The planet Bin D'heng was a forbidding place, a stormy sky looming over a landscape of undeniable boredom. From the door of the TARDIS, the Doctor could see a slatted wooden path stretching off to the mountain ranges in the distance, the crennellated sillhouette of Castle Trist-nwright occasionally illuminated by a flash of jagged lightning. A shudder ran through his body as he remembered the words of the dying war-lord: "Fuck, this was me best suit." and remembered the promise that he had made.
Whatever had impelled him to tell N'Droowodai that he would return his brother-in-law's hedgetrimmers, he would never know. Still, the promise had been made, and the Doctor was after all a man of honour. He briefly wished he was back in his sixth incarnation, when he would without a millisecond's hesitation have told the warlord to fuck off - but then visions of a vast cake mountain floated before his eyes, and he checked himself.
During this reverie, the Doctor had made his way up the path and now stood in front of the castle's massive gates - with no apparent means of access. The mad prophet Ssay'wrrd had told him there would be an an entry coder, possibly hidden in a roundel. But he was clearly a lying twat.
Only after irretrievably bending one of the prongs on his Kastrian gooseberry peelers trying to break the magnetic seal on the gates was the Doctor's attention drawn to the shallow alcove nearby. There, pushed through the lip of an empty milk bottle he found a slip of rolled papyrus. The rain had smudged the ink on the message a little and although the Doctor's D'hengalese was rusty after all this time he could just make out the words: Just try ringing the bell Doctor. Someone had obviously been expecting him.
Somewhere deep within the castle, a wisened old man regarded a visiscreen. The tiny black and white figure of the Doctor gingerly stepped into frame, and extended a digit towards the button. Said wisened old man leant forward and extended a finger himself. Before him lay a variety of halved coconuts, Yale locks, bits of elastic and one large red button. It was over this that he hovered. As the doctor pressed the doorbell, the archaic fart pressed his button, and within the keep a bell rang out. The antique fuck relaxed, and wished there was a better way of doing things.
Meanwhile, in an unremarkable garage in Chislehurst, a wooden crate that had lain dormant for centuries began to quiver. The Doctor's patented Cake Juggling Machine and Dog Brusher - and all the exciting adventures that it entailed - had woken up.
Fancy continuing from here? Then come up with something and whack it in the text box below. Press the appropriate button and it'll either be winging it's way to me before you can say "Time and the Rani" or vanish up its own arse like "Attack of the Cybermen". At the end of the week I'll collect together the best ones and either use an entire submission or hack the funniest bits together into one glorious hole. Sorry, whole.
Article Text © 1998/2003 the respective author(s). All other text © Rob Morris / SAD Magazine. Design © Rob Morris 1999/2003. No reproduction of material in whole or in part may be undertaken without permission of the copyright holders.