen’s counter away from his brothers.
“Well firstly Brick the facts you have presented are inaccurate. So as to say they are being presented in an untruthful manner which casts an unnecessary amount of negative light upon the-“
“Pops.”
“They were tortoises. Not turtles. And only after paying my 15 dollar entrance fee, a price which I find to be extortionate mind you, did I seek to get a closer look at the specimen by bypassing the glass pane which obstructed my vision.”
“And why was this necessary?”
Silence. A cough. “Do you know that a tortoise’s average metabolic rate at rest is 25 to 30 times that of a hare with an equivalent weight at a consistently average bodily temperature of 20 degrees celsius, or 68 degree fahrenheit? This difference is equivalent to the difference between famous astronaut Lance Armstrong at rest, versus when he is full speed pedaling a bike uphill. This difference in metabolic rate is believed to-”
Brick rubbed at the bridge of his nose as Mojo continued rambling. “How is any of this relevant to the story?”
He heard a slight huff on the other end. “If you would let me continue, I could reach the conclusion of my tale which would properly assuage any doubts about my character or intentions, and create a proper retelling in your mind’s eye about the events that transpired to lead me to my current predicament.” Mojo finished with his retort with another cough. Brick winced a bit.
When Brick didn’t begin speaking, Mojo began again.
“Now, as I was saying. If Lance Armstrong were to be in a full form of exertion on a bicycle uphill, it would replicate the difference between the resting metabolic rates of an otherwise equal tortoise and hare. The metabolic rate is believed to be tied to the body’s production of free radicals, with a lower metabolic rate resulting in fewer free radicals within the body, and a higher metabolic-”
Brick let out an audible sigh, fearing that if he rolled his eyes anymore they might get stuck. He shot a glare at his brother’s as they silently laughed at his plight, having to deal with Mojo’s drama. “Okay, clearly this conversation is going nowhere, you can bail your-”
“Son.”
Brick stilled. Even though they’d established the need to be their own people and not operating according to Brick and his opinions anymore, the other Rowdyruffs tensed at the boss’s sudden shift. Brick and his brother’s were on good terms with Mojo now. They even called him what could be considered terms of endearment with “pops,” “old-monkey”, and he called them his children every now and then (usually when he needed something or was drunk with “Barbs” at the bar).
But he’d never addressed any of them as “son” before.
A third cough. “I believe this would be a time to utilize the “speaker” function on your phone, so that I am then able to project what I am about to say to everyone present, which I assume to be you and your brothers.”
Slowly, Brick brought himself to the living room with his brothers, leaning on the TV stand after placing the phone on the coffee table.
*Click*
“You’re on. Boomer and Butch are here.” All the boys attention fully gathered.
A sigh. “My sons. Do you remember the day you boys fled from the grasp of that despicable vermin Him?”
Both Boomer and Butch nodded, waiting for Brick to speak. “Yeah. Pretty hard to forget.”
“Do you remember the date of that day?”
A pair of eyes turned to Boomer. “Uh yeah. April 7th, 2006. It was uh,” Boomer met Brick’s eyes. “It was our 12th birthday.”
“You knew that was your birthday?”
Boomer shook his head before remembering Mojo wasn’t there. “No, I figured out the date a few years ago. Bubbles um, helped me find the date we were born, and I found a newspaper about the day we left. Him’s monsters that day were pretty brutal, so it wasn’t that hard to find.”
“Well done.”
Brick could almost picture the monkey nodding his head sagely, like he was proud of Boomer’s accomplishment.
Butch looked between his brothers, silently asking if either had a clue what this was about. Clearly, the topic had left tortoises and zoo enclosures far behind.
“I never told anyone of the day you were first created. It appeared trivial at best, and I doubted the relevance it could have to create young supervillains. And that tutu-wearing lobster never cared about the date of your resurrection, nor birth. So as a marsupial myself, I’d never celebrated my own birthday, and assumed you would follow in my footsteps. But now…
…I believe I find myself sad at this notion.”
“Hey old monkey,” Butch’s confusion-laden voice broke the ensuing silence. “What’s this about?”
Mojo’s chuckles could be heard through the phone, as could the slight coughing fit that ended them. “Oh Butch, always one to be quick to the point. A strong character trait of yours. I quite enjoy it.”
“The date of your birth was April 7th, 1999. The date of my own birth was July 15th, 1970.”
Boomer’s brows furrowed. “That’s in like..just under a month. Is this your way of saying you wanted to invite us to your 50th?”
Another low chuckle broken by coughs. “In a way my boy. I did intend to invite you, but not just yet. However, the situation has…changed. In just a few weeks time, I will be turning 50 years old. But my metabolic rate, just like the hare’s, is much more than that of a tortoise’s. The free radicals in my system are greatly exceeding what my body is capable of withstanding, even with the aid of both human and my own personally designed antioxidants to attempt to negate this.”
For the first time since he’d escaped literal hell, the Bludgeoner, a real life human torch, the embodiment of fire itself, felt the cold begin to seep in again.
Butch looked like he’d just gotten punched in the gut, and Boomer sat perfectly still. Both of their eyes screaming at Brick.
Do something. Help us. Make it better.
‘Be the big brother.’
Brick swallowed before finding his voice. “Pops, are you saying…”
Brick’s body temperature rose to fight the icicle stabbing through his stomach. Butch inhaled sharply, the faint glow around his body not enough to shield him from the gut punch. Boomer’s hair began to rise as small jolts of electricity jumped from his fingertips.
The fit ended, and a final, defeated sigh came through the phone. “The average age of a hare is anywhere between 1 to 5 years. A tortoise, 80 to a grand 150. A human, between 70 to 80. But a chimpanzee, a mere 32 to 39 years.”
“I am happy to be reaching 50. And my first and final birthday wish is to finally celebrate the day of my birth with my lovely sons.”