Eeeeeeeeeeeee! (That's the sound of me after watching the Dr Who 50th anniversary episode.)
Stabbity stab! Stabbity stab! Stabbity stab! (That's the sound of me threatening to stab my father when he phoned in the middle of said episode. Inconsiderate bastard.)
Anyway, we haven't had a X-over bunny for a while, but this little fella popped his head out of the washing machine (what he was doing in there, I'll never know). This was going to be a series of one-shots, but I'm a bit worried that it's developing a thread of some sort... allons-y!
Hobbies
It was one of those deceptively small, poky eateries that look to the casual observer as thought it probably deserved some close attention from the Health Department: the façade was faded, the awning was sagging, and the front windows were streaked with street grime. In the grey, uninspiring light of evening, it didn't do much to fill passers-by with the desire to step inside to peruse the establishment with a view to ordering a meal.
Inside was a different matter entirely. The interior was spotless, the settings simple but of good quality, and the atmosphere welcoming and cosy, bustling enough to be convivial, but unobtrusive enough that you could have a private conversation.
As it turned out, the food was very good, and since it clearly did a brisk enough trade to stay in business, the regulars obviously like it just as it was, without any stickybeaks wandering past popping in to gawp, and say things like "Oh, look, they do butter chicken, why don't we try this place, if it's any good we'll come back next week for lunch provided Steve doesn't do The Thing With The Naan Bread and get us all thrown out of this place too, can you see any sign saying they don't split the bill, never mind we'll just assume that they do because we're the customers and we're always right and maybe we could bring the kids, Indian people love kids so they won't mind and letting them run up and down the aisles while we eat is a great way to let them express themselves and we'll just pull really offended faces at anyone who dares to suggest that parents taking their children out in public should keep them under control..."
The plainly but well-dressed elderly man with a hawk-like profile sat at a table set for two. He was delicately selecting morsels from a plate of achari paneeer, a spiced cheese dish, and eating it with a knife and fork with the sort of good manners that suggest they have been learned at boarding school, an Officer's training college, or at the end of Mother Superior's ruler.
Steered by a waiter with a slightly confused look on his face, his dining companion arrived.
"You are late," the elderly man told his companion without rancor.
WE BOTH ARE, JUST LIKE OUR CLIENTS.
The new arrival sat carefully, in an action that might've put an astute observer in mind of a complicated deck chair folding itself up with economy of movement.
I DON'T KNOW IF YOU NOTICED, he went on, BUT THAT WAS A PUNE, OR PLAY ON WORDS.
"I did notice," the first diner cracked a small smile, "And I must tell you that you are improving. And so," he gestured for another waiter, who obligingly drifted discreetly in their direction, "Do you wish to peruse the menu, or..."
REALLY, I COULD MURDER A GOOD CURRY, the newcomer shrugged.
"The cook does a very good authentic vindaloo," suggested the well-dressed gentleman, "Which, as it was originally intended when derived from Portuguese cuisine, is only of medium heat."
The second diner was perusing the menu in some apparent confusion. I SEE IT HERE, BUT... THE LIST OF INGREDIENTS DOES NOT MENTION SOGGY SWEDE, SULTANAS OR INDETERMINATE MUSHY ORANGE THINGS.
"This is a very good establishment," the first diner reiterated, "And I'm sure that, if necessary, the cook will provide you with overcooked brassica vegetable, raisins and suspiciously colourful chunks of dubious origin. Although," his face did take on a very slightly chiding expression, "Poor Ajay has had a vexing day – a group of walk-ins arrived, and wanted gluten-free roti, masala daal without lentils, and a fat-free coconut madras curry with beef instead of lamb. And they let their children run around like they were being chased by werewolves."
The taller diner didn't ask how his fellow diner knew what people looked like when they were being chased by werewolves, because he knew for a fact that his companion knew exactly what that looked like.
"One of the little wretches ran full tilt into a table, and cut his head," the besuited man went on, his expression suggesting that if he was in charge, people wouldn't just have to get a licence to breed, they'd have to complete a course, sit an exam, pass a viva, then submit their firstborn at twelve monthly intervals for the first five years of its life for assessment as to development of adequate manners and that people who got that far would be motivated to attain some sort of control over their offspring less they suffer the penalty for failure to do so, which would be summary sterilisation of themselves and, in cases of extreme parental selfishness and stupidity, debarking of the offending child. "And you know how that pans out."
HEY NONNY NONNY AND BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE, sighed his friend. IT WASN'T ALWAYS LIKE THIS, HERE – AM I IMAGINING IT, OR WERE CHILDREN BETTER BEHAVED WHEN MORE OF THEM ROUTINELY DIED BEFORE THEY REACHED THE AGE OF FIVE?
"I think perhaps their parents were better behaved," shrugged the first diner. "But let us not waste our time on discussing The Trouble With Young People Today – we'll be at it forever." He turned back to the menu. "I do suggest that you try the vindaloo. Ajay is a stickler for authenticity."
At his gesture, the waiter drifted back over, looking at the second arrival with a sort of confusion suggesting that what his eyes were telling him (Well, look at that, there's a seven foot tall skeleton in a decidedly eldritch robe sitting at table eleven) did not tally exactly with what his brain was telling him (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH!), as the elderly gentleman poured his friend a drink from a carafe. "Do try the lassi, Ajay's wife Veena makes them fresh daily."
The seven foot skeleton lifted the glass and peered at it. THIS DRINK IS MADE FROM COLLIE DOGS?
"No," smiled the man, "Made with real mangoes, none of that sugar-soaked rubbish from tins."
The seven foot skeleton tried the drink, and the waiter took their order (AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH how does a skeleton even drink AAAAAAAAAARGH!).
"So," began his companion, his eyes twinkling, "Your Apocalypse was… derailed. Again."
YES, Death nodded, AS WAS YOURS, I UNDERSTAND.
"Indeed."
FUNNY HOW THESE THINGS NEVER SEEM TO GO ACCORDING TO PLAN, ISN'T IT?
"There is definitely an element of amusement," agreed Death. "Which is always welcome, when otherwise it's business as usual."
OH YES, sighed Death, BUSY BUSY BUSY.
"Not another epidemic?" asked Death. "Surely you could ask Pestilence to pull his weight?"
I'M AFRAID HE'S TURNED INTO A BIT OF A HYPOCHONDRIAC, confided Death, HE DOESN'T LIKE EPIDEMICS; CLAIMS THEY'RE FULL OF SICK PEOPLE.
Death blinked. "Well, that's difficult to refute," he said eventually.
I DON'T MIND, Death told him, AT LEAST IF I'M DOING THE DUTY, I KNOW IT WILL BE DONE PROPERLY. I TRIED DELEGATING, ONCE. He managed to look sheepish. IT… DIDN'T TURN OUT HOW I THOUGHT IT WOULD.
"Oh, I understand better than you might think," Death gave his counterpart a rueful smile. "That's the engaging thing about humanity. They never fail to surprise you."
MY GRANDDAUGHTER KEEPS TELLING ME THAT I SHOULD GET A HOBBY, Death admitted, BUT I'M NOT SURE THAT… he paused. EXCUSE ME. Fishing inside his robe, he took out a lifetimer.
Death had seen his counterpart's tools of trade before, but the one he held was unlike any he'd seen before. The glasswork was twisted, convoluted, turning in and back and around on itself in a way that would've made a Mobius strip run home and throw itself on the bed and cry because it felt so plain and uninteresting. As they watched, the sand paused, swirled into a miniature tornado in one lopsided bulb, then began to flow upwards.
"What on Earth is that?" asked Death, intrigued.
LIKE I SAID, MY GRANDDAUGHTER SAID I SHOULD GET A HOBBY, Death grinned, THIS IS HIM.
"Fascinating," Death peered at the glass. He concentrated until he could see the small running figure. "He looks old enough to know that it's not spelled 'WIZZARD', if you ask me." After a moment's thought, he took a small electronic device from a pocket. "Would you care to see mine?"
Death took the small thing carefully and peered at the screen. GOODNESS ME, he commented, HOW MANY TIMES?
"At least a hundred, technically speaking."
AND HIS BROTHER?
"Not as many, but several."
MY WORD. A skeletal finger touched the small screen carefully. NOT SO MUCH A LIFELINE AS A LIFEMACRAME. He ran a bony digit across the glass. GOOD GRIEF, SERIOUSLY? THEY COULD'VE TAKEN CONTROL OF YOUR UNDERWORLD?
"The Trousers of Time, my friend," Death couldn't help but smile. "That's humans for you. They keep you guessing."
NO DOUBT THEY PLAY MERRY HELL WITH THE PAPERWORK.
"Indeed they do," Death confirmed, "But the interest value alone makes them worth it."
Their meal arrived shortly afterwards. Death was right; Ajay did a mean authentic vindaloo, and Death enjoyed it immensely.
I'M AFRAID YOU MIGHT HAVE SPOILED ME, he sighed, scraping up the last of the sauce with a piece of roti, I SHALL HAVE TO MAKE A POINT OF HEADING TO KLATCH FOR MY CURRY FROM NOW ON.
"The perils of expanding one's culinary experience," sympathised Death. "It's like tasting really good Belgian chocolate praline for the first time – afterwards, that Hersheys or Cadbury muck just doesn't cut it any more. Now, if you'd like something terribly tempting and deliciously sinful for dessert, might I suggest…"
There was a short muffled blast of loud raucous music from Death's suit pocket.
'HIGHWAY TO HELL'? queried Death, IT'S NOW SO BUSY THAT YOU HAD TO BUILD A ROAD?
"It's just a song," Death told him, consulting his organiser, "Some of my Reapers find it amusing to select what they believe to be pertinent tunes for particular alerts… oh dear," he sighed.
DUTY CALLING? asked Death sympathetically
"More than you know." Death handed over the device. Death looked at it, then did a double take.
HOW THE DISC… WHAT THE HELLS ARE THEY DOING THERE?
"I've long since learned not to ask 'how' or 'why'," sighed Death, taking out an expensive wallet and leaving enough to cover the meal plus a generous tip, "Sometimes, even an incredibly powerful anthropomorphic personification can't get a sensible answer."
I AM DEPRESSINGLY FAMILIAR WITH THAT SENTIMENT, nodded Death. SO, WOULD YOU LIKE A LIFT?
"That would be very kind of you," smiled Death, "And I was planning to see Binky again." He took a few mints from the small bowl on the counter as they left.
YOU SPOIL HIM, chided Death gently.
"He does like mints so," Death chuckled, as the tall white horse whickered a greeting to him, then carefully snuffled up the proffered candies. "Never met a horse that didn't like mints."
Death swung himself up into the saddle, and Death sprang up behind him, amazingly spry for a gentleman of apparently advancing years.
THEY'LL BE IN ANKH-MORPORK, intoned Death, IF ANYTHING LIKE THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN, IT WILL HAPPEN IN ANKH-MORPORK.
"I'm looking on the bright side," Death pointed out, "I'll be able to stock up on Mrs Biddlestaff's biscuits. I'm afraid I've developed a taste for her Jammy Jimmies, and I hold you entirely responsible."
THINK OF IT AS REVENGE FOR RUINING ME FOR ACHMED'S HOUSE OF CURRY, Death grinned (but he would, wouldn't he?)
Completely unseen by the pedestrians swirling around them, the horse cantered smoothly along the street, and rose into the air.
SQUEAK.