Post by Ribs, Suthers' Pal on Feb 4, 2016 21:27:08 GMT
“The space station,” Doctor Who mused. “At long last.”
He was on Rialto V, the premier security installation for the solar system. He had come here, with Turlough in tow, to uncover the Master’s latest fiendish plot. They stepped out of the airlock, and greeted the guards.
“Are you the new astro-leader?” barked Major Hawkes, the ranking officer.
“Are we?” Doctor Who asked himself. “Why, sure, yes I am. Please take me to your finest accommodations.”
“Ah, excellent, we’ll need to see your Space Identification Card.”
Doctor Who grimaced. “Turlough, did I give you our space identification?”
Turlough had no idea what he was talking about.
Suddenly, a klaxon sounded.
“Hold on, we’ve got another visitor, is he with you?” Asked the major.
Doctor Who shook his head, and prepared for the worst.
The airlock opened again, and out stepped a space-man, a visor obscuring his face.
“State your name!”
“Take me to your leader.” He said, pressing a button unveiling his face to be mustachioed, wearing glasses and a cigar already in his mouth. “I’m just kidding, I am your leader!”
“Oh, a-good-grief,” said a man with a suspiciously off Italian accent. “What’re we gonna-do?”
His companion, wearing a ragtag assortment of patchwork coats, honked a horn and started pressing random buttons on the control panel.
“Just so I can understand,” Hawkes inquired. “Are you claiming to be our new astro-leader as well? May we see your space identification?”
“I’m sorry to say I’ve forgotten the identification at home, and the card, but I’ve brought plenty of space if that part still interests you.” He points to the window. “I also left behind my beau Eve, if you’d believe.”
“Anyhow, I just want to say, I couldn’t be more pleased to be in charge around here,” He quickly whispered to Turlough. “I don’t have to actually see any of you after today, right?” His eyebrows darted up and down as he took a big puff of his cigar.
“This is preposterous,” Doctor Who added. “This man cannot possibly be in charge of a space station as important as this.”
“Well, you’re no prize either.” Another honk from the patchwork astronaut.
“Impersonating an official is tantamount to treason.” Major Hawkes observed.
“I don’t see any problem with that – in fact, I’d be more than happy to accept taking some lesions.”
“Treason!” Turlough reiterated.
“Hey now, isn’t a man entitled to enjoy lesions if he wants?” Another eyebrow raise.
The controls suddenly lit up, and the Master appeared on the giant viewscreen.
“My dear Doctor, you have been naïve!” He beckoned.
“Hey now, don’t bring my beautiful, darling Eve into this!”
“What?” The Master seemed furious. “Who said that?”
“I’m the astro-leader around here, not that I’m getting any respect for it. You wouldn’t believe!”
“Can we please just – I am holding the planet for ransom, this is not the time to be making jokes.” A serving of mashed potatoes suddenly hit the screen.
“Ah, but it was time to make potatoes.”
The Master groaned, but suddenly appeared shocked as beside him on the screen the patchwork astronaut began incorporating him into a hilarious slapstick routine involving panes of glass and a yoyo.
“I like your style,” Doctor Who muttered to the astro-leader.
“Well, I like your hat. Want to trade?” He took his cigar out of his mouth, and with full force grasped Doctor Who’s hand in attempted kinship, causing Dr. Who to writhe back in pain.
“So now I know how you really feel!”
He was on Rialto V, the premier security installation for the solar system. He had come here, with Turlough in tow, to uncover the Master’s latest fiendish plot. They stepped out of the airlock, and greeted the guards.
“Are you the new astro-leader?” barked Major Hawkes, the ranking officer.
“Are we?” Doctor Who asked himself. “Why, sure, yes I am. Please take me to your finest accommodations.”
“Ah, excellent, we’ll need to see your Space Identification Card.”
Doctor Who grimaced. “Turlough, did I give you our space identification?”
Turlough had no idea what he was talking about.
Suddenly, a klaxon sounded.
“Hold on, we’ve got another visitor, is he with you?” Asked the major.
Doctor Who shook his head, and prepared for the worst.
The airlock opened again, and out stepped a space-man, a visor obscuring his face.
“State your name!”
“Take me to your leader.” He said, pressing a button unveiling his face to be mustachioed, wearing glasses and a cigar already in his mouth. “I’m just kidding, I am your leader!”
“Oh, a-good-grief,” said a man with a suspiciously off Italian accent. “What’re we gonna-do?”
His companion, wearing a ragtag assortment of patchwork coats, honked a horn and started pressing random buttons on the control panel.
“Just so I can understand,” Hawkes inquired. “Are you claiming to be our new astro-leader as well? May we see your space identification?”
“I’m sorry to say I’ve forgotten the identification at home, and the card, but I’ve brought plenty of space if that part still interests you.” He points to the window. “I also left behind my beau Eve, if you’d believe.”
“Anyhow, I just want to say, I couldn’t be more pleased to be in charge around here,” He quickly whispered to Turlough. “I don’t have to actually see any of you after today, right?” His eyebrows darted up and down as he took a big puff of his cigar.
“This is preposterous,” Doctor Who added. “This man cannot possibly be in charge of a space station as important as this.”
“Well, you’re no prize either.” Another honk from the patchwork astronaut.
“Impersonating an official is tantamount to treason.” Major Hawkes observed.
“I don’t see any problem with that – in fact, I’d be more than happy to accept taking some lesions.”
“Treason!” Turlough reiterated.
“Hey now, isn’t a man entitled to enjoy lesions if he wants?” Another eyebrow raise.
The controls suddenly lit up, and the Master appeared on the giant viewscreen.
“My dear Doctor, you have been naïve!” He beckoned.
“Hey now, don’t bring my beautiful, darling Eve into this!”
“What?” The Master seemed furious. “Who said that?”
“I’m the astro-leader around here, not that I’m getting any respect for it. You wouldn’t believe!”
“Can we please just – I am holding the planet for ransom, this is not the time to be making jokes.” A serving of mashed potatoes suddenly hit the screen.
“Ah, but it was time to make potatoes.”
The Master groaned, but suddenly appeared shocked as beside him on the screen the patchwork astronaut began incorporating him into a hilarious slapstick routine involving panes of glass and a yoyo.
“I like your style,” Doctor Who muttered to the astro-leader.
“Well, I like your hat. Want to trade?” He took his cigar out of his mouth, and with full force grasped Doctor Who’s hand in attempted kinship, causing Dr. Who to writhe back in pain.
“So now I know how you really feel!”