Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2008-09-04 12:10 am
ptahrrific) wrote2008-09-04 12:10 am
Entry tags:
Fake News/Doctor Who: How Many Time Lords Does It Take To Change A Light Bulb? (3/8)
Title: Truthiness And Relative Dimensions In Space: How Many Time Lords Does It Take To Change A Light Bulb? (3/8)
Rating: PG
Series: The Colbert Report, Doctor Who
Spoilers: Anything through New Who S4 is fair game.
Summary: Stephen gets plastered and makes some new friends. Oh, and everyone is at least slightly in love with the Doctor.
Table of contents, and footnotes, here.
How Many Time Lords Does It Take To Change A Light Bulb?
Part Three
Ahnooie-4: 3792.
Stephen Colbert is 44. (And so on.)
"Strongest thing you've got. And make it snappy," ordered Stephen as he slapped the Doctor's credit card down on the bar. It had been a half-hour walk to find an establishment that specialized in alcohol, and he had no intention of waiting any longer to get drunk.
"Sir, our strongest is designed for Sontarans, and has been known to dissolve the hulls of some less sturdy battle cruisers," said the bartender, a scaly blue humanoid with definite gills on the sides of his neck. (Or possibly hers. It was hard to tell.) "I'm legally prohibited from serving this beverage to any being who cannot produce proof that your metabolism is strong enough."
So much for that idea, then. Stephen tried to remember what future-type drinks had come up in Captain Jack's stories. "Do you carry hypervodka? And will Big Government let you serve it to me?"
"It's not the government, sir, it's mall policy," clarified the bartender. "But I can get you a hypervodka. Would you like one?"
"On the rocks," agreed Stephen.
A minute later he had to send the drink back, explaining that his species did not literally eat rocks, it was just an expression, and (this said while eying the security guard at the end of the bar, who was literally twice his height and several times broader) he would like some frozen water, if it wasn't too much trouble.
⇔
"An' another thing!" slurred Stephen, knocking about the ice in his empty glass. "He's elitist! 'Sright, I said it! Just because he has a fancy Time Lord university degree an' he's been all over th' space 'n time, th' Doctor thinks he's so great. He's not!"
"I'm sure he isn't, sir," said the bartender smoothly. "Can I refill your jynnan tonnyx?"
"'M not sure," muttered Stephen. "Dunno if I should spend too much . . . hey, you're not gonna slip me a Mickey Finn, are you? Hee hee . . . get it? Fin? 'Cause you have fins?" He giggled over this for a moment or two. "'Sfunny," he clarified.
"Excuse me, sir," interrupted a genteel male voice. "May I buy you a drink?"
Stephen eyed the stranger with what he felt was a look of keen suspicion. "'M not gonna put out," he said firmly. "Even if you do have a ver' nice mustache."
"Why, thank you. But don't worry, I only want to talk."
"'Kay."
"Bartender! Another jynnan tonnyx for the gentleman," said the stranger. "Now, did you say 'the Doctor'?"
⇔
"Well, aren't you going to go after him, Doctor?" protested Sarah Jane.
"What? Oh, yes! Eventually. Don't look so cross, Sarah. He needs a while to cool down. Come here for a second—scoot over, Romana."
Sarah Jane was secretly gratified when the Time Lady moved aside to make room for her.
Don't be silly, she chided herself. You can hardly be jealous of someone he hasn't even met yet, even if she is brilliant and capable and from his species and already seems to get on with him like they're best mates. "What am I looking at, Doctor?"
The Doctor hauled his scarf out of the way and pointed down into the gears. "That bit there, that's the piece we need. We're going to need to ask around at the tech shops, find somebody who sells it."
"Probably some incredibly advanced bit of Time Lord technology," observed Dave, leaning over her shoulder. "With a tongue-twister of a name like the ancillary modial turbonecabulator."
"It looks like a light bulb," said Sarah Jane.
"Very good!" enthused the Doctor. "Now all we have to do is find a shop that sells these for a Type 40 TARDIS."
"Hang on!" broke in Dave. "Your whole lighting system is busted because one bulb is missing? Masters of time and space, and you're on the same technological level as 20th-century Christmas lights? No wonder I can only get burnt toast around here."
It wasn't exactly an accomplishment to have outsmarted Dave, but Sarah Jane found herself feeling rather proud. Human or not, she could still be useful to a Time Lord.
"Doctor!" called Romana, now standing over a panel at the console. "I've run a quick scan on your credit card usage in this era. A card in your name was used to purchase drinks at a local establishment called Brannigan's, with a total of enough alcohol to intoxicate but not incapacitate a human metabolism. Your companion should be fine."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Romana, you're a treasure."
Sarah Jane suppressed a groan.
⇔
"Y'wanna hear somethin' hilarious?" demanded Stephen, in a tone that made it clear the question was not rhetorical. "Sarah Jane thinks she wants to stay with 'im! Stay! Like, until she dies!
His new friend, who had so far bought him three jynnan tonnyx and downed just as many himself, nodded sympathetically at him from across the booth. "Is that so?"
"Yes! 'S pathetic! 'Cause he's never gonna look at 'er that way, y'know. Never looks at nobody that way. Not even the lady Time Lord we jus' ran into, wossername . . . ."
"Not Romanadvoratrelundor?"
"Thassit! Not Romanahmadinejador. Not Jack, an' Jack would've died for 'im—well, Jack can't die, 's a long story an' 'e never got around to telling, but 'e woulda done if 'e could. Not any of the others—we ran into one of 'em once, when I was a kid, lady named Jo, bit of an envir'n'mentalist but ver' nice otherwise, an' you could tell she would've rather stayed with th' Doctor f'rever, only she got wise to the fact that he doesn't notice people that way!"
"It certainly is hard to get his attention," agreed the generous buyer of the drinks. "Can we get another round over here?"
"An' Sarah Jane must've figured it out, too," continued Stephen. "She's not stupid. Don' tell 'er I said this or I'll put you On Notice for the rest of f'rever, but she's probl'ly a lot smarter'n me. She knows."
Tears filled his eyes. Oh, he was plastered.
"And it's so sad!" he practically wailed. "Because she still wants t' stay! She has nothin' t'go back to that's better'n that! I mean . . . I missed this, yeah." He waved vaguely to indicate the bar, or perhaps the universe, around him. "'S why I jumped on th' chance t'go back to it. But it's jus' like a vacation. I'm gonna wanna go home after."
A fluorescent orange waitress replaced their empty glasses with full ones, and none too soon: Stephen took a great gulp, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
"'Cause I got stuff t'go home to!" he elaborated. "Like th' rush of a mill'n people watchin' you on TV ev'ry night. An' th' feel of y'r dog lickin' y'r face. An' th' fun of singin' with other superfamous people, even if they did get th' Emmys you shoulda won. An' th' taste of South Carolina peaches, an' th' way Jon hides his smile behind his fist but you c'n still tell 'cause his eyes crinkle up, an' th' sound of a hunnerd people cheerin' y'r name. An' . . . was somethin' else, I know it . . . ."
"Family?" suggested his friend.
"Thassit!" cried Stephen overloudly. "Course I'd want t'go home. I'm married! With kids! Which I did not jus' make up t'prove that I'm het'ra . . . hetara . . . hatarosecks . . . straight, without th' hassle of puttin' up with a girlfriend! But Sarah Jane, she doesn't 'ave anythin' on Earth that's better'n trailing an un-gettable man f'r th' rest of 'er life!"
There were tears rolling freely down his face now. "I," he declared, just in case it wasn't clear, "am so wasted right now."
"And yet you still haven't passed out," broke an unfamiliar woman's voice, as the speaker slid into the booth next to Stephen. He couldn't see very clearly through his double vision, but she was wearing red and seemed to have much more hair than was necessary.
"'M sorry," he managed, "y're certainly a ver' sexy woman, an' under other circa . . . circon . . . circastan . . . condit'ns, I would love t' have wild alien sex with you, but I'm married." He stuck his beringed left hand in her face to demonstrate.
"Yes, yes, I heard," replied the woman sternly, pushing the hand away.
"He might be int'rested," offered Stephen, waving at his mysterious benefactor before taking another gulp of his drink. "But I wouldn't bet too much on it." Putting his mouth next to the woman's ear, he confided in a loud whisper: "He's kind of a bitter old queen."
"Scintillating conversationalist," said the woman sarcastically. "Now I see why you didn't just drug him straightaway."
"The job was going to get done," snapped the strange man in reply. "There's no need to be so impatient."
He was much too lucid for a man who had downed that many jynnan tonnyx, and Stephen was struck by the vague idea that he ought to be afraid. "Why aren't you drunk?" he demanded, in what was supposed to be an authoritative tone of voice but came out as a mumble.
"My blood alcohol level only rises at half the speed of yours," replied the man. "Two hearts, you know."
Stephen's vision was starting to go foggy and colorless. "Wh-who are you?" he managed.
"Oh, didn't I introduce myself? How rude. I am the Master," he said, as Stephen slipped into unconsciousness, "and you will obey me."
Rating: PG
Series: The Colbert Report, Doctor Who
Spoilers: Anything through New Who S4 is fair game.
Summary: Stephen gets plastered and makes some new friends. Oh, and everyone is at least slightly in love with the Doctor.
Table of contents, and footnotes, here.
How Many Time Lords Does It Take To Change A Light Bulb?
Part Three
Ahnooie-4: 3792.
Stephen Colbert is 44. (And so on.)
"Strongest thing you've got. And make it snappy," ordered Stephen as he slapped the Doctor's credit card down on the bar. It had been a half-hour walk to find an establishment that specialized in alcohol, and he had no intention of waiting any longer to get drunk.
"Sir, our strongest is designed for Sontarans, and has been known to dissolve the hulls of some less sturdy battle cruisers," said the bartender, a scaly blue humanoid with definite gills on the sides of his neck. (Or possibly hers. It was hard to tell.) "I'm legally prohibited from serving this beverage to any being who cannot produce proof that your metabolism is strong enough."
So much for that idea, then. Stephen tried to remember what future-type drinks had come up in Captain Jack's stories. "Do you carry hypervodka? And will Big Government let you serve it to me?"
"It's not the government, sir, it's mall policy," clarified the bartender. "But I can get you a hypervodka. Would you like one?"
"On the rocks," agreed Stephen.
A minute later he had to send the drink back, explaining that his species did not literally eat rocks, it was just an expression, and (this said while eying the security guard at the end of the bar, who was literally twice his height and several times broader) he would like some frozen water, if it wasn't too much trouble.
"An' another thing!" slurred Stephen, knocking about the ice in his empty glass. "He's elitist! 'Sright, I said it! Just because he has a fancy Time Lord university degree an' he's been all over th' space 'n time, th' Doctor thinks he's so great. He's not!"
"I'm sure he isn't, sir," said the bartender smoothly. "Can I refill your jynnan tonnyx?"
"'M not sure," muttered Stephen. "Dunno if I should spend too much . . . hey, you're not gonna slip me a Mickey Finn, are you? Hee hee . . . get it? Fin? 'Cause you have fins?" He giggled over this for a moment or two. "'Sfunny," he clarified.
"Excuse me, sir," interrupted a genteel male voice. "May I buy you a drink?"
Stephen eyed the stranger with what he felt was a look of keen suspicion. "'M not gonna put out," he said firmly. "Even if you do have a ver' nice mustache."
"Why, thank you. But don't worry, I only want to talk."
"'Kay."
"Bartender! Another jynnan tonnyx for the gentleman," said the stranger. "Now, did you say 'the Doctor'?"
"Well, aren't you going to go after him, Doctor?" protested Sarah Jane.
"What? Oh, yes! Eventually. Don't look so cross, Sarah. He needs a while to cool down. Come here for a second—scoot over, Romana."
Sarah Jane was secretly gratified when the Time Lady moved aside to make room for her.
Don't be silly, she chided herself. You can hardly be jealous of someone he hasn't even met yet, even if she is brilliant and capable and from his species and already seems to get on with him like they're best mates. "What am I looking at, Doctor?"
The Doctor hauled his scarf out of the way and pointed down into the gears. "That bit there, that's the piece we need. We're going to need to ask around at the tech shops, find somebody who sells it."
"Probably some incredibly advanced bit of Time Lord technology," observed Dave, leaning over her shoulder. "With a tongue-twister of a name like the ancillary modial turbonecabulator."
"It looks like a light bulb," said Sarah Jane.
"Very good!" enthused the Doctor. "Now all we have to do is find a shop that sells these for a Type 40 TARDIS."
"Hang on!" broke in Dave. "Your whole lighting system is busted because one bulb is missing? Masters of time and space, and you're on the same technological level as 20th-century Christmas lights? No wonder I can only get burnt toast around here."
It wasn't exactly an accomplishment to have outsmarted Dave, but Sarah Jane found herself feeling rather proud. Human or not, she could still be useful to a Time Lord.
"Doctor!" called Romana, now standing over a panel at the console. "I've run a quick scan on your credit card usage in this era. A card in your name was used to purchase drinks at a local establishment called Brannigan's, with a total of enough alcohol to intoxicate but not incapacitate a human metabolism. Your companion should be fine."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Romana, you're a treasure."
Sarah Jane suppressed a groan.
"Y'wanna hear somethin' hilarious?" demanded Stephen, in a tone that made it clear the question was not rhetorical. "Sarah Jane thinks she wants to stay with 'im! Stay! Like, until she dies!
His new friend, who had so far bought him three jynnan tonnyx and downed just as many himself, nodded sympathetically at him from across the booth. "Is that so?"
"Yes! 'S pathetic! 'Cause he's never gonna look at 'er that way, y'know. Never looks at nobody that way. Not even the lady Time Lord we jus' ran into, wossername . . . ."
"Not Romanadvoratrelundor?"
"Thassit! Not Romanahmadinejador. Not Jack, an' Jack would've died for 'im—well, Jack can't die, 's a long story an' 'e never got around to telling, but 'e woulda done if 'e could. Not any of the others—we ran into one of 'em once, when I was a kid, lady named Jo, bit of an envir'n'mentalist but ver' nice otherwise, an' you could tell she would've rather stayed with th' Doctor f'rever, only she got wise to the fact that he doesn't notice people that way!"
"It certainly is hard to get his attention," agreed the generous buyer of the drinks. "Can we get another round over here?"
"An' Sarah Jane must've figured it out, too," continued Stephen. "She's not stupid. Don' tell 'er I said this or I'll put you On Notice for the rest of f'rever, but she's probl'ly a lot smarter'n me. She knows."
Tears filled his eyes. Oh, he was plastered.
"And it's so sad!" he practically wailed. "Because she still wants t' stay! She has nothin' t'go back to that's better'n that! I mean . . . I missed this, yeah." He waved vaguely to indicate the bar, or perhaps the universe, around him. "'S why I jumped on th' chance t'go back to it. But it's jus' like a vacation. I'm gonna wanna go home after."
A fluorescent orange waitress replaced their empty glasses with full ones, and none too soon: Stephen took a great gulp, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
"'Cause I got stuff t'go home to!" he elaborated. "Like th' rush of a mill'n people watchin' you on TV ev'ry night. An' th' feel of y'r dog lickin' y'r face. An' th' fun of singin' with other superfamous people, even if they did get th' Emmys you shoulda won. An' th' taste of South Carolina peaches, an' th' way Jon hides his smile behind his fist but you c'n still tell 'cause his eyes crinkle up, an' th' sound of a hunnerd people cheerin' y'r name. An' . . . was somethin' else, I know it . . . ."
"Family?" suggested his friend.
"Thassit!" cried Stephen overloudly. "Course I'd want t'go home. I'm married! With kids! Which I did not jus' make up t'prove that I'm het'ra . . . hetara . . . hatarosecks . . . straight, without th' hassle of puttin' up with a girlfriend! But Sarah Jane, she doesn't 'ave anythin' on Earth that's better'n trailing an un-gettable man f'r th' rest of 'er life!"
There were tears rolling freely down his face now. "I," he declared, just in case it wasn't clear, "am so wasted right now."
"And yet you still haven't passed out," broke an unfamiliar woman's voice, as the speaker slid into the booth next to Stephen. He couldn't see very clearly through his double vision, but she was wearing red and seemed to have much more hair than was necessary.
"'M sorry," he managed, "y're certainly a ver' sexy woman, an' under other circa . . . circon . . . circastan . . . condit'ns, I would love t' have wild alien sex with you, but I'm married." He stuck his beringed left hand in her face to demonstrate.
"Yes, yes, I heard," replied the woman sternly, pushing the hand away.
"He might be int'rested," offered Stephen, waving at his mysterious benefactor before taking another gulp of his drink. "But I wouldn't bet too much on it." Putting his mouth next to the woman's ear, he confided in a loud whisper: "He's kind of a bitter old queen."
"Scintillating conversationalist," said the woman sarcastically. "Now I see why you didn't just drug him straightaway."
"The job was going to get done," snapped the strange man in reply. "There's no need to be so impatient."
He was much too lucid for a man who had downed that many jynnan tonnyx, and Stephen was struck by the vague idea that he ought to be afraid. "Why aren't you drunk?" he demanded, in what was supposed to be an authoritative tone of voice but came out as a mumble.
"My blood alcohol level only rises at half the speed of yours," replied the man. "Two hearts, you know."
Stephen's vision was starting to go foggy and colorless. "Wh-who are you?" he managed.
"Oh, didn't I introduce myself? How rude. I am the Master," he said, as Stephen slipped into unconsciousness, "and you will obey me."