Splinter has to get creative to chase his gains- but now, his sons are on their way home. Some adjustments may have to be made, with their father's calf muscles being thicker than most of their shells. Enjoy, and see the conclusion- and all our other projects- at Big Stories here!

Art by  Silver-Stag

---

Splinter had rarely let himself out of control in his life; granted, there were probably worse fates. When fathers of his age— middle-aged, sons out on their own— let themselves go, they would put on weight, pick up a half-dozen hobbies they would immediately lose interest in, or make several impulse purchases.

The rat had no idea where mutant growth mixed with bodybuilding fell on that list; if this was his new hobby, he didn't see himself losing interest any time soon… Though he realized that he did probably owe Raphael several hundreds dollars, as the rat had burnt through nearly all of his son's protein powder and work-out supplements. Even worse, he had outgrown all of the equipment— the turtle's weights and home gym barely registered with a rat his size. So, Splinter had to get creative— he rarely went out into the city as his sons did, but he had grown this into a new discipline, and had not even scratched at his limit— not yet.

Instead of the sewers, Splinter crept up into a junk yard all the way in Jersey— the run across the sewers and subway tunnels made for a good cardio exercise— and found what he needed to challenge his now hulking body. The rat prepared himself for leg day to test out this new arrangement; with a leg press bench he fashioned himself, he dragged a broken down tow truck, and saw just how far his power and strength had progressed.

Every part of Splinter's body now surged with immense, deep wells of power. As he squatted into position, his triceps billowed out into huge mounds thick as the truck's tires as he gripped the bench and steadied himself. From this angle, he could only just see past the huge, beefy mountains of his pecs, straining one of the precious few shirts he could still wear— and as he pressed his feet against the truck's chassis, he grinned tightly as he felt the rush of power as he tensed thighs and fat, tear-drop quads brimming with supernatural strength, the bulk of his legs thicker than all but the sturdiest and biggest redwood trunks, calves thicker than his torso before he had started this journey.

He chuckled low as he finished the set, his mammoth chest churning with each breath— yes, this would do nicely. As he stood to his full height to stretch between sets, his rarely used phone began to ring. Arching his brow, Splinter answered. "Hello…? Oh! Leonardo, my son— Yes, yes I'm doing fine. Why do you ask? …My voice sounds deeper? I, uh— perhaps it is just the reception. No, no, I do feel well. Why are you calling?" Splinter's eyes widened. "You— you're coming back home early? Three days? I… I see. No, of course I will be happy to have you back home. Any news…?"

He bit his lower lip; wherever he looked, he could see more of his own brawny bulk in his field of view. "Ah, you know me, my son. Nothing to report. I'll… see you all soon."

Splinter ended the call, drumming his fingers against the burl of muscle girding his hip. How was he going to explain this? He had thought he had more time… he then looked back to the leg press. Another set would clear his head, surely.