I want to be clear that I meant your "beloved turtle," not "beloved pet turtle." Identifying and killing someone's pet turtle, while unsettling and emotionally crippling, is a fairly easy task. You enter their house, find the turtle tank, and murder the cute little fella. No, Disney isn't about to be so simple. Disney will kill the wild turtle at the pond near the park where you go sometimes. The one you really like because he's got a chunk taken out of his shell, but he just keeps on keeping on, and you respect that. You named him Michaelangelo, because of course you did, and you toss bread and Oatmeal Creampies to him on Wednesdays on your lunch break. Until you go back there one Wednesday and Michaelangelo isn't there. You look around, growing more and more frantic wondering where he can be and how long a turtle can hold his breath. But you already know, because Michaelangelo always came right over as soon as that first piece of Oatmeal Creampie hit the water. When you look up and see the small child in mouse ears staring at you from across the pond with black, soulless eyes, it's just confirmation of what you already knew. What you've always known. So you pack your things and head back to the office and wonder how they knew about Michaelangelo. How fucking long have they been watching you? Are they watching you right now?