Post by Ribs, Suthers' Pal on Mar 30, 2015 2:49:50 GMT
The Master’s volcano base, aflame, was not long for the world.
Doctor Who kicked down the door to his nemesis’ office, brandishing a pump-action shotgun. “I’m coming for you!” he bellowed, at the top of his lungs.
The Master held Ms. Grant at gunpoint under his desk.
“Now, my dear, you must remain quiet, or our mutual acquaintance shall interrupt our – shall we say, intermingling?” The Master chuckled to himself.
“I’d never run away with you!” Jo said, “I’ll be with the Doctor forever.”
“If you are so loyal to our dear friend, why-so-ever did he leave you in the ferocious piranha trap inwhich I had placed you?”
Jo grimaced at her captor. “Doctor!” she yelled. The Master, his ruse now useless, kicked the desk up and held Jo in front of him, his revolver pointed outward, firing blindly at the doorway, hitting Sergeant Benton in the shin.
Doctor Who and the Master locked eyes. “Why did you ever think I would let you get away with this dastardly plan?” he asked.
The Doctor looked on in befuddlement. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow, let me get away with this? Are you alright?”
“Yes, my dear Doctor, I am quite adequate in my mental composure.” He released Jo, and walked to his bar tray, pouring two glasses of fine red wine. Slowly, he brought the glass over to Doctor Who, who put his weapon down. “You are my accomplice in this particular endeavor, you see – I hijacked control of your account with UNIT, and organized my entire plan for world domination under your name! You have just come and ruined your own secret lair! And it is a good thing, I must say, that you took measures coming over here in not having to provide future pensions for those men lying in pools of their own blood.”
“You devil!” The Doctor exclaimed, after taking a swig of the fine wine the Master had prepared for him. “But what of my trip to France?”
“You will simply have to bid it –“ he paused, took a sip, and resumed – “adieu.”
“That’s purely despicable!” Jo said. “Surely you know how much the Doctor loves his cheese tours of the southern French countryside!”
“Quiet, Jo, we are trying to have a conversation.” Doctor Who commanded. “Pour me another, would you please?” He sat in the comfy, purple velvet sofa with which the Master had decorated his office.
“If you want to ever make that trip to taste the finest of France, you will need to allow my scheme to continue! It, quite frankly, is my most dastardly scheme yet.” He twirled his mustache. “So let this next one be-“
A shot rang out. Doctor Who, still seated, had picked up the shotgun he had put down just moments earlier; he had shot at his enemy squarely in the chest. The Master immediately fell to the ground, the shag carpeting soaking in all of the blood.
He coughed up blood as the Doctor approached him. Doctor Who kneeled down to his friend’s side, using a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his mustache and beard.
The Master, with a look of incredibly profound and absolute misery, locked eyes with his Doctor one last time. “-To us.” He smiled, as much as he could, but drifted off slowly.
“I win.” The Doctor mused, quietly. He closed his dear friend’s eyelids, and rose up. He walked a few steps, reached forward, and drank from his glass of wine.
“Doctor,” Jo murmured, “I’m so sorry.”
“Great powers, Jo!” Doctor Who burst out, “Speak when you are spoken to!”
Doctor Who kicked down the door to his nemesis’ office, brandishing a pump-action shotgun. “I’m coming for you!” he bellowed, at the top of his lungs.
The Master held Ms. Grant at gunpoint under his desk.
“Now, my dear, you must remain quiet, or our mutual acquaintance shall interrupt our – shall we say, intermingling?” The Master chuckled to himself.
“I’d never run away with you!” Jo said, “I’ll be with the Doctor forever.”
“If you are so loyal to our dear friend, why-so-ever did he leave you in the ferocious piranha trap inwhich I had placed you?”
Jo grimaced at her captor. “Doctor!” she yelled. The Master, his ruse now useless, kicked the desk up and held Jo in front of him, his revolver pointed outward, firing blindly at the doorway, hitting Sergeant Benton in the shin.
Doctor Who and the Master locked eyes. “Why did you ever think I would let you get away with this dastardly plan?” he asked.
The Doctor looked on in befuddlement. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow, let me get away with this? Are you alright?”
“Yes, my dear Doctor, I am quite adequate in my mental composure.” He released Jo, and walked to his bar tray, pouring two glasses of fine red wine. Slowly, he brought the glass over to Doctor Who, who put his weapon down. “You are my accomplice in this particular endeavor, you see – I hijacked control of your account with UNIT, and organized my entire plan for world domination under your name! You have just come and ruined your own secret lair! And it is a good thing, I must say, that you took measures coming over here in not having to provide future pensions for those men lying in pools of their own blood.”
“You devil!” The Doctor exclaimed, after taking a swig of the fine wine the Master had prepared for him. “But what of my trip to France?”
“You will simply have to bid it –“ he paused, took a sip, and resumed – “adieu.”
“That’s purely despicable!” Jo said. “Surely you know how much the Doctor loves his cheese tours of the southern French countryside!”
“Quiet, Jo, we are trying to have a conversation.” Doctor Who commanded. “Pour me another, would you please?” He sat in the comfy, purple velvet sofa with which the Master had decorated his office.
“If you want to ever make that trip to taste the finest of France, you will need to allow my scheme to continue! It, quite frankly, is my most dastardly scheme yet.” He twirled his mustache. “So let this next one be-“
A shot rang out. Doctor Who, still seated, had picked up the shotgun he had put down just moments earlier; he had shot at his enemy squarely in the chest. The Master immediately fell to the ground, the shag carpeting soaking in all of the blood.
He coughed up blood as the Doctor approached him. Doctor Who kneeled down to his friend’s side, using a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his mustache and beard.
The Master, with a look of incredibly profound and absolute misery, locked eyes with his Doctor one last time. “-To us.” He smiled, as much as he could, but drifted off slowly.
“I win.” The Doctor mused, quietly. He closed his dear friend’s eyelids, and rose up. He walked a few steps, reached forward, and drank from his glass of wine.
“Doctor,” Jo murmured, “I’m so sorry.”
“Great powers, Jo!” Doctor Who burst out, “Speak when you are spoken to!”