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Coco Jumbo was not pleased.
Yes, his suite was warm where it should be and shady where it should be. Yes, his soaking dish was clean and ready for Coco Jumbo to slide in. And yes, his beloved running wheel was clear of anything that would DARE jam it. Yet, he was angry.
As a member of the highest ranking and, in his humble and correct opinion, the greatest team in Passione, Coco Jumbo knows his life isn’t all heated rocks and artistically cut strawberries. When he’s on a mission, he’s ready to put everything on the line to keep his famiglia safe. He knows the importance of a good hidey hole, and Coco Jumbo will get into the dirt and grime to fulfill his role on the team. He loves his humans. They give him food, built him this amazing suite, and, most importantly, have NEVER stolen Mr. President. (The old don can rot for that.) Coco Jumbo would face any injustice and discomfort if it meant getting everyone home safe.
This sensibility begins and ends with a mission. When Coco Jumbo is on standby, he has a certain standard of expectations for his treatment. And when these are not met, Coco Jumbo feels entitled to a certain amount of wrath.
Case and point, he, Narancia, Abbacchio, and Fugo just returned from a long reconnaissance mission. Things had admittedly gone a bit south over the last few days, so it was Coco Jumbo’s responsibility to keep his humans safe and hidden within Mr. President. One storm and a daring escape to prevent the discovery of Passione’s espionage later, the four walked through the doors, caked in enough dirt and mud make a new flowerbed for the garden. Narancia deposited Coco Jumbo in his suite before running upstairs with the others.
Now, for the most part, Coco Jumbo was able clean himself. Getting dirt off his shell was nothing, and Mr. President repelled grime of all sorts. He thought that he was fine to relax the day away alternating between his soaking dish and warm rock. Once he got settled, Coco Jumbo noticed something off. Something terrible.
Something was making his shell itchy.
For most turtles, this wouldn’t be an earth-shattering issue. They would find something to rub their shell against, and the irritation would be taken care of. However, Coco Jumbo was not the average land turtle. He was advanced in many ways because of his Stand, but there was one severe limitation that Mr. President created. Coco Jumbo could not properly clean and scratch the indentation in the middle of his shell. Some turtles might be humiliated by the need to be dependent on others for such basic tasks, but Coco Jumbo didn’t mind this. His team constantly supported each other so they may overcome their limitations. Why should Coco Jumbo be any different?
However, it was a little tricky to overcome his limitations when NO ONE WAS PAYING ATTENTION TO HIM!
Coco Jumbo angrily scratched at the wire that separated his suite from the rest of the villa. Despite his valiant efforts, no one came to his rescue. It must’ve been five—no SIX!—hours before one of his so-called teammates walked by. Mista was talking to his Stands as he walked through the living room to get to the kitchen. One of the Pistols pointed a hand in Coco Jumbo’s direction, drawing Mista’s attention to his smaller teammate.
Mista decided to test his patience by yelling over his shoulder instead of immediately coming to Coco Jumbo’s aid. “Hey! Anyone feed Coco Jumbo?”
“It’s been forty-five minutes!” Although Coco Jumbo can’t see Fugo shouting, he would recognize the vibrations that Mr. President picked up anywhere. “If none of you guys fed him, when would we have had the time?”
“Well, he’s pissed about it!”
NO! Well, yes, he was quite hungry. But focus, Mista! Focus!
“Then go feed him! You know where everything is!”
“You think the Pistols aren’t going to eat his food again? I need someone to run interference!”
“Will you two shut up?!” Abbacchio shouted, smacking Mista upside the head as he walked past him to open the door to Coco Jumbo’s suite. “I’ll feed the fucking turtle.”
Despite his growl, Abbacchio’s grip was gentle as he moved Coco Jumbo to the kitchen. When Abbacchio set him on the table and started gathering his food, Coco Jumbo was able to get a good look at his face and felt a bit bad for disturbing him. Behind his wet hair, his coloration had faded, which only happened when Abbacchio was tired. Regardless of this exhaustion, Abbacchio gathered assorted plants and started cutting them into smaller pieces.
On the opposite side of the table, Mista was feeding the Sex Pistols. Coco Jumbo was torn. He desperately wanted relief, but he never wanted to risk angering the six little Stands. They were some of his greatest defenders against birds when Coco Jumbo was brought into the meticulously maintained back yard. In the end, Coco Jumbo started twisting his body this way and that, doing that he could to communicate with the dense humans.
“All right! Coco Jumbo is jammin’!”
Coco Jumbo couldn’t help but extend his neck far away from his shell and stare daggers at Narancia. If Coco Jumbo was a shallower turtle, he would assume that Narancia was making fun of his misfortune by imitating his shimmying. However, Narancia has also unleashed Aerosmith against someone who cracked his shell, so he knew that Narancia had strong opinions about Coco Jumbo's wellbeing. Unfortunately, this meant that Narancia’s only crime was being a fool, and that wasn't enough to earn a bite to the fingers. A hiss would suffice.
“Woah!” Narancia jumped back at the noise, only to crouch down and look Coco Jumbo in the eye. “What’s wrong little guy?” It took a few more shakes of his shell before Narancia paid attention to his back. “Is something up with Mr. President?”
He took the key from Coco Jumbo’s back and started turning it over in his hands. The room became significantly more muted without Mr. President to pick up on the vibrations. He gravitated toward Abbacchio, whose low, resonant voice felt the best when Coco Jumbo was separated from his Stand. Using his head, Coco Jumbo lifted Abbacchio’s resting hand and buried himself under its warmth. Absentmindedly, Abbacchio’s short nails began scratching at Coco Jumbo’s shell, but they stopped when he reached Mr. President’s divot. He lifted his hand to his face, inspecting his fingertips, before poking his head out of the kitchen and shouting.
Not too long after Abbacchio returned to preparing Coco Jumbo’s food, the remaining members of the team, sans the absent Trish, walked into the kitchen. Giorno walked over, holding the soft little brush his friends use when they clean Coco Jumbo’s shell. While the others moved about the kitchen to get food for themselves, Giorno took Coco Jumbo and set him next to the sink. After wetting the brush, Giono gently started scrubbing the dirt that tried to find shelter beneath Mr. President. Coco Jumbo could not begin to describe the relief he felt at the irritation being wiped away. He moved back and forth, helping Giorno find all the itchy problem spots.
When they were satisfied with the shell’s cleanliness, Giorno replaced Mr. President in Coco Jumbo’s shell, leaning away to not get absorbed into the room.
“There we go. Are you feeling better?” Coco Jumbo stretched his neck out and bobbed his head, a motion that he knew his humans interpreted as affirmation.
Giorno smiled and picked up Coco Jumbo and set him next to the pile of prepared food. “I’m glad. Just in time for dinner, too.”
Coco Jumbo was pleased.