TURBO-TASTIC!

@blastedroads said:  Well s'mine now.

“I do not care unless there is free food and drink, and music. You have those things, little gray boy?” 

It was a good thing Turbo looked before he leaped for once. If he had been more careless, he would have outright sat on the present that had sneaked its way into his kart’s seat. Though come to think of it, a pop of blue and gold stood out against his red and white go-kart like a sore thumb, so much that it had devoured his attention when he had spotted it in the dark. Brows furrowed, half in curiosity, half in skepticism because this was Azura - One of his rivals, a resident prankster that constantly tried to pull the rug from under his feet - So who knew what it could’ve been.

The gift inside wasn’t what he was expecting: He had expected a stink bomb or something along those lines. Furrowed brow raising, he sniffed the cupcake, glowing eyes examining the toy kart and Lego figure, a grin breaking out on his grey face–Only widening as he speedily read the card.

“ Pffffthehe, ” Taking a chomp of the cupcake, he hummed at the chocolatey delight. “ Maybe she ain’t such a total lame-o. ”

@blastedroads​ || Birthday Wishes.

     It’s his birthday. And it’s nearly over.          Get’a move on, ‘nilla! Move your molasses or you’ll miss your chance!

It was practically common sense & knowledge that Turbo was the last person on the face of the earth that deserved a present – even one of the birthday kind. Still, it was a special day for him and despite his ego that never ceased it’s inflation or attitude that was at a constant sky high level, he was still her rival – her best friend ʰᵒʷ ʰᵃᵈ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ʰᵃᵖᵖᵉᶰ˒ ᵃᵍᵃᶤᶰˀ – that deserved to know his existence mattered. 

Why was she hesitating, then? It really wasn’t a big deal; just walk up and give the flat tire a chummy birthday wish and hand him his gift. It was that simple! Yet here Von Schweetz stood, hazel orbs peering down at the white knuckles that belonged to a pair of hands which held a small, decorative and semi-transparent bag of homemade cherry vanilla chip cookies in a vice-like grip. Suck it up, butterscotch, she scolded herself, if he doesn’t like them, then oh well. At least you tried an’ the lugnut got a gift.                                ᶤ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ʰᵉ ˡᶤᵏᵉˢ ᵗʰᵉᵐ.

Spotting him was easy enough; c’mon, the red and white jacket always stood out like a neon sign above a gas station that flickered with the threat of blowing it’s fuse in the middle of the night. Approaching him from behind after a deep breath and having set her mind into a rather determined mode, the ravenette stopped a few feet behind the other. As she got closer; however, doubt and question rippled through her which was quickly crumbling her confidence. Casting her gaze aside, she clears her throat softly. Avoiding eye contact seemed best, for it kept her nerves at bay and felt like the best wall of defense in case he opted for the Laughing At response. Dropping one hand to her side, she suddenly held the bag out to him–it’s thin plastic material crinkling as it swayed in her grasp due to the sudden movement. It was there that she held it out, waiting for him to take it. What bothered her more than anything at the moment, though? Was she not understanding why her stomach was in such a knot over such a small gift given to a friend.

              ❝ Happy Birthday, Case.  ❞

Her huffy and serious front faltered a pinch; though, when she glanced at him. Hope allowed itself some light in the situation and a small smile graced Penelope’s lips.

His own birthday was quite possibly Turbo’s favorite day of the year. While he knew that he could command attention--Although through brattier means rather than charming ones, though he would always insist it was the latter--When he had craved it hungrily, his day of birth was a special exception. It was a day where people just couldn’t ignore him: Where he could happily drown in a sea of people’s attention and adoration until he had his fill, seeing as it was only socially acceptable. A loophole for one as greedy and self-centered as he, it seemed, and it fed his unnecessarily large ego.

It was good. Too good, from an outsiders perspective, but Turbo always believed that he had rightfully deserved this kind of focus each and every day. To have the world at his feet, showering him in praise and their time. While despite not really deserving it, even the tiniest shred of acknowledgement fed into his arrogant streak. Some had greeted him with simple well wishes, while others had devoted time and effort out of their days to talk to him, or buy him a gift or two. Everything had been met with his disgusting amount of pride and a smirk only a bastard like him could wear, feeling fluffed and like a king that he believed himself to be.

Though one person had been missing from the swarm that had come his way. A certain fellow racer, one that he guessed he could call his best friend--Though not to her face. Something about it had bothered him and left a crease in his brow, an impatient twitch running through his nerves as the back of his mind pondered: Surely there was no way she could ignore him. Come on, how could she? Turbo was irresistible, magnetic, people were always drawn to him. Nobody could forget about him or ignore him. Not today, and not any day.

He’d do everything in his power to assure that, no less.

Tyme’s hand jiggled with his car keys, having thrown countless gifts and doodads into his car’s trunk, fumbling for the lock as he hummed to himself (Some trashy 80′s metal tune, surely), pausing as he heard a throat expel a frog from behind. Quirking a brow, he quickly spun around on his heel (Literally), that familiar grin settling on his features as golden eyes took in the sight. So she had remembered after all -- That was a nice feeling. But--That was schmaltzy: Of course he was right! Everybody loved him after all, and there was no way in Hell that someone, especially Penelope of all people, could resist a moment of his self-proclaimed glorious attention. Glancing briefly at the cookies that had been offered to him, a snicker leaves his raspy chords.

Deep down, something made him pause. ‘Happy birthday, Case.’ Case. Casey. Turbo hated that name, hated all it stood for, hated who it represented--Some scrappy kid from a shitty apartment with shitty parents and shitty brothers. Fuck that, he was Turbo. Anyone who had dared to call him Casey would have him verbally barking at them and a fist threatened to be shoved down their throats until they referred to him by his actual name. Strangely, the biting, scathing, ferocious remarks weren’t there to tear Penelope apart. There was something ... Different about it. Something he couldn’t quite explain.

“ Weeeeeell, whadd’a ya know: Looks like the caboose a’the track’s comin’ in last place! Ain’t that a surprise, y’should change yer name ta’Latey The Twelfth! ” Despite how cocky and mean-spirited it was, this was their banter that they had built up, the tone playful. Taking a rough swipe at the bag, he brings it close, examining it with scrutiny. Cookies, huh?

“ 'Bout time ya forked over the winner’s spoils! ” Carefully unraveling it, one ankle hooks over the other, a converse-clad foot bouncing impatiently. It was no secret that Tyme had a relentless sweet tooth: One so bad that he could be compared to a child in a candy store. He was a dentist’s walking, talking nightmare: If someone had even an ounce of sweets, the man would demand a cut of it, if not all of it, and would scramble until he got as he desired, unable to help himself. Cookies were no different, and the sweet, bakery scent that seeped out once the bag opened left him drooling.

Fishing one out, he sniffed it curiously, tongue peeking out from his lips. They smelled like -- Cherry? But also .. Sweeter than that. A scent he couldn’t place immediately, but still made him feel at ease. Taking a large, gluttonous bite, a mish-mash of flavors settled over his taste buds of vanilla and cherry and chewy goodness. She -- Actually remembered? Blinking, a pleased hum rolls out of him, a subconscious smile on his lips as he took another large bite, a laugh--This time, not so harsh--Escaping him.

“ Where the heck did’ja get these bad boys?! They’re freakin’ Turbo-TASTIC! ”

“My racin’ AI makes sure that if you get too close to me in that tiny arena… that you pay for it. Badly. My hammer versus your dinky little car is no contest. You’d get crushed in a couple hits – probably just three, in fact!”

Yeah yeah, happiest birthday in this joint, spaghetti-o’s.

when would you be available to do that ?

“Kirby Air Ride. But I ain’t there to race, nah.”

“See, Turbo, when the king gets on his Wheelie Custom, there’s only one thing it means…”

“IT MEANS KING DEDEDE’S READY TO BREAK SOME KARTS!”

“Well when you stake your entire identity on something you can’t even do well…”

“It’s real hard to take someone like you seriously.”

blastedroads replied to your post: “Turbo may not look like a three-year-old but he…

Ya wanna say that ta'my FACE, frostbite.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you know how to talk, since racin’s all you were ever programmed for. I mean, you sure didn’t get good comebacks programmed into ya!”

You’re right, I don’t got the nads. But I do got the guts though. *reverses the axe and hits his face with the blunt end, not enough to actually hurt him though*

[ YIKES. It may not actually hurt, but it still hurts as much as metal slamming into one’s face does. Stumbling and swearing under his breath, he holds his face in his hands, glaring. ]

How old are you now anyway? 3 years old or something?

re: five years of wrecking

Happy Birthday you terrible Gremlin