A Timely Intervention

The TARDIS lands
in a teenage Time Lord's
bedroom.

The stink of stale Lynx,
Beef & Tomato Pot Noodles
and feet is overpowering.

Ashtrays overflow,
disgorging their Regal
contents all over the
Gallifreyan shagpile.

It's unprepossessing
and all a bit goth.

Then I see it:
the ghostly wan face
of the young Master
in a convex mirror;
in the first flush of evil,
sporting a prickly
bumfluff goatee.

The Doctor instructs me
to go back into the library
and alphabeticise the CDs,
from ABC (How to Be a ... Zillionaire!)
to ZZ Top (Tres Hombres).

He straps on
his Louis Vuitton
shitkickers
and strides out
into the Master's lair,
saying "this could take some time".

Strange sounds abound
as I flip
through the compact discs.
What can they be up to?

POW!
BAM!
ZONK!
NEESHT!
and other onomatopoeia
from a different franchise
altogether.

The Doctor returns,
red-faced but jubilant,
chucks
his brass knucks
at the cast iron brolly stand
and booms
in stentorian tones,
"Set coordinates for Skaro!"

Looks like we're on a roll.

It's time to gate-crash
Davros's wedding.

B.R. 05/10/2016

(see also Gallifreyan Gallimaufry, Dr Who Annuals, Dinner with Davros and K9 Blues)

Roger Caesar Marius Bernard de Delgado Torres Castillo Roberto (The Master) with a couple of Sea Devils he picked up in the queue at the fish and chip shop.