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Edited by Tartan 118: 2/4/2014 9:41:08 PM
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Doctor Moo - A Parody

Yeah, it's a question thread so that I can highlight the rest of the story. Deal with it. So I can't say any of my posts is the answer. Great. [b]Episode 1 - The Eleventh Hour, the Fifty-Ninth Minute and the Fifty- you get the idea. [/b] Lamelia closed her eyes and hoped. She hoped for a lot of things: being Scottish, a deep-fried Mars bar was top of her list, but also bag-pipes, haggis, and chronic heart disease. Yes, this was a Scottish lass through and through, with stereotypically ginger hair draped over her adorable little shoulders as she knelt beside her bed, hands clasped. “Dear Santa,” she begged. “I know you aren’t real, despite only being a little gurrul, but this just feels good anyway. I have a request…” Lamelia opened her eyes and glanced at the abomination. “...There’s crack on my wall.” She turned back to her prayer. “Auntie Morag says it’s nothing to be worried about, but then she took a look at it and… well… it was really weird, I’d rather not say. ...So if you could send someone tae help, that’d be really, really, really…” She paused: yes, she had been speaking over something. It sounded like a key scraping up and down piano wires. Weird, she knew, I know, whatever, but it was the only way she could describe it to herself. Or I could. No. Never mind. Let’s have a look out the window, shall we? Lamelia toddled over and peered out. A large, dark blue box appeared to have taken up rather permanent residence in the place of her garden shed. Lamelia titled her head curiously: apparently, this was a ‘Police Box’. What was a Police? She’d never heard of such a word in her Scottish upbringing. Okay, maybe that’s an incorrect stereotype. Or maybe she was from Glasgow. This isn’t Glasgow. “brb” she told god or whoever the crazy little thing was talking to. “lol” she added, so that the fairy-tale entity knew she had been enjoying their discourse. Scampering into the garden in a red cardie and brandishing a torch with copious lens flare, Lamelia peered curiously at the box, barely big enough to hold one adult and maybe a public payphone too. It appeared to be lying on its side, a flat bottom, void of handles, facing her. Suddenly, the lid flew open. Lamelia stumbled backwards, staring at what was now clearly a pair of doors. Steam billowed out, and a grappling hook flew through the vapour, clanging on to an old garden ornament. Lamelia watched, transfixed, as the rope tensed: something was coming. A hand appeared on one side. Then another. Then a head popped up. With a chin. Blimey. The man looked pained. “Where’s the toilet?” Lamelia frowned. “What?” “The toilet, I really need to go.” The man hauled himself up onto the edge of the box, revealing a tattered blue shirt and loosened necktie, keeping his legs crossed tightly as he perched on the edge. “Ooh, blimey.” He looked into the box, apparently quite some way. “That was a climb, especially on a full bladder.” Lamelia shone the torch at the man. He held his hands up to avoid the light. “Are you alright?” “Do I look alright?” the man asked. “I’m bursting for the loo, look at me: a… sweaty mess, holding in my business. Nhh!” He twitched and jerked, collapsing off the box and onto the ground. Lamelia watched him. “Are you a policeman?” The man leapt to his feet. “What? No. Why?” Lamelia shone the torch at the box. “It says ‘police’ on it.” The man looked around. “Where are we, Scotland?” “No.” “[i]Exactly[/i].” Lamelia frowned. “How did you know that?” The man winked. “Just a hunch.” Lamelia frowned again. “Are you here about the crack on my wall?” This time, it was the man’s turn to frown. So he did. “Crack? What crack?” “It’s weird, it makes… weird things happen.” “Alright, then. Time to have a look,” the man concluded. “But first thing’s first: I’m the Doctor. Now, where’s your bog?”

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  • Despite spending more than five minutes in continuous hosepipe mode in the toilet, the Doctor still looked uncomfortable, glancing around the kitchen anxiously, twitching and ticcing. Ticing? Even that’s not a word. He had a lot of tics, basically. Lamelia hoped a little food would calm him down. She handed him an apple. “You read my mind,” the Doctor smiled, and sank his teeth into the fruit. Then, he spat out a chunk of the flesh. “Nope.” “What?” “Do not want,” the Doctor insisted. “Fruit. Blech. Gimme ...gimme, gimme biscuits.” Lamelia opened the cupboard. “What kind?” “I dunno. What have you got?” “Custard creams, pink wafers…” “Pink wafers, always a winner.” Lamelia handed him a wafer from the tin. He took a bite. “Funny,” he crunched. “You remember things from your childhood, stuff you really liked. Then you try them as a grown-up and they’re rubbish.” He stuck out his tongue, wincing, and wiped off as many pink crumbs as he could. “Next!” Lamelia returned to the cupboard, uncertain of what else the sweet-toothed Doctor may reject. Then, she spotted it. “Ah, yes!” the Doctor beamed. “Clever girl! Chocolate!” Lamelia grinned, handing the raggedy man the bar. He ripped the packet open and took a monstrous bite. “A Bounty? Really?” He frowned at her, irate, and his skin pulsed with a faint patchwork of patterns. “Blimey, I really didn’t like that. Come on, get your act together! You’re Scottish, fry something.” Lamelia pouted. “That’s racist!” “Nope, just xenophobic,” the Doctor returned. “Sorry: new mouth, new rules.” Rolling her eyes, Lamelia set to work on some bacon. “There we go!” the Doctor cheered, drying the back of his head with a towel he had grabbed off a rail. “Wait, this isn’t water, it’s sweat. Yeugh.” He tossed the towel away and awaited his din-dins. “Bacon is the bacon of food. The chocolate of the savoury world, with no nasty coconut surprises!” He devoured the meat hungrily. Then spat it into his hands. “I know fat is the lifeblood of Scotland, but do I sound Scottish?” This time, Lamelia huffed, and cranked or whirred or otherwise verbed open a can of beans. “The musical fruit!” Soon, the pair of them were gagging on noxious fumes. “Beans are evil!” the Doctor coughed. “Bad, bad beans!” “Let’s try something uncooked,” Lamelia suggested, whipping some bread and butter out of the fridge and larder respectively. No, wait. Wrong way round. “Ah,” the Doctor nodded. “The bread and butter of… literal things.” Said bread and butter was soon flung out of the door by a very repulsed Doctor. “And stay out!” he cried. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dealt with the Sandwichons before!” The Doctor returned to the kitchen, clearly quite miffed. “Is there nothing in this kitchen I can eat? Not really a very good kitchen, is it?” “Well, I’ve got…” Lamelia scanned the remains of her fridge, which was evidently not very well stocked to begin with. “...Fish fingers… and custard.” A short while later, the Doctor sat at the table, contentedly mopping up thick, yellow custard with a battered finger of cod. “Perfection.” “I’ve never known anyone who likes fish fingers and custard,” Amelia observed. “[i]Together[/i].” “Then you’ve never known me,” the Doctor concluded, a custardstache accompanying his delighted smile. “So… what’s your name?” “Lamelia Pong. I hate it.” The Doctor snorted. “So you should, sounds like something out of a parody. No!” He slapped himself around the face. Lamelia started. “Bad Doctor!” the madman scolded. “Sorry. Wibbly-wobbly mouthy-wouthy.” “Don’t worry,” Lamelia sighed. “I’m used to it.” “You shouldn’t be,” the Doctor countered, pointing at her with a custarded fish finger. “You should ignore them all. Stand up and own your name. Make it mean something great and amazing, not a way for them to beat you down.” “Maybe,” Lamelia pondered. “No,” the Doctor asserted. “Definitely. Trust me, I’m an adult. I think. Maybe not. We’ll see. First, let’s have a look at that crack.” He licked his lips suspiciously.

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    • Lameila eyed the crack anxiously as the Doctor strolled in. “Well, well, well,” the man muttered. “There it is, then.” “Yeah,” Lamelia said. The Doctor’s stomach thundered, echoing weirdly. He glanced at Lamelia awkwardly. “Don’t worry,” Lamelia said, turning to her bed. “I’ve got a stash of chocolate. No Bounties.” She opened the drawer on her bedside table and handed the Doctor a chocolate coin, half the foil ripped off. “I was going to have it before I went tae bed, but then you came.” “Thanks,” the Doctor smiled. “Top pocket, it’ll melt in my hip pocket. So!” He clapped, turning back to the wall. “This crack, then… any idea how it got here? I’m surprised nobody’s tried cleaning it up.” “My auntie tried, but then…” “Weirdness,” the Doctor muttered, eyeing it carefully. “Yes. Cocaine tends to have that effect on people. ...Can you hear something?” “Yeah, a voice,” Lamelia replied. “Let me…” The Doctor leaned towards the crack, closer and closer, trying not to breathe it in. Then, he grinned. “Yep, there’s something here.” “Prisoner Eight has escaped,” Lamelia said, taking a step forward. “That’s all it says, over and over.” “Talking crack?” the Doctor said. “Maybe we’ve both breathed a little too much.” “Can you make it stop?” Lamelia asked. “I can try.” The Doctor looked at the crack anxiously. “....Hello?!” “[i]Prisoner Eight has escaped[/i],” the voice boomed. “Yeah, we get that,” the Doctor called back. “Maybe… maybe this is a message, a warning.” He turned back to Lamelia. “Maybe Prisoner Eight is somewhere here.” There was a loud blaring sound. “Oh no!” the Doctor started. “Not now!” “What’s that?” Lamelia asked fearfully. “Is that Prisoner Eight?” “No, no, no!” the Doctor wailed, legging it of the room and down the hallway. “I’m busy!” “What is it?” Lamelia called as they ran downstairs and into the garden. “What’s wrong?” “She’s reconfiguring!” the Doctor explained breathlessly, leaping onto the side of his box. “But if she goes too far, she’ll be unusable; gotta stabilise the engines.” “Engines?” “Yeah, engines,” the Doctor said, glancing back at Lamelia. She glanced at the box’s base. “But it doesn’t have any wheels.” The Doctor flashed her a grin. “You don’t need wheels when you can fly.” Lamelia tried to get a glimpse of the top. “What is it, some sort of helicopter?” “If a helicopter could travel through time as well as space,” the Doctor summarised. “Yeah.” Lamelia’s jaw dropped. “You what?” The Doctor looked at her again, smiling. “I’ll be right back.” Lamelia sighed, her head bowing. “You’re gonna leave me in trouble with the crack and Prisoner Eight, aren’t you?” “Hey, what?” The Doctor swung his legs around, and jumped off the box, kneeling next to Lamelia. “No.” “How long are you going to be?” Lamelia asked, glancing at the box, windows glowing furiously with golden light. “Five minutes, tops,” the Doctor replied earnestly. “I will be back soon, I promise.” Lamelia looked at the windows again. “It looks pretty weird in there.” “I can handle it,” the Doctor assured her. “Trust me: I’m the Doctor.” Lamelia looked back at the man. There was an eccentric friendliness to his eyes as they looked sincerely into her own. She couldn’t help but smile, and he returned it. Then, he climbed back onto the box and leapt in. “GERONIMOOOOOOOOooo…” She heard the sound again, and winds rushed past her as the box’s lights flashed. Slowly, it began to disappear. Lamelia turned and ran back indoors eagerly, climbing the stairs as fast as she could and bursting into her room, grabbing a suitcase from her wardrobe and flinging in some clothes and a quintessential teddy bear. Then, foregoing basic hygiene products like toothpaste and soap because she was Scottish, or more likely because she assumed the Doctor would have them, let’s stop being so mean to the Scottish, headed back downstairs to wait in the garden. She checked her watch: 11 o’clock in the evening. Crikey, bit late for like a 6-year-old. Maybe older. I dunno, I’m rubbish with ages. She sat on the suitcase, and stared at the sky. Stars. Stars she might soon be visiting.

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