iggy koopa lobotomy fic

Picking Your Brains

When he said he wanted to literally pick at your brains, your mind conjured up a comedic scene of Iggy standing over you, playfully bopping you on the top of the head with a dull pie server.

You never expected it to be like this.

The room was pitch black, with the only light seeping in through the door, which had been closed to a crack. You were laid across a slightly inclined operating table and bound tight so that there was no way out.
You heard various metal tools and surgical instruments that did god-knows-what clattering around behind you, joined by Iggy giggling like a lunatic who was about to pick out your brains. Oh, wait.

"Aaare you ready?" He chirps too jovially for what he was about to do to you. You vigorously try to shake your head 'no', your head rattling against the contraption designed to keep it still, and he pretended to be completely oblivious to your silent pleas. "It's not gonna hurt all too much. If you don't move, that is. Oh, who am I kidding? You're gonna be in complete agony!" He cackled madly. The sound is an unwarranted assault on your ears, yet he didn't have a care in the world.

A blinding white light flicked on overhead, however the restraints kept you in a fixed position so you couldn't turn or look away. Then, there he was, looming above you. He was grinning wider than usual, his crooked fangs glinting in the light, with a look in his eyes that shot terror down your spine.
"Just stay still, and eeeverything will– hopefully!– go smoothly," Iggy says unhelpfully in a light and soft voice, but that alone just made it so much worse. He pushes his glasses up that had started slipping off his face and leaned away to pick up— something— and moves it towards your right eye. It looked sort of like an oversized screwdriver. An ice pick.
Then, he jams it in-between your eyeball and your upper eyelid. You start to hyperventilate in an attempt to stop yourself from screaming in pain, breathing through clenched teeth, your entire body tensing up in the restraints.
"Re-lax," He says condescendingly with an emphasis on the second syllable as he maneuvers the ice pick slightly downwards and to the left, careful not to damage your eye as he wiggled it deeper. You feel it dig around in your skull as he adjusts it, and then Iggy leaned away and grabbed something else. You imagined the worst, like a bonesaw or drill of some sort, but he revealed the instrument of death as a hammer, likely from a generic toolbox.

Oh no.

He swung, and thus, began to pick at your brains.