"hhehhh… h'haaaahh.. hh'HeP'YEW! Ugh…mband…"

Totally disgusted with himself, Donatello blew his nose pitifully as he sanitized his makeshift sickbed on the couch for the fifty-seventh time that day. Figures he would get a cold: he knew he should've dressed warmly while he was working with that liquid nitrogen last night. But no; his carelessness led him to a rather destitute state. His nose was stuffy, his throat was sore, his skin was clammy and green (more than it usually was, that is), and to make matters worse… Don was a germaphobe. Not just a mild, washing-your-hands-before-every-meal germaphobe, either; but a crazed, near-hyperactive germaphobe whose nightmares consisted mainly of little, tiny, microscopic germs everywhere!

And now, here he was: his nightmare a full-on reality.

"Guh, this is awful," the purple clad turtle moaned stuffily.

"Chill out bro," Michelangelo insisted, placing a bowl of soup on the coffee table, "'S just a cold. You'll be good as new in no time!"

"-Ad udtil thed, Bikey, I'b reduced to a walkig, talkig, greed five-star germb hotel. An…. Bike, what is that?"

Staring down at the coffee table, Donatello struggled not to gag at the chunky, unappetizing bowl of wet slop that he was expected to ingest.

"What, that?" the orange clad turtle asked quizzically, "Oh! It's a new recipe. We ran outta soup, so I made my own with leftovers from the fridge. Don… prepare your stomach for: pizza soup! Tadaaaaaa!"

"Bikey," Donnie huffed with a cough, "Dothig cad prepare by stobach for… *gulp*… 'pizza soup'."

"Look—you wanna get better, don'cha?"

"Well, of course, but… buh…huh-hhooh, no… I, heh…I-I gotta sndeeze again…"

"So sneeze, bruh."

"W-with you right there?! N-no way! Th-the germs, th-they'll—"

"Aw crud, is the germ-Nazi at it again?" Raphael huffed as he entered the room with a hot water bottle for his ailing brother, "Don, they're everywhere: get over it!"

"Really, Donnie," Leonardo added, standing with his arms crossed by his hot-headed brother, "If anybody'd know that, it would be you."

"I—uhh, huhh… do knu—huhh—kn-know that! I ju-hhhuuuhh—just d-don't li—hhhiiii, hhhhHHHHHHiiiii'Schh-IIIUUUU! ….AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH"

With a scream, he was off. Frantically grabbing the aerosol can of disinfectant (his brothers watching him unfazed), Donatello wildly sprayed the elbow he just sneezed into—along with the rest of his body. Like a wild chicken with its head detached, Donnie danced his germaphobic jig: rubbing hand sanitizer on his hands and face… only to get it in—


As if he didn't look crazy enough, the purple clad turtle hopped madly in pain—rubbing his burning, brown eyes only for the stinging to increase. Watching the lunacy ensue, the three brothers stared blankly while their fatigued brother ran around the living room.


"Alright, that's enough." Raphael insisted, flinging the liquid from the hot water bottle onto his sick brother with a


Remaining still, the drenched purple-clad turtle stood there trying to process what had just happened.

"Raphael!" Leonardo scolded angrily.

"What?!" the red-clad turtle retorted, "He said he needed water so—"


Shaking his head ashamedly, Raphael cried, "Oh, for the love of—Donatello, si'down right now!"

But before he could plant himself on the couch, Donatello tripped over the dropped can of disinfectant and - SPLAT! – landed face-first into the bowl of pizza soup.

With audible gasps, Leonardo, Raphael, and Michelangelo stared at their frenzied brother… now completely motionless, with his face still emerged in the chowder-y substance. As the seconds passed, however, the sick human-turtle hybrid slowly rose from the bowl—his entire face goopy with cheesy, soggy mush; and two pepperoni slices where his eyes were located. Initially, the three brothers just stared at their purple-clad brother… until Michelangelo let out a huge snort.

"pppffff'Ahahahahahahaha!" the youngest brother laughed, grabbing his sides as tears of hilarity began to form in the corners of his blue eyes while his brothers joined in.

"Haaahhhaaaa! Ooo, man!" Leonardo chortled as he pointed to his brother in jest.

"Nice facial, Donnie," Raphael joked, "D-does it come in other toppings? B'heee-heee,hhaah!"

"hHHahh! G-good one, bro!" Mikey exclaimed through his laughter, fist-bumping his brother.

"H-hey guys," Leo called to the two giggling turtles, "Wh-who am I? 'AAAAAHHHHH! MY EYES!' HAHAHAHA!"

As Michelangelo and Raphael began roaring with laughter (eventually collapsing to the floor), Donatello continued to stand by placidly; Michelangelo's concoction still on his face. Wiping tears of amusement from their eyes and clearing their throats, the three heroes in half-shells faced their brother: lips still quivering with trapped laughter.

"Okay," Donatello spoke, wiping the pizza soup into his hand (his sinuses feeling quite clear from the steamy liquid that had been plastered across his face), "Maybe… maybe this whole 'germ-fear' is slightly… irrational."

"'Slightly', Don?" Leo questioned.

"Dude, forget germ-Nazi," Mikey insisted, "You're like germ-Hitler."

"Yeah, I know…" Donnie admitted, holding the goopy mess in his right hand while he wiped the remaining mess off with his left, "And I've gotta accept that… germs are everywhere. Some bad… some good... But one thing's for sure."

"Oh yeah? And what's that, braniac?" Raph scoffed.

"Well," the purple-clad turtle said slowly, "There are three germs that I'm never gonna get rid of—"

And with his right hand, he slammed the failed-pizza concoction into the face of—


And with his left, he sloshed the remaining goop onto—


Then, taking the near-empty (yet substantially filled) bowl of soup, Donatello dumped it upon the head of—

"And Michelangelo."

"You little — "Raphael fumed angrily, his face turning red beneath the pizza soup.

"What the—" Leonardo cried in disbelief, slinging the slop out of his eyes.

"GET'IM!" Michelangelo exclaimed as the bowl of soup poured onto his forehead.

With that, the three turtles charged at their not-so-sick brother. Not only was Donatello cured of his cold… but he was also Germaphobia-free.