X-NEWS: spcvxb.spc.edu junk: 545098 Xref: spcuna junk:545098 Path: spcuna!rutgers!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!uknet!gdt!ch0mpc From: ch0mpc@midge.bath.ac.uk (M P Clifton) Newsgroups: alt.drwho.creative Subject: The Five Doctors Cabaret Extravaganza part 4 Message-ID: Date: 20 Jan 94 12:27:20 GMT Organization: School of Chemistry, University of Bath, UK Lines: 446 ******************************************************************************* ** The All-Singing, All-Dancing Five Doctors Pro-Am Cabaret Extravaganza ** ** part four ** ** (c) Matt Clifton 1994 ** ******************************************************************************* The TARDIS atmosphere seemed to rejuvenate the Doctor; although, with hindsight, it might have been the 20ml of morphine and alcohol that Turlough had injected into his arm, followed by a few minutes of slapping the Doctor around the face and upper limbs with a damp bream. And when it came to Tegan's turn, perhaps she didn't need to smash the Doctor quite so hard in the face with her fist, although when his arm rematerialised, it had somehow appeared halfway down the front of her dress. He stayed unconscious, though, and lay on the floor, breathing shallowly. Tegan and Turlough paced around the console, muttering and cursing and occasionally throwing bits of paper at each other. Finally, the girl could bear it no longer and stomped over to the prone Time Lord. "WAKE UP!!!" she yelled in his ear. "WAKE UP, YOU BASTARD SON OF A DRINGO FONDLER, OR I'LL SMASH YOUR FACE IN!!!!!!!" The Doctor opened one eye. "Is it morning yet?" he grinned. Turlough had to restrain Tegan from carrying out her threat anyway. The source of her anger pulled himself to his feet, checked that his arms, legs, and two hearts were in working order, took a step toward the console, and promptly fell over. "Yesh," he continued from the floor, as if nothing had happened, "this all sheems to be in order. Let's have a look at those readingsh." With an evident effort, he grabbed on to a large red lever and pulled himself up, activating the control as he did so. Turlough, noticing a digital countdown on one of the screens, cleared his throat and pointed to the diminishing numbers. "What's that?" he enquired, feigning indifference. "Um...shelf destruct," hiccuped the Doctor, drunkenly. He looked about him in fuddled bewilderment as the two humans rushed around the room, screaming obscenities. "Self destruct?" yelled Tegan. "You bloody imbecile!!" The numbers reached zero. "No-," repeated the Doctor as a small shelf above their heads disintegrated in a shower of dissipating molecules. A small wooden carving of a pair of breasts dropped into the ether ; the Doctor caught it smartly and placed it on the control panel. "Shelf destruct. Why don't you lishen?" He studied the co-ordinate screen. "Oh no. It's worse than I thought." "What?" "Zero spacetime coordinates. That could mean one of six things: a) We're in the E-space gateway, b) We're in the Land of Fiction, c) We're on Terminus at the moment of the Big Bang, d) We're in the Death Zone on Gallifrey, e) We're in Borough Green on a Sunday afternoon, or f) The controls have packed up." Tegan operated the scanner. The cover plate rose, revealing a green plain dotted with elms ; upon one was being nailed a signpost. It read, 'The Death Zone on Gallifrey welcomes Careful Time Travellers.' Several actors were milling about in half-complete monster costumes. Tegan closed the scanner screen hurriedly. "Looks like they're not quite ready for us," she observed. "Anyone for tea?" ********************************************************************* The Council Chamber of the Time Lords of Gallifrey was mighty indeed. Under the majestic, curved roof, painstakingly hand-carved over centuries into the form of a million tiny star systems, the room stretched in a geometrically-pleasing way from the huge, shimmering metal doors to the long, low wooden table set in the very centre of the hall. The table itself bore the ancient inscriptions of a long-dead President, the Old High Gallifreyan lettering matching the ceiling in sheer intricacy and beauty. Unfortunately, the heating had broken down, so the Council had had to temporarily reconvene in Chancellor Flavia's sitting room, which was perhaps not the most sombre place on the planet ; what it lacked in grandeur and magnificence it more than made up for in large, frilly cushions and fluffy stuffed animals. Lord President Borusa, leader of all Gallifrey, looked particularly out of place as he perched awkwardly on a giant, slightly-depleted bean bag that looked as though it might have been the former accommodation for a large dog, such as a Saint Bernard or a Great Dane. The chief of the Security Forces, the Castellan, seemed rather lost, used as he was to the tall, wooden, hard-backed throney sort of chair, and not at all used to the idea of a hanging wickery one. At least though, he had had the nous to stuff the lace doily seat down the back of an armchair to save further embarrassment. "Cup o' char, gents", called Flavia, entering the room with a tray of steaming mugs in her hands. Placing the drinks on the glass-topped table, she seated herself in the lotus position beside a florally-painted acoustic guitar propped up against the wall. "Ta", said the Castellan, slipping briefly out of what little character he actually had. Swiftly realising his gaffe, he corrected himself. "Er... I mean, I wish to express tumultuous gratitude for your contribution of hot flavoured beverage, ducks. Er, Flavia." The President accepted his tea silently and sipped for a while, apparently deep in thought. Apparently, that is, to anyone who didn't know that it was his turn to speak a line and he hadn't realised it yet. The penny eventually dropped when the Castellan waved a highlighted section of the script under Borusa's very nose, alarming him so much that he spewed a mouthful of hot tea over the pages. However, it had done the trick. "Oh...um, yes...*ahem*...Has the summoned one arrived yet?", dribbled the President, doing quite a laudable, but entirely unintentional, impression of either somebody with no higher brain functions whatsoever...or John Major. Whoops, tautology. "Yup", began the Castellan. "He's hiding in...." "Good", interrupted Borusa, back in the swing of things. "Or to put it another way...bad." "You never got on with my mother, did you?", snapped Flavia vehemently, with more than a trace of bitterness. She stared with venom at the two men, until she realised that nobody had actually mentioned her mother, or indeed any member of her massive, mostly illegitimate family, and that they were, in fact, talking about that fiendish Time Lord renegade, the Master. Not her mother. "Involving this...degenerate...does not please me. You don't have to tell me about the constitution clearly stating that when the members of the Inner Council are unanimous..." "As indeed we are", chorused Flavia and the Castellan ; she idly strumming the strings of her guitar, and he jabbing his index finger into his right earhole and slapping a tambourine onto his knee to the tune of "Kum-Bay-Yah, My Lord". "...the President may be over-ruled. I know, I just don't like the chap, that's all. He has this habit of pissing me off the instant he walks into the room." Borusa folded his arms in front of his chest and pouted. If he hadn't been 1675 years of age and a planetary leader to boot, he probably would have stuck out his tongue, too. "With all due respect, Lord President, and let's face it, there's about as much respect owing to you as the long, brown marks you get down the side of the pan when Captain Diarrhoea comes galloping into town, your regeneration has not helped your acting ability", ranted the Castellan in an inspired piece of ham that would have made Bernard Matthew's Woolly Mammoth Burgers look like hamster tartare. "Oh, please accept my apologies, Mister Branagh", spat Borusa, in a tone of lightly grilled sarcasm with a twist of horseradish (what?). "I'll try harder next time I see one of your RADA friends smarming their way over the horizon." "That's OK, lovey", grinned the Castellan, doing his Julian Glover, and quite well too. He laughed, and danced around the room, whistling Ravel's Bolero while pretending to swordfight things. "I'm an actor, and you're not," he laughed madly, before violently colliding with a wall and breaking his nose in five places. The Lord President guffawed. "Oh, eff off," muttered the Castellan, nursing his injured nostrils. "Well?" demanded Flavia, when at last things had calmed down a little, and Borusa and the Castellan sat breathing heavily and staring at each other. "Where the sod is he?" she mumbled into her coffee, which was a bit daft, as it wasn't likely to answer her, and if it had it would only have said something congenitally unhelpful, such as "Sping Woo Spang!!! Ziz! Wiz! Moz! Spong!!!". Suddenly, their awaited guest made his appearance. A strikingly handsome figure in a long, black cloak, sporting the most ridiculously Satanic beard money could buy, and waving a short black rod ineffectually, popped up from under the table, dangling several participles as he came. The Master had arrived. "Ah..." he began, speaking in a way that suggested he was continually breathing inwards through a mouthful of plums, "Earlier today, I materialised my TARDIS around this lounge area, then reconfigured the exoshell to resemble this same room. I then transformed the pex-finite framework to fit my TARDIS, and emerged from my console room at the appropriate moment." "No, you didn't," said the Castellan. "You've been hiding under that table all the time. I saw you." "Rats," admitted the Master, leaping across the table and jabbing the Castellan in the small hollow just below the elbow, in the belief that it was a vital pressure point and a cunningly-placed blow would render the victim completely insensible. This plan failed for two significant reasons. One, the Master had about as much knowledge of martial arts as a wombat tree, which doesn't even exist, so that's how little it knows, and two, the Castellan already was completely insensible ; on backing away from the villain's impending fist he had knocked his head on the wall and split his skull open. Borusa, seeing things getting out of hand, stood, not without some difficulty, and knocked his staff onto the floor three times. to establish order. This was totally ineffective as everybody completely ignored him, and began to talk about last nights television in very loud voices. Borusa then produced a compact automatic weapon from beneath his cloak, and fired a few rounds into the ceiling. This had slightly more effect. (One of the effects was that the small cat in the apartment above, innocently laying by the fire, was suddenly, and for no apparent reason, cut in half by a stream of hot plasma. Surprised? You betcha he was.) "You", began Borusa, pointing a gnarled, shaking finger at the new arrival, "are one of the most corrupt beings this Time Lord race has ever produced. Your crimes are without number... your villainy without end." "Flatterer", grinned the Master, his nostrils flaring. "Despite all this, we are prepared to offer you a full and free...pardon." Finished, he threw his head back and stared at the Master over the bridge of his nose. In that position, Flavia could see little bogies up his nostrils, and was sorely tempted to say so. The Master cut in before she could make this undoubtedly bad career move. "Pardon?", he said. "Yes", acknowledged the President. "No, I meant...'pardon?'", repeated the Master. "Are you trying to be funny?", shouted Borusa in the sort of pseudo-Glaswegian- accented interrogative that commonly precedes violent bar brawls and subsequent lengthy periods in a casualty department. "No...I really didn't hear what you said." "Oh...well...", acceded Borusa. "I said...'A Full and Free Pardon.'" The Master grinned. "Pardon?" "Oh, for Christ's sake", sighed the Castellan, forcibly restraining the President from hacking the Master into segments and canning them in his own rather loathsome juices. The veins pulsed angrily on Borusa's forehead, their very location being a damn good reason for angry pulsing, and he lowered himself into the beanbag, which chose that exact moment to split in a highly amusing manner, sending thousands of tiny polystyrene beads skittering wildly all over the floor, and leaving Borusa slumped unceremoniously to one side with his leg in the air. He breathed in very deeply. "I SAID....'FULL AND FREEEEEEE.......'" "No, I heard you that time. I was trying to be funny. Anyway - ", asked the Master, his tongue lovingly caressing the nooks and crannies of Borusa's backside, " - what makes you think I want your forgiveness... darling?" "Oh, just a stab in the dark", ruminated Borusa, who had strongly considered giving him one. "We can offer you an alternative to your rrrenegade existence." "Must you roll your 'R's so much?", complained Flavia, towelling the saliva from her nubile body. Noble, sorry, noble body. Bit of a Freudian sex-session there. Er, slip, I meant Freudian slip. "We can offer you Raleigh Grifter. A complete new bicycle." The Castellan smiled, swinging round and round on the hanging wicker chair. One of his most treasured books, the Anal Retentive's Guide to Power Tricks, had recommended this as a display of superiority. And so it would have been, if he had removed the crash helmet and safety bars. "Thanks", said the Master, a bit puzzled. He already had a bicycle, and a damn fine one it was too, with sparkling metal handlebars, and shiny wheels, and ten super gears. And it had a little bell that went 'bing' when he pushed it. Why were the Time Lords apparently so willing to offer him another one? "Are you sure you don't mean 'Life Cycle'?", he tentatively suggested. "Certainly not. I'm not in the habit of doling out Life Cycles to every Tom, Dick and Ainley that turns up in a satanic beard and black cape, claiming to be the Master. Where do you think you are - America? You'll have a bicycle and like it." "Um...what must I do to claim this...*ahem*...gem of gems?" "Rescue the Doctor." There was an incredibly long pause. Star systems were born and perished. Races evolved. Kate Bush gave serious thought to bringing an album out. Suddenly the hanging chair broke, and the Castellan landed with a surprised bump onto the floor. His face screwed up and he burst into tears. The Master threw a packet of crisps at him, and laughed again. ********************************************************************* "So - what do we have?" Lewis located the relevant sheet in his notes. "Right. Erm... driving licence, photograph of Delia Smith, piece of sticking plaster, contraceptive, toenail clipping, and 32 and a half pee in loose change." "And that's all our evidence so far?" mused Morse. Lewis was perplexed. "No, sir. That's the contents of Chief Superintendent Strange's wallet." There was a knock at the door. "Come," shouted Morse. He had to shout, not because the door was so far away, but because the tape recorder on his desk was belting out Verdi's Otello at 130 decibels. A man stood outside the door clothed in a silver robe, holding a box of tools in one hand and brandishing a sheet of paper with the other. "What do you want?" shouted Morse, and switched off the music. "Can you guess who I am?" suggested the visitor. "What do you want, Dickson?" repeated Morse with a sigh. "Go on. Have a guess." The Chief Inspector rolled his eyes and wondered what the hell he'd done wrong for his division to be posted the least amusing practical joker in existence. "I'll give you a clue. It begins with 'A', and rhymes with 'Spannergram'." "Er...anagram?" ventured Morse. "No. The answer is - A Spannergram!!" So saying, the Singing Spannergram extracted a large rubber spanner from the tool box and proceeded to batter Lewis about the head with it, all the while mangling the words from what could almost be described as a Frank Sinatra composition, if Sinatra had had the vocal capacity of a Speak and Spell and the singing ability of a llama. "For the last time, you pusillanimous prat, what do you want?" breathed Morse heavily. "The Chief Super wanted a word, Sir." "That's strange." "Well," concluded Dickson, mulling it over, "quite." Ten minutes later, he got the joke. ********************************************************************* Anyone who has visited one of the big stately homes - Hampton Court, Longleat - and taken a stroll in their voluminous gardens will, at some point, have come across a maze. You know what a maze is. It's a big area of land, covered with a number of interconnecting lines of hedge, conspiring to a) amusingly get you lost, and b) hilariously prevent you from finding the centre for - ooh - a good four minutes. Mazes are always chock-full of families containing one insufferable twat in thick glasses who claims to be able to solve the puzzle by mathematics or logic - and does, but three hours after the others have found the centre, had their lunch and gone home. The other members of the family are as follows : the suggestible toddler convinced the hedges are nasty monsters with slavering jaws and rabid fangs, the mother, who takes one look at the first junction and proclaims the maze too difficult for mere humans to traverse, and the father, who doesn't give a shit where the centre is, as long as it contains a bar. As computer players will know, there is a second variety of maze, encountered in the most fiendish of adventure games. This is the type where the adventurer, who is, say, in 'a long corridor, with exits N, W, and E' takes the E option, and ends up 'in a long corridor, with exits N, W, and E'. In fact, the 'long corridor with exits N, W and E' is encountered wherever you try to move to, the monotony occasionally broken by the subtle and insidious variation of 'a long corridor, with exits N, W, and S'. But this is not the real world. This is fiction. In the real world, mazes are fun. Mazes are jolly. Mazes don't have Daleks in them. This one did. "EXTERMINATE!!!! EXTERMINATE!!!!!!", yelled the mechanical menace at maximum volume, spinning round and round on its base wheel and firing a steady stream of laser bolts at the walls, ceiling and floor. It hadn't seen anything worth shooting, or indeed, any life form at all, for several weeks now, and was beginning to get extremely annoyed. There had been that odd incident with the badger this morning, but that was different. Davros, the creator of the Dalek race, had programmed all pity and compassion out of his creatures, but he had also inadvertently left out a sense of patience, which meant that a) they don't like to be kept waiting for a date (never stand a Dalek up, unless you never again want to be able to stand up), and b) they are always in need of a good cribbage partner. Elsewhere, the Doctor picked himself up from the floor where he had gained consciousness, dusted himself down, and had a brief look around. From what he saw, he didn't like his surroundings one bit. A passageway walled with warped mirrors, that branched into two ahead and rounded a corner behind him, and not even a disabled lavatory in sight. Luckily he still had his pills with him, and he took a couple. His trousers would remain dry for a wee while yet. All he had to do was to avoid thinking about waterfalls. He narrowed his eyes. Footsteps approached from one of the forked tunnels twenty yards ahead. As he watched, a woman, in her early forties, cautiously entered the main passage and stopped. She spotted him, and gasped in sudden recognition. "Who the hell are you?", she screamed, thrusting a large, phallic baton several inches up his right nostril, and wiggling it about a bit. "Ah, my dear....hmm....hmm...not clear, is it? eh? let me tell you, young girl me lad me girl me boy, I....yes, yes, let x equal gamma, which makes... ho,ho,ho ...eighty percent or 2.5 degrees, so the magnetic radiation...anti- radiation gloves? hmm? hmm..." Of course, sighed the girl inwardly. It had to be that stupid old fool with whom she had hung around for a while, pretending to be his granddaughter ; she had only agreed because he was such a charity case that they had named a second-hand shop after him. She reached underneath his coat and flicked the switch that activated his portable translation unit, and converted his speech from Spackeeze to something resembling English. "Susan? Surely it's Susan?", the old man gasped. "Um...yeah, alright. You can call me 'Susan' if it still turns you on", sighed the woman, reaching into her purse for the equipment that she still carried there in case of emergency. With slightly frightening suddenness, only not very because ...well, it was only a Dalek after all, the mechanical Skaroid mutant came round the corner, screeching a particularly nasty curse at the Gallifreyans. It came to a halt and panted. "Oh look. A Dalek. How quaint," chirped Susan, and danced over to have a closer look. Puzzled, the Dalek's stalk turned to follow her movement, expecting perhaps a lateral attack, or even the planting of some homing device or other. Unfortunately, the programmer of the battle computer which controls the thinking processes of all such creatures had not really considered the Widdle Baby Effect, in which an opposing force sidled right up to the Dalek, scratched its dome and babbled nonsense into its aural sensory devices. "Iddn't he a wubblewobblewoo den?", garbled Susan incomprehensibly. "Iddn't he a bobbledobblefobble biddle bon poo?" The Dalek slowly turned its eyestalk to focus in on the girl's face. If it could have narrowed suspiciously, it would have done so. In the other corner of the wide corridor, the Doctor still stood giggling and clutching his lapels as though his hands were molecularly bonded to his jacket. So much for Skaro's most cunning and intelligent enemy. In a very small voice, the Dalek bleeped, 'Help.' This triggered off an automatic preprogrammed defence system, the first action of which was to retreat about a metre back into the corridor, the second of which was to perform a hurried dump of all the accumulated waste products of the organic creature inside the armoured shell - for reasons of offensive strategy, as well as load lightening - and the third was to fire a lethal bolt of death at the wall opposite. It zhnipped past the Doctor's head, singeing a small portion of ear hair, and dispersed harmlessly into the black stone. "Oh yes," remarked Susan. "I'd quite forgotten they had guns." She looked at the Doctor. He looked back at her. Then they ran like shit. END OF PART FOUR -- ***************************************************************************** * Doctor: The fluid link's run out of mercury, see? * * Ian: No it _hasn't_. The Daleks (original script) * *******Random Grouch**************************ch0mpc@midge.bath.ac.uk********