[Adrics] 2003 ADWC Awards Charity Telethon (4/6)
I. Inayat
[We return from commercial in the middle of a horrible slaughter...]
"We'll have a good time then, Dad," the squat figure rasped. "You know we'll
have a good time theeeeeeeen!"
He bowed three times as the studio applause track roared. Amber ran out onto
the stage, marked by masking tape on the floor, and put her arm around his wide
shoulders.
"Wasn't that amazing?" she asked, wiping away a tear. "I don't think that song
has ever moved me as much as it did just now. A big hand for Strael, everyone!"
Strael bowed again and left the stage. "It's easy to see why he won Sontaran
Idol, isn't it?
"But now, let's look at the toteboard and see how much we've raised for the
kiddies!" She turned to the electronic display as the old amount was replaced
by the new total. When she saw the new number, Amber turned away from the
camera and bit her lip to suppress the scream; somehow, the total had actually
dropped ten percent!
She calmed herself before turning back around. "We can do better than this,
surely! Come on, ladies and gentlemen! It's for the children! Now, to show
you just what I mean, here's Sarah Jane Smith with some of the kids your money
goes to support!"
---
[SCENE: Back in the playroom, KIYONE, a harried young woman with green hair, is
engaged in a tug-of-war with a little boy over what looks to be, for all the
world, like an ordinary wooden mask. Finally, KIYONE manages to get the mask
away from the young boy, who pouts up at her before crawling away.
[KIYONE sighs heavily, then makes her way over to SARAH, still carrying the
mask.]
KIYONE: You must be... Adult Sarah, is that right?
[SARAH nods.]
SARAH: Yes. You're... Kiyone, right?
KIYONE: Uh-huh.
SARAH: Okay. Um... [indicating the mask] What were you just doing?
[KIYONE glances down at the mask.]
KIYONE: Oh, this? The kids were throwing it 'round again, so I had to confiscate
it.
SARAH: Ah, right. So what else do you do here?
KIYONE: [sighs] What else...? Okay, um, we make sure the kids eat and sleep on
time, help them go to the potty, change their nappies, clean up after them,
um... welcome the new toddlers, get roped into their playtimes, read them
stories-
SARAH: [interrupting] This'd be from the "Big Story Time Book" of repute,
correct? The book that stars characters from the 'Round in the stories, and
selects the most suitable characters for the roles - like Chris and Fitz as
Cinderella's Ugly Sisters?
KIYONE: [sigh getting even heavier] Yes, _that_ storybook. The kids love it, for
some reason. Besides, are _you_ going to take their favourite storybook away?
[SARAH considers this. Meanwhile, KIYONE continues.]
KIYONE: -Break up their fights, give them their medicine... the usual, pretty
much.
SARAH: Does the fact that Look Who's Talking is outside continuity cause any
special problems?
KIYONE: [considering] Not really. Okay, so we've got a bit wider clientele than
your standard day care centre - but equally, that also means we've got the
knowhow to deal with most of the problems that come up. Of course, kids being
kids, sometimes they come up with stuff so weird even _we_ have trouble dealing
with them.
SARAH: [semi-seriously] So who would you say was in charge around here? The
adults or the children?
[KIYONE appears to be seriously considering this.]
KIYONE: Personally? I don't think _anyone_ knows. We're all in the same boat,
after all - even if the kids don't always get that.
[SARAH raises her eyebrows at that one.]
SARAH: Well, thank you very much for that, Kiyone-.
KIYONE: ...Hey, would you mind doing us a big favour?
SARAH: ...What did you have in mind?
KIYONE: Well... we've got a lot of junk - like this [flourishes the mask] -
building up around the place - stuff the kids found, stuff they threw away, and
some I have absolutely _no_ clue where it came from...
SARAH: Uh-huh.
KIYONE: And I wondered if you'd do us a big favour, and take it off our hands -
have a jumble sale, or a raffle, or something. [considers] For charity.
SARAH: [cautiously - she _knows_ Outside] How much of it is dangerous?
KIYONE: None.
SARAH: None?
KIYONE: None. Trust me on this - I've had a lot of practice in handling
hazardous materials. [twitches]. A _lot_ of practice. None of this stuff's
dangerous.
SARAH: ...All right.
KIYONE: Great. I'll get the crates.
[KIYONE leaves.]
SARAH: Thank you, Kiyone. And now, it's back to the studio.
[SARAH pauses.]
SARAH: Wait, _crates?!_
---
As the video played, Amber ran offstage and grabbed the first Doctor who came to
hand, who, contrary to what you might expect, wasn't the actual First Doctor -
he had left to protest the next performer - but was, in fact, the Third.
"How the frell can the pledge total actually go down?" she yelled.
"Well," he said, rubbing his neck so hard the hairs started to smoulder, "people
have been calling to take their pledges back."
"You can't do that! Once you make a bid, it's made!" She screwed her eyes
tightly shut. "Why," she asked, "are people cancelling bids?"
"They're complaining that the show's becoming boring. Okay, so there was the
thing with Adric and Nyssa, and Willis shooting the books, but they want
_blood_. Explosions, bloodbaths, fatal accidents..."
"They're upset that things are going well?!" Amber shrieked. "What in
Gallifreya's sacred name do they _want?!_ " She brought herself under control.
"All right. All right. ...You know, I can believe that..."
"Really?" Just then, the Doctor's hand cramped. In a bit of extraordinarily
bad luck, the fingers tightened around the nerve cluster at the base of the
neck, and he lost consciousness.
"And people don't think anything's going wrong?" Amber asked the world at large.
----
Two minutes later, she was back in front of the cameras introducing the next
act. "Unless you've been living under a rock for the last two years, you know
all about this megastar. His debut album, 'X term N 8', produced five Top Ten
singles, and the first single from his follow-up, 'Day of the Dilly', has
already shot up to number one on both the rap and pop charts! He's here to
perform that very hit in our studio! Put your hands together for Dilly K and
'Bling Bling Booty'!"
She got out of the way as the smoke pots went off and the women in the gold
bodysuits danced onto the stage.
"Bling, bling! I like the booty that goes bling, bling!" In the midst of the
gyrating dancers, a Dalek rolled into view. It was crimson with gold bumps and
accents, and it wore gold chains around its vents and plunger arm. "I like the
bling bling booty!"
----
"I thought," the First Doctor said, "that he wasn't going to be doing that song.
I only came on because I was assured that-"
"No, but we _are_ using a cleaned-up dub."
"Dub?"
Amber nodded. "Right. You do know he's just light-synching the song?"
Before the Doctor could answer, Dilly K shouted a word definitely not from any
edited version of the song. He abandoned the stage while the song continued to
play.
"Oh no," Amber said as the Dalek came toward them. "I was told they'd cleared
this with his people."
"It appears no one cleared it with him, hmmm?" First said. "I believe _I_ shall
talk to him, and see if we can settle this like gentlemen."
Amber made a split-second decision. "All right. You do that. I'll cover by
presenting the next award."
She made a quick spell of protection in First's direction, and hurried past
Dilly K and Seventh, who was following the Dalek with a handheld camera.
Meanwhile, First had stopped in front of the rapper. "Now young man, surely you
didn't believe that it would be appropriate for..."
---
"Sorry about that, folks." Amber said. "Just a few minor technical difficulties.
While we're tending to them, let me just announce the winner of the award for
'Best Drama Long Fiction', Bradley K. Willis for 'A Family Affair'!
Congratulations, Brad!"
The sounds of blaster fire died down, and First staggered on, smoking slightly.
"I believe... I have reached an accommodation with Mr. K's people... my dear."
"Thank you, Doctor." Amber said. "Do you want to go and lie down? Maybe have
something to recover?"
"I believe... I shall do that very thing... my dear..." So saying, First
staggered off-stage.
Amber turned back to the camera. "And now, to present the 'Best Series/Story
Arc' award, here's a man always ready with a jelly baby and a winning grin, a
man who should need no introduction - the Fourth Doctor!"
---
[The FOURTH DOCTOR walks on, apparently distracted by the bundle of knitting
he's holding, and by the half-knitted scarf which trails along the floor behind
him.]
FOURTH: Knit one, purl two, knit three, purl four... Ah, hello, all! Just doing
my own part for tonight's cause. [holds up the half-knitted scarf.] Apparently,
I'm being sponsored for each foot of this I knit before time's up. Which, I
imagine, would normally be the lead-in to a strained metaphor about how knitting
can be like writing a series, and, in fact, rather like my own adventures, for
that matter - sometimes, you have the pattern before you, you know where you're
going, sometimes you find you've come up with something completely different
from what you originally started with, and sometimes you have to forge ahead by
sheer guesswork and improvisation - but we're not going to do that now, are we?
However, that _does_ lead us nicely into the matter of the Best Series/Story Arc
Award. So let's get down to business, shall we?
[As FOURTH describes each series, selected scenes flash up on the screen behind
him.]
FOURTH: First off, we have 'To Die For', that now-infamous series chronicling
the twists and turns of the relationship between a homicidally psychotic Nyssa
and her eternal victim Adric. Add in Adric's well-meaning friends, a veritable
plethora of secret organisations devoted to one side or the other, and an
aquatranssexual Cigarette-Smoking Bastard with divided loyalties, and you have
the setup for a saga of truly bizarre proportions, even for me.
Last year saw little change in the status quo, letting the subplots take
centre-stage, as Number One made a disturbing discovery about his/her future,
Sandra and Katarina reached a disturbing realisation about the Alzarians, and
most disturbing of all... the Wondrous and Adorable Nyssa's Knights-Errant
Regiment actually fell for a girl who wasn't Nyssa.
[FOURTH shudders, before beaming again.]
FOURTH: Next up, Helen Fayle's 'Book of Taliesin', devoted to the epic saga of
the bard Taliesin, his companion Vivienne, and the Wild Huntsman, Kastchei - all
of whom seem oddly familiar, for some reason - in the universe of the Thirteen
Worlds.
[FOURTH frowns at that.]
FOURTH: You know, I'm _sure_ I recognise them from somewhere... ah, well.
Last year primarily gave us 'The Invisible City', as our protagonists found
themselves caught in a struggle that threatened the balance of power in the
Alliance of Worlds... and the balance of power between themselves. It also gave
us 'Thorns', an insight into the life of the witch-queen Morgaine - and 'The
Shape of Fire', acquainting us with the nature of an old Enemy... and the death
of a dragon.
Next... Paul Gadzikowski's 'King Arthur In Time And Space', as the Arthurian
legends, naturally enough, get translated into space opera, drawing on elements
from series closer to home. Last year, the focus fell on Merlin's apprentice
Nimue, who, having inherited Merlin's time-travelling CAVE - 'CAVE'? Oh,
_that's_ what it means! - found herself involved with temporal anomalies, a
temporal cold war... and the little matter of a rewritten history.
Paul also gave us further installments in his Peri arc, as - ahem - we, by which
I mean my other selves and I - arranged for her to explore all alternative
realities in search of the version of her father that satisfies her best. In the
name of that noble cause, Paul's taken us into the realms of 'South Park' and
'Harry Potter' parody, and explored H. G. Wells High School, the high school
outside continuity.
Meanwhile, the Valeyard's found himself in the unenviable position of villain of
the arc. Good luck with that, old chap.
[FOURTH raises an eyebrow.]
FOURTH: Now... B. K. Willis's and Ken Young's Magnus and Varne stories,
featuring the enigmatic mercenary Magnus and his shapeshifting assistant Varne -
and a big hello to both of them! - a collaborative series where Bradley and Ken
collaborate on each story. In this, Magnus and Varne find themselves drawn into
confrontation with a mysterious conspiracy involved in turning ordinary humans
into combat drones - and intent on destroying Magnus and Varne before they
interfere further.
[FOURTH grimaces.]
FOURTH: Hopefully, they _will_ find out who's behind it all... And finally, we
have Graham Woodland's 'The Three Jos' - a saga of three different worlds, three
different Thirds, and three different Jo Grants. The first story in the
sequence, 'The Space of I', sees one Jo strike a terrible deal which draws her
into a strange dream-world as its foretold saviour, a world far from everything
she knows, and yet very, very close - and her Third setting out on a desperate
quest to find her once more.
Now... Ahem, excuse me a moment...
[FOURTH manages to cradle his knitting in one hand, whilst picking up and
opening the envelope with the other.]
FOURTH: And the winner is... 'The Book of Taliesin', by Helen Fayle! If there's
someone to collect Mistress Helen's award...?
And now I must be off. Thank you, you're a wonderful audience!
[As FOURTH strides off, the clicking of knitting needles can once more be
heard.]
FOURTH: Knit one, purl two...
---
AMBER: And so it comes round again. To present the award for 'Best "Doctor Who"
Character", I'd like to welcome the stars of one of those nominated series,
who've been making a name for themselves on adwc in their own unmistakeable
style.
Let's have a big hand for Magnus and Varne!
[The AUDIENCE applauds.]
---
[Two columns of darkness form, reaching nearly to the ceiling. When
they dissipate, Magnus and Varne are standing on each side of the
podium.]
Magnus: "I want to thank Amber for that glowing introduction. Anyway,
we are delighted to be here."
Varne: "Yes, it's nice to be back. As this is the third time we have
presented an award at the Adrics, we thought we would do something
different."
Magnus: "Yes, this time we are going to skip the bad jokes. Instead I
am going to perform two illusions."
[Stage hands push a couch on from the wings on the left and a seven
foot high cabinet from the right.]
Varne: "For our first trick, the classic 'Levitating Lady'."
[She lies down on the couch and then went rigid as Magnus makes mystic
passes over her. Magnus then throws a cloth over her. Slowly she rises
into the air with her form clearly visible beneath the cloth. Magnus
snaps his fingers and a large hoop appears in his hand. He passes the
hoop along the dangling body showing there are no wires. Then he
grips a corner of the cloth and jerks it. It comes clear in a billowing
cloud revealing a total abscence of Varne. Moments later she enters
from stage right.]
Magnus: "After the award, we will present the infamous 'Cabinet of Dr.
Caligstro', but now it is presentation time."
Varne: "We are here to present the best Doctor Who character."
Magnus: "I always had a weakness for Morbius, such a classic rip off
of fifties horror films."
Varne: "Sorry, Lord, we are limited to characters in last year's fan
fiction."
Magnus: "Don't call me Lord, Varne. How many times have I told you
that?"
Varne: "I stopped counting when I reached fifty thousand."
[Varne picks a large envelope up from the podium and gives it to
Magnus.]
Magnus: "Right. The nominees are
Destrii, 'The Dark Half' series
Peri, 'Peri arc III'
Third Doctor, 'The Three Jos'
[The video screen lights up, showing the first clip.]
>>>>
Destriianatos.
Destrii.
She looked around the yard, taking it all in. 'So *this* is Earth.
Looks a lot bigger on TV, y'know?'
Silence.
Destrii raised an eyebrow. 'Tough audience. You'd think people would
be more impressed by a miracle resurrection...'
Chang Lee shrugged. 'Been there.'
'Done that.' Sam said.
'Bought the postcard.' Fitz finished.
Destrii raised her other eyebrow. 'No kidding. So where /was/ the
little stick insect? Didn't see /her/ when handsome over there
brought me in Inside...' She nodded at the Doctor.
<<<<<<<<
Magnus: "Well, that was Destrii, a girl after my own heart."
Varne: "Fried, no doubt. Anyway, here is the next clip, featuring
Peri."
>>>>>>
"Better, probably, the bloody mouse wanker," offered Spike.
"What colorful language you have, Gramma," Peri said to him.
"The reason I'm here isn't because the author likes the way I
fill out a t-shirt, cupcakes."
"No, that's why you're in 'Clash Fiction', which is the only
reason you're here."
"'Gramma'?" said Adric. "Is there an aspect of this quest for
Peri's ancestry that I've missed?"
"There's this Earth fairy tale -" Peri started, but was
interrupted when the elevator started.
<<<<<<<<
Magnus: "Well, now for the final clip, featuring the Third Doctor."
>>>>>>
The Doctor drew himself up to his full height, and swirled his cape
flamboyantly about him. "I, sir, am a Lord of Time and Peregrine
of Space; an Illuminate of the Crystal Light, Scholar-Soldier of
the Invisible College, and Initiate of the Venusian Mysteries! I
shut the Thresholder's Gate in its face, and set bindings on
reapers. I know the shadow behind the Guardians, and why Osiris
died unto death, and what the Pythoness promised would come of it.
I know the true names of the cancer in the Hyades, and the Vagabond
Truth, and Whatchumacallit of Tunisia." Jo's heart wrung, but the
Doctor seemed oblivious to his clanger. "Also, I am well versed in
block transfer mathematics, and would remind you that your
dz(theta) parequal rw.kf-over-T'ang wirt C(aleph, zain), whereas
Ob(yes) Fft-power-matrix iota = Jot!"
<<<<<<
Varne: "Before we reveal the results, remember, this is for charity."
[Magnus opens the envelope and looks at the contents.]
Magnus: "Right, the winner is Peri, for 'Peri arc III'.
"And now, for our final trick, I present the Cabinet of Dr.
Caligstro."
[Stage hands move the cabinet to centre stage. Magnus opens the
door and removes an assortment of edged weapons.]
Magnus: "In you go, Varne."
Varne: "Do I have to? Why not get a volunteer from the audience?"
Magnus: "Get in."
[Pouting, Varne enters the cabinet and Magnus secures her arms and
legs with straps. When the door is closed her hands are extended
through two holes in the sides of the cabinet.]
Magnus: "As the audience should have noticed, the cabinet is a tight
fit."
[Magnus picks up a sword and thrusts it through a slit in the back of
the cabinet. The point emerges through another slit in the front. He
moves around to the side and inserts another sword. When he reaches
the fifth sword he encounters resistance and has to lean on it. Blood
starts to leak from the cabinet.]
Magnus: "Oops."
[Hastily he pulls the swords out and opens the cabinet. His form
hides the interior as he looks inside. Suddenly he is jerked inside
the cabinet, the door closes, and then the whole thing catches fire.
A cloud of smoke forms and then forms into words.]
That's all, folks!
[The smoke clears, revealing an empty stage.]
---
AMBER: [applauds] A big hand for Magnus and Varne, everyone!
Now, for our third special tenth anniversary award, we have a man who's been
with 'Doctor Who' from its inception right up until the present day - the man
who was there at the beginning, without whom none of us would be here tonight.
You've already caught a glimpse of him once tonight, but here to present the
award for 'Best Story 1993-2002', it's the First Doctor!
---
[The FIRST DOCTOR comes up to the podium, seemingly none the worse for his
earlier escapade, and bows to AMBER.]
FIRST: Thank you, my dear.
Now, I happened to be fortunate enough to be there at the very inception of
alt.drwho.creative, and it has been my privilege to see it grow and develop over
the decade since, and to read the many, many fine stories posted by authors past
and present, both those long gone and those who've remained. Stories which have
spanned the, mm, very gamut of style and genre, from humour to horror and all
the points between.
In that time, I have seen many stories which could be counted worthy of being
among the best of the decade - and tonight, for the tenth anniversary of the
newsgroup's founding, I shall reveal which _you_ have voted the best of the
best, the one to be awarded the title of Best Story from the decade of adwc's
operation, mmm?
First...
[FIRST tugs at his lapels.]
First, we have Lance Hall's crossover with, mm, 'The Andy Griffiths Show', I
believe, 'Southern Exposure' - a story still regarded as one of the best
crossovers to appear on adwc.
----
The Courthouse door flew open and the sound of footsteps echoed
through the back room. Andy and Barney returned to the main room to
find Briscoe Darling and his family standing in the center of the
floor, looking suspiciously at the Doctor, who was fumbling with a
yo-yo.
'Don't mind me,' the Doctor smiled, 'just a gravitational reading.
Be prepared, that's my motto.'
'Sheriff,' Briscoe said slowly. His low raspy voice sounded like he
hadn't used it for talking in a long while.
'Mr. Darling,' the Sheriff grinned and shook the man's large callused
hand, 'what can we do for ya?'
'Tell him Charlene,' Briscoe ordered, not taking his eyes off of the
Time Lord, who was now standing on one foot and balancing a spoon on
his nose.
----
FIRST: Next... Douglas B. Killings' portrayal of, mm, one particular Christmas
night, not too long ago, and a meeting of two lost souls, in 'A TDF Christmas'.
----
In their eyes, they saw it. The distant glint. The thing they
held in common, that had seared each to the core. The dread that
had always dogged them, but for which each had assumed could
never quite be assuaged.
They saw loneliness, and the fear that it would always be so.
His hand came up, hesitantly, reaching forward. He had expected
resistence, but none came. Instead, her hand reached as well, a
mirror to his.
In the moonlight, their fingers gently touched the cheek of the
other. They watched as the pale, diffuse glow cast shadows on the
contours of their faces, still not entirely certain as to the
why, but finding in it a hint, just maybe, of a cure.
Then, from below, someone called her name.
They scrambled to roll as far apart from the other as possible.
----
FIRST: Next, we have Becky McLaughlin's tale of my Eighth self, of a future
devastated - and the struggle to reclaim it - in 'Plague World'.
----
"Damn! We're busted! Move it, Doctor!"
"Go!" replied the Timelord without looking around. "Find Anna -
she'll lead you back to the TARDIS!"
"The hell with that!"
"GET OUT OF HERE!"
The screen blanked, came to life again displaying new codes. He
began inputting data as fast as he could. Danner's hand settled on his
arm; he shook it off.
"Doc - Anna's probably going to kill me."
The Doctor spun around. The two Dev sprawled face up below a
nearby cylinder, heads at a grotesque angle, eyes wide and glassy. He
looked away. It was hard to meet the blackstone's eyes.
"She won't kill you. The TARDIS will know what to do with her!
You'll be safe enough there. Now go!"
He had a glimpse of Danner's doubtful face before turning
resolutely back to the interface. The alarm continued its grating screech
overhead. Footsteps approached from the right. Lots of them, moving
fast.
----
FIRST: Now, only one young man has had _two_ stories nominated for this award -
a gentleman by the name of Clive May. The first of those stories, 'Gift of the
Garm', addresses the final gift granted Miss Nyssa... and the gift she granted
her friends, in turn...
----
Tegan caught her breath at the thing that hovered there, framed in the
doorway. It had the form of Nyssa, but it was wavering and insubstantial.
It rippled like the walls, as if seen through a heat haze. The figure
stabalised under her eyes, growing more solid.
Tegan grew aware of a tugging sensation deep inside her mind. The touch
was light as gossamer threads settling. They wove carefully about all her
memories of Nyssa, and drew them forth. She surrendered them gladly and
without stint.
Soon the thing becoming Nyssa took on the form Tegan most vividly
remembered - dressed in the blue outfit she had worn before the Terminus.
Tegan understood with certainty that it was Nyssa, really nyssa, not some
foul construct of the Guardian.
She moved into the room. The purple shadow came to block her way; but she
dismissed it with a withering look. It darkened and pulsed with impotent
rage; but the Guardian could not interfere here.
----
FIRST: Next, we have Clive's delightful little tale of a very special planet,
and a very... mm... sozzled companion, in the plural, you might say, in 'Planet
Of The Tipsy Nyssas'.
----
'I shink we can dispense wish the formalishieze Nyssha,' she slurred.
The Nyssa Queen made a truly noble effort to rise from her throne.
Wavering unsteadily, her head weaving about, she got half up; then the
exquisitely worked tiara slid down over her right eye. To preserve
dignity, she lifted a hand to set it back into position on her piled up
brown hair. This was a mistake.
For a few seconds she floundered around before admitting defeat with a
muttered: 'Oh blow it!' and subsided back into her throne.
She waved an arm. 'Please, Race Prime, Honoured Time Lord, friends,
join me and we...let...let the festivities begin.'
The four at the foot of the dais exchanged looks; all except Nyssa, who,
for some reason, did not seem able to meet their gaze. The Doctor
stepped in to smooth over the moment that was rapidly growing awkward.
'Come along,' he commanded and ascended the steps with great poise.
----
FIRST: Miss Nyssa does seem to be rather a feature of these stories, wouldn't
you say, hmm? Our next story, however, takes us far from any of the worlds we
know, to a world moved on, and those who must survive there, in the first of B.
K. Willis's excellent 'Badlands' series, 'Lesser Evils'.
----
"What do you think, Tyson?" Darren called to the man who was
following a short ways behind them. Like them, he wore the
jeans-and-jerkin uniform of the Terminus Sherriff's Department,
only his badge read 'Deputy Hendriks' and he bore a long spear
in place of the shotgun. He was a tall, sickly-looking man who
had been a schoolteacher before donning the badge and still had
a scholarly look about him.
"What do I think about what?" he asked.
Darren jerked his thumb ahead, toward the young woman who
led the little procession. "Dave here says yon witch-for-hire is
actually a Tainted, and we're all bound for Hell for being in her
delicate company. I say different. What's your take?"
"My take?' Tyson laughed brittlely. "I'm afraid that we all bear
the Taint. It just doesn't always show up. And why worry about
going to Hell when Hell is already here?"
----
FIRST: Our last story reacquaints us with Miss Nyssa and my Eighth self, in a
tale of Miss Nyssa's final legacy to the Universe, and of love that would strive
to the very gates of Heaven itself, in Graham Woodland's 'Nyssa's End'.
----
"Nyssa-Sheila-Ourania!" The dreadful stars seemed to kindle
briefly. "It's not much of a birthday present, but it's all I have
left to give You." He smiled without feigning, and tilted his elbow
to warn of something up his sleeve. His thumb stroked teasingly
over the side of its fist. The sounds of mayhem clattered
unregarded behind them.
Did Her head tilt a little further towards him? Did the
corners of Her mouth tug wonderingly upwards?
Slowly, he showed Her his gift, offering Her the hollow of his
hand.
Her abyss-eyes blazed with morningstars, as they looked back
into him. Si felt an enormous, impersonal presence, frigid as
liquid helium and sharp as a glass scalpel, slide delicately through
every quark and sub-sub-sub-concept of his being: changing it as
little as looking can, and so utterly.
The Dayspring flared zircon-white. Si felt himself enveloped,
known, and subliming into motes finer than light. His next thought
was a wordless trust; his next, _I thought Nyssa would come. She
isn't here anywhere..._
Nor was she; and that was his last thought in the whole
Universe.
----
FIRST: But now, it's time for me to announce the winner, hmm?
[FIRST opens the envelope, and reads the card within.]
FIRST: And... we have a tie!
[Murmuring from the AUDIENCE.]
FIRST: In _joint_ first place for Best Story of the Decade, we have, mm, Becky
McLaughlin's 'Plague World'...
[FIRST pauses, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.]
FIRST:...and Graham Woodland's 'Nyssa's End'. If either or both of those fine
young people could come to the podium for the award..?
---
AMBER: [mops forehead] Right. After all that excitement, let's see how much
we've raised for the kids.
[The new total flashes up: £ 5, 393, 082
[AMBER eyes it sceptically, but ploughs on.]
AMBER: Don't go anywhere. We'll be right back after the break.
---
PAUL GADZIKOWSKI
: [Varne picks a large envelope up from the podium and gives it to
: Magnus.]
:
: Magnus: "Right. The nominees are
:
: Destrii, 'The Dark Half' series
: Peri, 'Peri arc III'
: Third Doctor, 'The Three Jos'
: [Magnus opens the envelope and looks at the contents.]
:
: Magnus: "Right, the winner is Peri, for 'Peri arc III'.
(At the announcement, PERI rises from her seat in the audience. But a
big-and-tall man with Clark Kent glasses, wearing a rented tuxedo and
a long red scarf, enters the studio from the lobby.)
PERI
(grumbling as she sits again)
For *this*, he author-inserts.
(PAUL GADZIKOWSKI reaches the podium and VARNE hands him the statuette.
PAUL looks it over a moment. Then he gives what he once promised would
be his acceptance speech the first time he won an award; even though
the promisee/addressee isn't likely ever to see this post, and those
who do read it can only know through inference who the two people are
that it references.)
PAUL
Holly, Mr. Dillman was right.
(PAUL exits the studio. The camera remains on the empty podium about
thirty seconds, until the director finally realizes that that really
was the shortest acceptance speech of the modern age.)
--
Paul Gadzikowski, scar...@iglou.com since 1995
http://members.iglou.com/scarfman
"Angel's gone. Angelus is back." "Step away from the glass."
Graham Woodland
**TRADING PLACES** [1]
or
The Persecution And Adricisation Of Trader Grey,
As Carried Out By The Inmates Of Out Of Continuity,
Under The Misdirection Of Carrie & Co.
*Post the First: They Came from Somewhere Else*
====
I. Inayat wrote
>
>
>----
>
>FIRST: But now, it's time for me to announce the winner, hmm?
>
>[FIRST opens the envelope, and reads the card within.]
>
>FIRST: And... we have a tie!
>
>[Murmuring from the AUDIENCE.]
>
>FIRST: In _joint_ first place for Best Story of the Decade, we have, mm, Becky
>McLaughlin's 'Plague World'...
>
>[FIRST pauses, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.]
>
>FIRST:...and Graham Woodland's 'Nyssa's End'. If either or both of those fine
>young people could come to the podium for the award..?
>
====
[CARRIE, who is sitting near the front row with a noticeable lack of
Authorial company, blows a cat-whistle. This is just like a dog-
whistle, except that those with hearing in the feline range can't detect
it either. MR PUSHKIN, a swag-bellied old white tomcat, immediately
ducks under her chair and commences a brief and intense burst of
scratching.]
FANBOY UNDER CHAIR: Split a banana, the mog's -- !
CARRIE [standing up, smiling apologetically to PRESENTERS and AUDIENCE,
and bouncing the plastic chair politely off the FANBOY's head]:
-- split, I believe. What were you doing under my chair?
FANBOY [coming stiffly erect]: Where the interests of Her Wondrous and
Adorable Holiness are concerned, y-you may expect to find us on guard
everywhere!
[NYSSA, from across the room, bounces an ashtray off the back of his
head. Sensing its divine source, he faints with sheer bliss. Or so we
presume.]
CARRIE: I thought I *recognised* all of that crew...
NYSSA [plaintively]: Doctor, may I start putting down metaldehyde
pellets now?
THE FIFTH DOCTOR: Brave gorge, Nyssa!
SIL, THE GRAVIS, AND A BASKET OF SAUSAGE DHOLES PROVIDED FOR REASONS AND
BY CATERING AGENCIES OF WHICH THE LESS SAID THE BETTER: We trust this
means, No way, squire!
[CARRIE blows her cat-whistle again. A previously unnoticed
TORTOISESHELL CAT leaps onto the stage from the audience, and proceeds
to have a typical catly 'mad half-hour' compressed into the space of
approximately a minute. With each leap, the TORTOISESHELL's rakings of
the air make rips in the Very Fabric of Plot, as if it were no more than
the upholstery of an extremely expensive sofa.
Various eyes turn apprehensively to AMBER for her reaction to these
extravagances -- those eyes, that is, not locked onto the stage in
dreadful vigil for evidence of Shub-Barneyrath or similar refugees from
the Social Calendar. Fortunately, no evidence of divine dis- or
diabolical pleasure immediately manifests itself.
Other persons and apparatus, however, *do*. There appears to be rather
a lot of them. IMRAN, ALLIE, and several other AUTHORS AND MUSES begin
to develop perceptible twitches.]
CARRIE: Thanks, C'mell. _M'raouw m'raouw fish C'mell puss m'rrrrr
m'raouw fish yesss m'rrrrmrrrr!_ -- I'll just be a trice!
[Heads for the dressing-rooms, with C'MELL TORTOISESHELL bounding
ballistically off the stage and hastening to follow in her footsteps.]
SNUFFLES, ESQ., A GENTLEMAN GHOUL: Such super-idiomatic fluency in Cat
is putting us all to shame and no mistake, Miss Carrie!
[ANJI and WOLSEY start singing the chorus of Pulp's _Stereotypes_ under
their breaths, until THE SEVENTH DOCTOR smiles faintly, and begins to
seek through his pockets for means of instrumental accompaniment.
Upon the stage, a set is being flung together at breakneck speed by most
of the new arrivals. One of the two exceptions is a thin, sharp-nosed,
thirtyish woman in a gleaming silvery wheelchair. She is being pushed
towards the mike by the other -- a buxom and seriously gorgeous young
lady of vaguely Middle Eastern appearance and roguish expression, whose
long wavy hair is dyed green, purple, and pink. Said vision takes the
mike from the stand, and holds it in front of the older woman.]
LADY IN WHEELCHAIR: Well, does Katibol have to invoke it, or -- Oh. I
*see*. [Waves regally to AMBER]. Hello, Your -- [She scrabbles hastily
for a title, and makes an axelike chopping motion with her hand. Her
face is as quick and animated as her gestures, though her co-ordination
of both seems a bit off.] -- Inspiration. Say hello to Gé for me and
my Mistress, won't you?
-- Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, and people! I'm Celerian verh
Arien, High Queen of the West and High Priestess of the Goddess-World
Daea. I'd just like to say I'm sorry I've had to deprive you of so much
of my Author's time these past months; but I've got a war to fight or
just possibly dodge around, world to save -- I think you know how that
goes -- so I've had to request and require his services. Carrie verh
Spring's too, of course.
[A sudden and violent fit of tooth-chattering obliterates her next
phrases. The lady with the hair rubs her shoulders soothingly. She
starts again as if nothing had happened:]
It's always nice to be able to return a favour... Carrie needed some
good engineers and musicians on standby, so let me introduce our crew to
you while they're here. I suspect most of us will be about six books
dead before our setting gets into any state where your 'Doctor' would
feel at home crossing over; but such as we are, just for tonight:
That handsome young rough diamond is Alan. He's a miller and a
protagonist, and possibly the rightful khan of an extinct nation. Don't
let his bluff expression fool you. The stocky woman in the workingman's
clothes is Kati: she lives in the Dark Lord's Commonwealth, and she's
quite the nicest levelling earth-spoiling fanatical atheist demon-dupe
anyone could hope to meet. Mark how smoothly they assemble that
preposterous Darkling contraption together, as if they didn't need words
to talk to each other. I like them both, especially from a distance.
The big lunk moving the heavy stuff is my champion, Taw. The
disreputable little bard fussing over that lyre-frame is my cousin Lark.
And wheeling my chair is my personal slave, the Princess Lylat of
Khoudzi.
[LYLAT waves merrily at the murmuring AUDIENCE. A FANBOY previously
concealed behind a curtain -- from whose window-ledge he enjoyed an
excellent view of any dangers to Wondrous and Adorable Nyssa that
MISTRESS HELEN might have been harbouring in her bosom -- faints with a
nosebleed, and splats to the ground unpleasingly.]
MISTRESS HELEN: Do what?
CELERIAN: If that meant what I think it meant, I didn't mean what he
thought I meant.
MISTRESS HELEN [regarding LYLAT speculatively]: Well, in that case, Your
Maj...
CELERIAN: Lylat has my permission, of course, but I doubt I have hers or
Taw's to grant it.
[TAW grunts negatively without looking around.]
LYLAT: Or your fiancé's, I'll bet, do you Leery?
CELERIAN: Stop trying to get him started. I'm told these devil-devil
devices are really finicky to set up, and I'd rather have Carrie in my
debt than be in hers.
KATI: Hah. [Picks up great big monster black plastic connector. ALAN
picks up its mate.] Bistrification -- ON! [They slap the two together.
There is a blue flash and a large shower of sparks.] Let's test it!
[Commotion offstage. The dressing-room doors burst open.]
THE THIRD DOCTOR: The Mistress of Organisation strikes again!
SAM JONES [nostalgically]: I wish she would! What a sad day when the
Dialectical Duo succumbed to bourgeois conformist splittism!
FITZ: I wasn't brought up to hit girls. So shut up, thanks very much.
[A much-lacerated FANBOY runs screaming into the night, C'MELL bounding
after him with claws out.]
NUMBER ONE [with ominous mildness]: Daryl, I'm thinking you and I and Mr
Shatner are overdue for a mighty serious conference.
DARREN ULLMAN, GLORIOUS LEADER OF THE WONDROUS AND ADORABLE NYSSA'S
KNIGHT-ERRANTS REGIMENT: Whaaaa...? No! No! These must be cheap
unauthorised imitations, plagiarising our heroic dedication after the
manner of sadfans, than whom nothing could be less like we WANKERs'
awesome selves!
NUMBER ONE [rising, with increased suspicion]: What chickens did you
sacrifice to learn to talk like *that*, boy?
FASTOLF: Peace, brave Bastard. The Lady Amber hath lain o'er all this
event an enchantment of passing fluent communication: well I know this,
for three times this eve did great Fastolf seek to utter a sentence nigh
as ravellable to the groundlings as an Elizabethan knot-garden; and each
time did expel and deliver mere wit and sense, as e'en the meanest of my
tribe might do without breaking a brain-sweat!
NUMBER ONE [sitting down]: Yeah, right.
[DARREN launches an urgent ipsihumanitarian flight into the night, with
the other WANKERs following hard on his heels. During all this, LARK
THE BARD has been playing a haunting Celtic number on one of the two
lyres, yielding much mechanical action and a sound pretty much like that
of an electric harp.]
FASTOLF [flapping his crests]: Meseems here's o'er much cry, for little
wool enow!
ALAN [making final adjustment]: By Didymenë, I reckon we've got it!
KATI: You can stop now, Bard.
LARK [with great distaste]: You're not the Commissar of *me*, Darkling;
but I thank you at least for getting it over with quickly. I don't
think I've ever seen such a wrong-headed, mechanical desecration of the
living spirit of music.
ANJI: Well, *someone's* never heard of Stock, Aitken, and Waterman...
CALLIE MINET, THE METAFICTIONAL POP PRINCESS: *I* like it like that!
CATS HAMBRIDGE AND MEG OF TERMINUS: Your wish is our command, O kinky
Kylielicious kanga chile of chimerical pop product!
CELERIAN: It's been a pleasure to meet you all. [Goes into another
spasm.] But now Carrie's stage is set, we have a Dark Lord to --
LARK: -- consign to mere perdition --
TAW: -- lop --
ALAN: -- bamboozle --
KATI: -- reason with --
LYLAT: -- whatever --
CELERIAN: -- together. If that doesn't play out, may I just reconsider
my thoughts about the Doctor and crossover rescue missions?
LARK: Our victory is written in the eternal stars!
LYLAT: Yes, well so was my great-uncle's hot ancestral tip for the
super-accumulator on the camel-races at Assayut, and look what that got
him!
LARK: A fair princess and half a kingdom?
LYLAT, ALAN, and the entire AUDIENCE: No -- the hump!
[A moment of silence ensues, as everyone contemplates their shame.]
ALAN: Mind out. I can't find the way back.
AMBER: It's all right; I don't care to leave PLOT holes hanging open in
my shows, so they healed automatically. C'mell... C'mell? Oh...
KATI [flatly]: We're stuck. I love magic so much, Alan.
AMBER: I can always send you back myself, but that's a bit involved
without Carrie and the Trader's participating. Would you care to be our
guests for the rest of the ceremony?
CELERIAN: Delighted. [She flinches.] Lylat, I can't draw on Her here.
Could I have some anodyne, if we're going to -- *Oh!*
AMBER: Gaia's compliments, Your Majesty. I won't have my guests curse-
wracked, even indirectly. Come on down and watch the presentation!
[A long, gently-sloping, disabled-friendly ramp extrudes forward and
then leftwards across the front of the stage. The TRUE KHAN CREW
descend to join the AUDIENCE, with the imposing TAW in the lead ahead of
his High Queen. KATI's dour expression has dissipated with AMBER's act
of hospitality.]
ALAN: Told you we'd land on our feet.
[They take up a table by NYSSA, TEGAN, and the FIFTH DOCTOR. The stage
darkens.]
XEFFY [muttering]: Get *on* with it!
AYNA [wing-fwapping her]: Hey!
ALLIE: A-*hem*...
AMBER: This is certainly quite a build-up, and even I don't know what
comes next. Are Grey and Carrie always this elaborate? [Shrieks,
groans, gibberings, and autodefenestrations ensue.] I *see*...
FASTOLF: Nay, madam, 'tis little like the Trader to pad an acceptance
speech in such cumbrous-elaborate wise. Yet withal a kind of happy
misfortune ofttimes dogs his steps and his fair lady's, and engrosses
their plots most largely. Belike Fortuna, and not our jolly champions,
bespanner thy works so; or again, they may labour in sore quest for
their honoured co-winner, who wrought so great a play on plagues non-
Terminal!
AMBER [indulgently]: Considering my remit, I think I'm taking this as a
compliment. And knowing a thing or two about extra-continual time, I
should be able to fit things into the schedule without *too* much
disruption.
WILLOW [aside]: The 'Mark as Read' key works for me...
XANDER: Whoa -- meee-ow!
TARA: Actually you should say 'miaouw', or a real cat would think you
meant... Uh, ummm... I'm shutting up now, okay?
[The lights begin to rise. The sweet sounds of an electric lyre twang
plangently from the stage. Okay, it's a fair cop, the AUTHOR has never
heard one either!]
THE SECOND AND EIGHTH DOCTORS, FITZ, XEFFY, AYNA, TALIESIN, OZ, LOREN,
CALLIE, LARK, SI WESTPORT, and FULL CHORUS OF MUSICIANS FROM _NYSSA'S
END_: Oh, say *what*...?
====
TO BE CONTINUED...
====
[1] A digression which should in no way be interpreted as stemming from
my being so honoured, gobsmacked, and generally grinning and blinking
like a big tomfool that I am desperately playing for time in order to be
able to thank the whole blessed lot of yez coherently!
Well, maybe just a bit.
Okay, maybe just a bit totally. ;-)
Trader Grey will expound further on this theme when he turns up.
In the meantime, my masters (and mistresses), wot have done so much to
get me back on the writing rails and given me so many hours of witty,
dramatic, and just plain uniquely adwcly company and entertainment -- I
have the very great pleasure to remain,
Yr most humble obedt. Servant,
(Cheers,)
--
Gray
http://www.quilpole.demon.co.uk
"She does not get eaten by the sharks at this time."
- William Goldman, _The Princess Bride_.
Graham Woodland
>
> **TRADING PLACES** [1]
>
> or
>
> The Persecution And Adricisation Of Trader Grey,
> As Carried Out By The Inmates Of Out Of Continuity,
> Under The Misdirection Of Carrie & Co.
>
>
*Post the Second: A-Muse-ing Grace.*
>[The lights begin to rise. The sweet sounds of an electric lyre twang
plangently from the stage. Okay, it's a fair cop, the AUTHOR has never
heard one either!]
>FITZ, XEFFY, AYNA, TALIESIN, OZ, LOREN, CALLIE, LARK, and FULL CHORUS
OF MUSICIANS FROM _NYSSA'S END_: Oh, say *what*...?
[The lights come on. CARRIE is discovered, robed in a classical Greek
chiton of brilliant electric blue, playing one of the lyres. The
strings operate a set of long typewriter-like keys, which punch holes in
one of a series of cards which slowly emerge from a mechanical
dispenser. When each card is complete, it drops into a slot on a kind
of Jacquard loom, which is slowly churning out a twisted and eye-
stunning weave which makes the Fourth Doctor's scarf look like the top-
of-the-range offering from ChicEstNous.
Further wires attached to the zooming shuttle operate a _Vorsetzer_ -- a
human-substitute contraption, such as sits at the front of the very most
expensive player pianos -- which plucks with metallic digits the strings
of the *second* lyre, which in turn is wired up to a dirty great jury-
rigged amp full of thumping big vacuum tubes. And the music, having
gone round and round oh-woh-woh-woh, oh yeah, it comes out there, in
that classic Mixolydian mode with whose invention the Bradleyard's very
favourite lyric poet did once mightily shake Mytilene, or so they
say...]
AUDIENCE [to SCRIPTWRITER]: A rhubarb! Bring us a rhubarb to purge this
cobblers! Get on with it!
FITZ: Er, is it just me, or has what she's playing got nothing to do
with what comes out there?
LARK [choking]: It's not just you. I helped commit *that*?
KATI: It's just you two. Our machine spreads the joy of cultural labour
even to people who can't play worth a plutonik's promises, if they know
just how they want it to sound. Isn't it *wonderful*?
NYSSA [raptly]: Oh... I think I'm in love...
ADRIC [who has been re-entering whilst all eyes were on the stage]: Uh?
Whaaa? Iiiii...?
[NYSSA throws an absent-minded stream of shuriken over her shoulder at
him. They miss, being stopped by the massive anorak of a RAGING FANGIRL
who had leapt up from under the SECOND DOCTOR's table with clear
Alzaricidal intent. She wails and flees into the night.]
KATI [blushing violently, to NYSSA]: Thank you. I'm taken.
JAMIE: Noo, who waur that muckle greet whoor wha' waur sae sleely
crouching 'neath ma kilt?
THE SECOND DOCTOR: I don't know, Jamie. I'm beginning to suspect
something isn't quite right here.
ZOË: Surely not. [To JAMIE]: *How* greet a whoor waur she, exactly?
JAMIE [blushing violently]: No as greet as a' that!
CARRIE [singing]:
Words and the man I sing, who foxed by Fate
And vows 'twere death and tax to violate,
Lies exiled from these Adrics far away --
Or at the best, stands subject to delay.
Then sing, Muse! Yes; and from a brim-full heart --
[A huge pink heart-shaped cake trundles towards her from the wings. Up
through the cream-whorled icing surges a lady bearing a remarkable
resemblance to CARRIE herself, although a few key differences present
themselves to the trained eye. The hair is an unsubtle suicide blonde;
the figure and fizzog constitute a ripe testimony to the wonders of
modern plastic surgery; and her dress sense, like all the best and most
authentic elements of horror, is best described by indirection,
implication, and lurid adjectives trailing off into drooling madness.
She removes her bicycle-chain garter, swings it wildly above her head,
and blows the audience a remarkable greeting which resembles not so much
a kiss as a job.
CARRIE facefaults, but plays determinedly on. Her lyric flow, however,
appears to be somewhat impeded. The SUICIDE BLONDE notes this, and
picks up the thread without a break.]
SUICIDE BLONDE: Hi, Sis! I'm here to take the Trader's part.
(The chance would be a thing extremely fine!)
CARRIE: Rotate, dear Candy. Trader Grey is mine,
And such cheap charms to him do not appeal,
As witness when, half-way through _Cockatiel_,
Unsure and shy in writing to arouse,
I prayed your aid, whose nymphographic nous
Exceeds all bounds. And when I got back home,
That damned debauch with which you'd filled his dome
Had left him less addicted than distressed
So that he took six months to write the rest,
And, till I'd drawn your poison from Ep. Four,
To --
CALLIE and CATS [singing]: Turn it into love!
CARRIE: -- could write no more.
Your current Author's fitted to your kinks,
CANDY: And all my --
CARRIE [coughs]: -- But mine is not, methinks,
And please don't take this show beyond PG!
CANDY: What kid would wade through this much poetry?
SI and LARK: You call it that?
THE AUDIENCE: Move on! Stop wasting time!
CANDY: But that's the point!
WILLOW: We're heckling in rhyme!
It's like that whacky Broadway curse again!
[CARRIE sags horribly at her harp.]
AMBER [frowning]: Such ills could scarce slip past One of the Ten!
[rallies, as does CARRIE]: No, folks, it looks like just a perfectly
normal outbreak of synchronised silliness...
BUFFY: Uh-huh.
[The DOCTORS all put on expressions to a similarly sceptical and ominous
effect, but no Bad Things show immediate signs of happening. CARRIE
continues playing, but wisely cuts the lyric. CANDY steps quickly back,
and pretends not to have been hovering solicitously over her elder
sister.]
CANDY [leering at CARRIE]: So let's pretend that I am Trader Grey --
AUDIENCE: Oy, watch it!
CANDY: Did I scan? Alacka---
CARRIE [firmly]: ---las!
CANDY: On Grey's behalf, I'd just like to say how honoured I am to
belong to a group with the taste to recognize True Genius where they
find it. When I consider the _Traken Surgical Bondage_ passie, SF's
most creative use to date for a Sierpinski gasket, and the implied
cacodemonic venereal horror of Adric's backstory, it fills my li'l ole
heart to know I've finally found the kind of audience that isn't ashamed
to appreciate the artistic heights --
[CARRIE mouths a frantic appeal to AMBER, who nods judiciously. THE
WOMBLES OF WIMBLEDON COMMON troop in from stage left, and begin noisily
clearing up the debris of the cake. MADAME CHOLET obscures CANDY's
increasingly lewd body-language with an impromptu performance of the
can-can.]
ACE [bounding onto stage]: Excuse me, Perfessor, you *got* to meet
someone! [THE SEVENTH DOCTOR climbs onto the stage up his umbrella.]
*Mimi????*
MADAME CHOLET: *Dorothée?* _Mon Dieu_... con eet bee? Where 'as hyou
bin all zees decades????
CANDY: Must... not... be... upstaged...! [Attempts to crawl between
MADAME CHOLET's woolly legs to front of stage, but collides with FANBOY
whose head is protruding from a salient trapdoor.]
ACE: The T'yutons were attacking....
[CANDY manhandles the FANBOY up through the trapdoor and away from La
Womble. The FANBOY is too overcome with rigor vitae at her manhandling
to resist, but this makes him somewhat awkward to move about. A
crossed-out banana in a red circle can be clearly seen printed on his T-
shirt. Now we think of it, the previous Fanboys might have sported
something similar, if they'd stayed still for long enough for us to
notice!]
MADAME CHOLET: ... Ah yes, I remember eet well! Ma leurve an' I were to
meet à la Gare du Nord, an' make a new leef far from all zees crazy
mixed-eurp invasion d'aliens! But... [sniffles] I 'ad word in ze nique
of team zat mon mari, ze 'ero of our race 'oo I ad zought mort, 'ad curm
from ze beeter Est to lead ma peuple to a Ouesterne paradis far from ze
waste an' ze persecution!
GREAT-UNCLE BULGARIA [ecologically disposing of a bottle of Khan Krum,
and gesturing animatedly at himself]: Woooargh! _Na zdrave!_ Kick 'em
up, darlink!
[CANDY makes a balletic twirl, stoops low, and hurls the FANBOY over the
WOMBLES' heads like a hammer. He crashes through the studio doors and
is not seen again. Shock, horror, outrage!]
THE SEVENTH DOCTOR [going pale]: I thought I rrrecognized...!
MADAME CHOLET [also paling]: Le bon Docteur? _C'est tu? Mais, mon
pauvre, pauvre Doqui-Ouoqui....!_
THE SEVENTH DOCTOR [soulfully]: Courrrage, Mimi. We'll always have
Parrrrris.
[ACE leads the AUDIENCE in a mass act of tiger-parking. During the
confusion, the other WOMBLES exit stage right, carrying their collected
trash and for some reason CANDY with them.]
CANDY [singing lasciviously]: You're all entertainers from your heads
down, To your wombling --
SPIKE: So what's this supposed to be, then -- _The Fast and the
Furry-ous_? *Please*...
CANDY [off]: A-go-go!
BUFFY [brightly]: Thank you for that thought. [Plays 'Kick the Spike'.]
[The freshly-massed ranks of DON ORMAN'S INTELLIGENT TIGERS park their
people. The action stutters to a confused halt, as AMBER realises that
the stage directions have now become completely unintelligible.]
THE FIFTH DOCTOR: Well, *I'm* stumped.
ANJI: Hello? "Park one's tiger" is a witty Nineties euphemism for
delivering a pavement pizza!
BUFFY: Ewwww!
AMBER [popping some opoponax]: Euuuuia! [The TIGERS, being INTELLIGENT,
realise their presence is superfluous, and take their custom elsewhere.]
Where were we?
THE SIXTH DOCTOR: The paragon of Parisienne pulchritude and my Seventh
self had sloped off, no-one wishes to know whither --
THE FIFTH DOCTOR: -- and we were just forgetting the whole tawdry
episode had ever happened --
THE LADY AMANDA CAMPION: You can go off a chap, you know.
THE FOURTH DOCTOR: -- while Beauty and the Beasts were charging offstage
to --
THE THIRD DOCTOR: -- no-one wishes to know what for, and we were just
forgetting *that* tawdry episode, when --
THE SECOND DOCTOR: Oh, dear oh dearie me, I'm very much afraid I've lost
track.
THE FIRST DOCTOR: I was wanting a word with that young scamp Bulgaria.
Where *did* he get my hat, h'mmm?
CARRIE: -- Here we were, are, or are about to be: Go, little Morfus!
[The whatnot the loom has been weaving writhes, wriggles to its...
fringes? tentacles? legs? It's really difficult to tell. It scrambles
off the stage and out the studio doors with surprising, nay nigh-on
fantastic, alacrity.]
That should seek out our co-winner -- if, of course, she *can* be found
by means of the Web!
[Mixtures of groans and whooshes, the latter caused by Carrie's 'joke'
flying over heads, under feet, and past barn doors by ten feet.]
But back to the core of the matter! My Author, Trader Grey, sends his
apologies, and wishes it to be understood that he cannot be here
tonight. For after his loss of patience, peace of mind, and 2d6 hard-
earned SAN points in his desperate brush with the degenerate followers
of the accurst demon Estaranzun Selavie of the Golden Heart, he swore an
oath by the sacred waters of holy Lethe that never again would he
knowingly come within a country mile or a monitor screen of any kind of
bloody Telethon!
DOMINIC [puzzled]: *Lethe?* Not Styx?
CARRIE: There was a special offer on. Besides, even swearing by Lethe
binds 9 out of 10 full demigods, honest, chief, or your money back; or
so Mr Siemote Diblios informed him. [Significant pause] This was
before our Trading days, you understand. But as far as I can tell, and
possibly by accident, Mr Diblios seems to have had more or less the
right idea.
Worse, Grey implored Eulenspiegel, Puck, and Harpo to come and
personally strike him pink if he even again *thought* about *listening*
to any proposal to involve him in, and I quote, bloody bleeding effing
geeing charity stunts for the whimsical wonderful sufferin' saccharine
cutesy-tootsy patronised packaged evil-little-bastards-I'm-not-so-
bloody-old-I-don't-remember-what-I-was-like-at-their-age rhubarbing
repetitious bloody blanket broadcasting KIDS!!!
And I'm fairly sure that tricky trio would accept his invitation gladly,
if he broke his pledge...
[Many blinks, headshakings, and frowns.]
THE SIXTH DOCTOR: Just occasionally, Mel, I wonder whether I like this
Grey person at all!
MEL: It certainly isn't a very positive attitude!
[AMBER looks confused and slightly hurt.]
CARRIE: Don't think he didn't curse himself when he heard what you were
planning, and realised he couldn't be with us all! But vows, honour,
and threats of supernally horrible penalties must bind our tragic mortal
spirits, and so he has bowed his mighty head to the ironical decree of
the Fates, though sorrow hang around his neck like a millstone!
ALAN: You mean it broke it? Blame me, do you have any idea how heavy
those things *are*, Miss?
LYLAT: It's all right to keep your tongue between your teeth sometimes,
Alan dear.
KATI [puzzled]: Why should he? Do these people not understand jokes?
ANYA: Not that I've noticed, no! Xander, *why* don't your people
understand funny jokes?
SARAH JANE: I think that was jolly mean of him in the first place!
CARRIE: Let she not vow to refrain from the bah-humbug, who has not seen
the flash of the Sugar-White Fangs of Arrgh!
AMBER: I think that those who have... suffered trauma at the hands of
unspeakable extradimensional evils... deserve to be cut a bit of slack.
The Trader has my sympathy, then. So... he's sent you to collect his
award, since stern Fates forbid him to come himself?
THE AUDIENCE [mollified]: Well, you can see his point, I mean, cor,
golly gosh, you know, makes you think, who can cheat Fate, not Zeus
hisself is what I hear, right, innit?
CARRIE: I'm glad you asked me that, Mob. That's what my Doyen of Dosh
*thinks*, of course; but even now, steps are in train to reunite our
jolly company! For I had a cunning contingency plan...
[The MORFUS returns, carrying a wildly-flailing TRIFFID. Public
excitement ensues.]
CARRIE: ...which was not that.
TO BE CONTINUED....
Cheers,