Post by magnusgreel on May 15, 2009 6:49:23 GMT
Teaspoon didn't accept this, so I'm posting here. Any ideas on why it was rejected would be appreciated. My guess is that they skimmed and saw capital letters and didn't realize I was mock-screaming to make fun of that sort of thing.
In the middle of an eye crisis I was stupid enough to type this, and do damage, so I'd really like to see it posted there.
No bad words, though it gets a little 'sordid' at the end... not anything I think they'd reject the story for.
(The following was written in 2005, during those frustrating few months of rumors and maddening fragments of information about the first year of stories being planned for Russell Davies' revival of Doctor Who. This is what I was afraid the Eccleston era might be like, given that the rest of TV was, well, horrible.... in the
US anyway...)
Prepare for the edgy thrill and adrenaline rush of....
"X-TREME DOCTOR WHO! ! ! ! ! !"
*****
NO LIMITS!!! Endgame!!! This is the episode where they RISK EVERYTHING!!! After 26 years, IT ALL COMES DOWN TO THIS and other meaningless things they say on TV a lot!!! NO LIMITS!!! NO LIMITS!!! AAAAA!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!
*****
The Ninth Doctor sat in a battered, old nineteenth century wooden chair in what would have been a corner of the room, if the console room had corners. He was slumped over slightly, and snoring.
(We suggest you prepare for the rest of this episode by administering sedatives to everyone in the room, scheduling an emergency appointment for post-traumatic stress therapy for tomorrow, and keeping a fire-extinguisher handy in case you spontaneously combust from excitement.)
Doctor Number Nine snored edgily in his hip, edgy black T-shirt and black leather jacket. He was truly an updated Doctor for a new millennium. Oh, and he was wearing pants. I left that out. He had shoes on, too. On his feet.
(The BBC suggests that you administer the sedatives NOW.)
Despite looking as if he might spring suddenly into full-tilt, exciting, pulse-pounding action at any moment, as soon as he wakes up, Doctor Nine gradually slumped over in his chair, more and more. Eventually he collapsed in a heap on the floor, face down, still snoring.
Beloved companion Rose walked in. "Spike, uh, I mean Doctor... what updated-for-the-new-millenium, digitally-recorded adventure shall we launch into this week? Should I open the doors for the obviously lifeless plastic mannequins someone has placed right outside the Tardis, as a practical joke I suppose.... as well as the updated Daleks and the shorter members of the Blue Conehead Group, who just happen to be loitering just outside, also? Or should we enter a contest to become futuristic singing stars that takes place on a deserted tropical planet, where cameras record everything we do? That sounds exciting!! I mean, how updated can you get?!"
The Doctor awoke with a start and a snort and a burp. "URP... You've just described the entire first series-- uh, Rose? Was that your name? Anyway, with a relaunching like this, who needs hiatuses?! What do you say we move this 'Parting of the Ways' up in the schedule a bit? Throw that lever, Rose, and let that small army of murderous aliens inside!! I feel like holding an open house, or an evil Tupperware party, or something!! Temporal Grace, Shmemporal Grace, I say they get to kill us!!! And for once, the villains get to see me die, so just in case I manage to regenerate, they can make sure that they finish the job!!! Certainly Rose, go ahead and open the Tardis doors!!! Let's get this over with!!!"
"What was that, Doctor?" Rose was gyrating on the other side of the room, wearing one of those air-traffic-controller-type mics on her head, and "singing" in an affected, exaggerated, pseudo-black, whiny, nasal voice (which the Doctor could hear, once he'd finished his frantic screaming). "I'm practicing for my audition! Sorry, were you screaming anything important?"
"OH, FOR... if you want suicide done right, do it yourself...." Ol' Nine-Lives got up and pulled the door lever himself.
Four guys in suits walked in. "We represent the estate of Terry Nation, and we're not going to allow the Daleks to come in and kill you unless we get more creative control."
"What about the department store dummies and Blue Meanies?"
"After a brief conversation with us, they've gone off to speak to their lawyers as well. It turns out that they'd been killing people for free up until now." Strangely enough, all four lawyers had said this in unison.
Rose broke in. "Events certainly move along more quickly in these forty-five minute stories! I've already been picked as a finalist on 'Big Fear Survivor Idol Planet', and we leave immediately!"
"MEL!! COME BACK!! ALL IS FORGIVEN!!!!" Doc Nueve shrieked. "And what the hell use are you people?" he yelled at the Nation legal team. "You don't look as if you could last through a squash game or polish off a lunch-hour pina colada without help, much less kill a Time Lord!!"
"Sorry, the best we can do is to nibble you to death like ducks, through lawsuits, subpoenas, injunctions, and all that good legal stuff that the world loves us for," the Head Vampire, I mean the head lawyer, said. "Though Kevin here, who handles all our simpler cases, will kick you in the crotch for twenty bucks. If you're short on funds, he's even been known to do some pro bono work in this area."
The Doctor scowled. "No. No, that won't help at ALL.... I don't think you quite share my creative vision, here... wait, just who is it who wants creative control? Terry Nation isn't creating much at the moment."
The leader of the pack (of legal weasels) answered, "We represent the estate of Mr. Nation, and we are therefore custodians of his creative output and can make decisions in regard to the aforementioned output." His three colleagues immediately made sounds of approval and said things like, "Well done!" and "Well put!" and "Squash game Thursday?" and generally complimented him and slapped him on the back and shook his hand for thirty seconds or so.
All this had still not died down yet when Number Nine interrupted, "So what is it exactly that makes you qualified to make creative decisions?"
Dominant Weasel replied, "We're wearing suits."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
A different lawyer stepped forward. "I'll field this one, Dennis." He paused. "They're very nice suits."
"What?!"
"Italian," the second weasel continued. "The shoes, too." Murmurs of agreement came from the whole group, and then of course they all had to spend another thirty seconds complimenting each other on suits and shoes and haircuts, and a date and time were finally worked out for that squash game.
The Doctor lunged for the Tardis console, worked a few buttons and switches, and spoke with an echo to his voice. "This is a general distress call to all my enemies throughout space and time. I need you to come and kill me, right now!! Clean my atomic clock, punch my galactic ticket, and... what the hell, I can't think of good jokes at a time like this! I'm transmitting my co-ordinates and daring you to blast me out of existence!! Any takers?!"
There was then a long, awkward silence as everyone waited for a response of some kind, which didn't come. The Doctor flipped the same switches again and said (again with the echo), "You get to kill some lawyers too."
Suddenly there were so many transmissions coming in at once that it was impossible to make out what any of them were saying. The Cybermen were sending a special strike force. The Sontarans and Rutans had made peace and joined forces for the expressed purpose of weasel-whacking. The Supreme Dalek insisted on putting the lawyers on trial, the irony of which was lost on the four suits, who were weeping openly and attempting to dial 911 on their cell phones as best they could with their hands shaking so much. "We're just doing our jobs!!!" sobbed Kevin into the Tardis's transmitter. Suddenly the alien threats became much louder and much angrier.
Then an alarm sounded that had never been heard in the Tardis before. The Doctor was puzzled. "Hmmm... that's the new Auton alarm I installed recently for no particular reason. There seems to be an Auton presence of some kind in the Tardis...."
As if on cue, the door that led from the console room out into the corridor slowly creaked open. A figure about five and a half feet tall staggered forward, bright pink all over, with an exaggerated, unrealistic female figure. As it approached, it became clear that it was made of plastic, specifically vinyl, was inflated with air, and was not a mannequin. Its mouth was strangely and disturbingly wide-open, though it did not speak.
"Gentlemen, put those cells away!" the Doctor called out triumphantly. "Your death sentences have been commuted! I'm raising the Tardis's defensive shields! Rose, break out the puncture repair kit!!"
Rose however was busy being strangled to death by the Doctor's Plastic Pal Who's Fun to Be With. "Automation is a wonderful thing..." the Doctor commented. "When I was Doctor Number Six, I had to do these kinds of things myself!"
FIN!!
In the middle of an eye crisis I was stupid enough to type this, and do damage, so I'd really like to see it posted there.
No bad words, though it gets a little 'sordid' at the end... not anything I think they'd reject the story for.
(The following was written in 2005, during those frustrating few months of rumors and maddening fragments of information about the first year of stories being planned for Russell Davies' revival of Doctor Who. This is what I was afraid the Eccleston era might be like, given that the rest of TV was, well, horrible.... in the
US anyway...)
Prepare for the edgy thrill and adrenaline rush of....
"X-TREME DOCTOR WHO! ! ! ! ! !"
*****
NO LIMITS!!! Endgame!!! This is the episode where they RISK EVERYTHING!!! After 26 years, IT ALL COMES DOWN TO THIS and other meaningless things they say on TV a lot!!! NO LIMITS!!! NO LIMITS!!! AAAAA!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!
*****
The Ninth Doctor sat in a battered, old nineteenth century wooden chair in what would have been a corner of the room, if the console room had corners. He was slumped over slightly, and snoring.
(We suggest you prepare for the rest of this episode by administering sedatives to everyone in the room, scheduling an emergency appointment for post-traumatic stress therapy for tomorrow, and keeping a fire-extinguisher handy in case you spontaneously combust from excitement.)
Doctor Number Nine snored edgily in his hip, edgy black T-shirt and black leather jacket. He was truly an updated Doctor for a new millennium. Oh, and he was wearing pants. I left that out. He had shoes on, too. On his feet.
(The BBC suggests that you administer the sedatives NOW.)
Despite looking as if he might spring suddenly into full-tilt, exciting, pulse-pounding action at any moment, as soon as he wakes up, Doctor Nine gradually slumped over in his chair, more and more. Eventually he collapsed in a heap on the floor, face down, still snoring.
Beloved companion Rose walked in. "Spike, uh, I mean Doctor... what updated-for-the-new-millenium, digitally-recorded adventure shall we launch into this week? Should I open the doors for the obviously lifeless plastic mannequins someone has placed right outside the Tardis, as a practical joke I suppose.... as well as the updated Daleks and the shorter members of the Blue Conehead Group, who just happen to be loitering just outside, also? Or should we enter a contest to become futuristic singing stars that takes place on a deserted tropical planet, where cameras record everything we do? That sounds exciting!! I mean, how updated can you get?!"
The Doctor awoke with a start and a snort and a burp. "URP... You've just described the entire first series-- uh, Rose? Was that your name? Anyway, with a relaunching like this, who needs hiatuses?! What do you say we move this 'Parting of the Ways' up in the schedule a bit? Throw that lever, Rose, and let that small army of murderous aliens inside!! I feel like holding an open house, or an evil Tupperware party, or something!! Temporal Grace, Shmemporal Grace, I say they get to kill us!!! And for once, the villains get to see me die, so just in case I manage to regenerate, they can make sure that they finish the job!!! Certainly Rose, go ahead and open the Tardis doors!!! Let's get this over with!!!"
"What was that, Doctor?" Rose was gyrating on the other side of the room, wearing one of those air-traffic-controller-type mics on her head, and "singing" in an affected, exaggerated, pseudo-black, whiny, nasal voice (which the Doctor could hear, once he'd finished his frantic screaming). "I'm practicing for my audition! Sorry, were you screaming anything important?"
"OH, FOR... if you want suicide done right, do it yourself...." Ol' Nine-Lives got up and pulled the door lever himself.
Four guys in suits walked in. "We represent the estate of Terry Nation, and we're not going to allow the Daleks to come in and kill you unless we get more creative control."
"What about the department store dummies and Blue Meanies?"
"After a brief conversation with us, they've gone off to speak to their lawyers as well. It turns out that they'd been killing people for free up until now." Strangely enough, all four lawyers had said this in unison.
Rose broke in. "Events certainly move along more quickly in these forty-five minute stories! I've already been picked as a finalist on 'Big Fear Survivor Idol Planet', and we leave immediately!"
"MEL!! COME BACK!! ALL IS FORGIVEN!!!!" Doc Nueve shrieked. "And what the hell use are you people?" he yelled at the Nation legal team. "You don't look as if you could last through a squash game or polish off a lunch-hour pina colada without help, much less kill a Time Lord!!"
"Sorry, the best we can do is to nibble you to death like ducks, through lawsuits, subpoenas, injunctions, and all that good legal stuff that the world loves us for," the Head Vampire, I mean the head lawyer, said. "Though Kevin here, who handles all our simpler cases, will kick you in the crotch for twenty bucks. If you're short on funds, he's even been known to do some pro bono work in this area."
The Doctor scowled. "No. No, that won't help at ALL.... I don't think you quite share my creative vision, here... wait, just who is it who wants creative control? Terry Nation isn't creating much at the moment."
The leader of the pack (of legal weasels) answered, "We represent the estate of Mr. Nation, and we are therefore custodians of his creative output and can make decisions in regard to the aforementioned output." His three colleagues immediately made sounds of approval and said things like, "Well done!" and "Well put!" and "Squash game Thursday?" and generally complimented him and slapped him on the back and shook his hand for thirty seconds or so.
All this had still not died down yet when Number Nine interrupted, "So what is it exactly that makes you qualified to make creative decisions?"
Dominant Weasel replied, "We're wearing suits."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
A different lawyer stepped forward. "I'll field this one, Dennis." He paused. "They're very nice suits."
"What?!"
"Italian," the second weasel continued. "The shoes, too." Murmurs of agreement came from the whole group, and then of course they all had to spend another thirty seconds complimenting each other on suits and shoes and haircuts, and a date and time were finally worked out for that squash game.
The Doctor lunged for the Tardis console, worked a few buttons and switches, and spoke with an echo to his voice. "This is a general distress call to all my enemies throughout space and time. I need you to come and kill me, right now!! Clean my atomic clock, punch my galactic ticket, and... what the hell, I can't think of good jokes at a time like this! I'm transmitting my co-ordinates and daring you to blast me out of existence!! Any takers?!"
There was then a long, awkward silence as everyone waited for a response of some kind, which didn't come. The Doctor flipped the same switches again and said (again with the echo), "You get to kill some lawyers too."
Suddenly there were so many transmissions coming in at once that it was impossible to make out what any of them were saying. The Cybermen were sending a special strike force. The Sontarans and Rutans had made peace and joined forces for the expressed purpose of weasel-whacking. The Supreme Dalek insisted on putting the lawyers on trial, the irony of which was lost on the four suits, who were weeping openly and attempting to dial 911 on their cell phones as best they could with their hands shaking so much. "We're just doing our jobs!!!" sobbed Kevin into the Tardis's transmitter. Suddenly the alien threats became much louder and much angrier.
Then an alarm sounded that had never been heard in the Tardis before. The Doctor was puzzled. "Hmmm... that's the new Auton alarm I installed recently for no particular reason. There seems to be an Auton presence of some kind in the Tardis...."
As if on cue, the door that led from the console room out into the corridor slowly creaked open. A figure about five and a half feet tall staggered forward, bright pink all over, with an exaggerated, unrealistic female figure. As it approached, it became clear that it was made of plastic, specifically vinyl, was inflated with air, and was not a mannequin. Its mouth was strangely and disturbingly wide-open, though it did not speak.
"Gentlemen, put those cells away!" the Doctor called out triumphantly. "Your death sentences have been commuted! I'm raising the Tardis's defensive shields! Rose, break out the puncture repair kit!!"
Rose however was busy being strangled to death by the Doctor's Plastic Pal Who's Fun to Be With. "Automation is a wonderful thing..." the Doctor commented. "When I was Doctor Number Six, I had to do these kinds of things myself!"
FIN!!
