Turtle had been given a name long ago, way before he had his own t.v. show. A nice kid named Benjamin had picked him up out of a department store tank and said, “You’re on of us- a Franklin.”

After Benjamin had grown too busy to take care of a pet turtle, Franklin escaped and headed to the big city. Stuck in a terrarium, he’d watched t.v. all day and figured he could do better.

• * * * *

John Van Bruggen woke to the feeling of cold metal poking him in the cheek. It wasn’t sharp, just uncomfortable.

“Wha-?”

“Shhh. Don’t say anything.” Franklin said in a gruff Clint Eastwood voice.

The turtle holding a six-shooter waited until John nodded before continuing.

“I heard you were directing a new television show- I want in. And before you think about telling me no, think about this first- your brains as the newest coat of paint on the wall behind you. Besides no one will ever believe that a turtle held a gun to your head to get the part.”

“What’s your name?” John whispered.

“You can call me Franklin.”