[Alright, with two votes, it's the Doctor up for the chop. Eleventh, in this case. If, however, anybody's interested in When Capaldi Met Capaldi, it may be found at my tumblr (poisonsal). That was just a little too meta for this.]
Alright, it's not often I have to ask this question. This question, for me, comes up about as often as 'How was it for you?' Not that I don't get any, you understand. Just that I don't give a toss. But to return to my point:
Who the fuck is this cunt?
Shows up here with a UNIT entourage? I could give you two fucking pages on what the fuck UNIT think they're doing this far up the river. There's a reason we gave them that Tower, and it's so they'll fucking stay there. If they start wandering up here again, I'll be casting my vote to lock the loony bastards in there. Dealing with fucking extra-terrestrials? Need to deal with their fucking mental issues first, y'ask me.
There. That's the abstract of my two pages on what the fuck Unit think they're doing this far up the fucking river. Let's just leave it at that and move on to the business at hand, shall we?
Here, amongst a cavalcade of stupidly uniformed UNIT pricks!, (no, I promise, that's it, I'm finished talking about those Fucked Mulders and Dana Skullfucks… I am, that's it, I'm finished!) is some fresh hell. It's got an all-over rubbery look, like something just cast out of plastercine in a children's playgroup. There's a lot of hair hanging off the front of its head, but none of it is eyebrow or facial hair. Whole thing looks like a giant twelve-year-old. It is wearing tweed and a bow-tie. That was the first thing I saw, actually. Nearly dismissed this whole fucking cataclysm as some House of Lords runaway situation. Somebody got away from his careworker for a bit, bless. Take him home, change his nappy, everything'll be hunky-fucking-dory.
But it doesn't add up, does it? Especially when you factor in the presence of… fuck, I said I was finished, didn't I? I had a good one there about what exactly these hopeless, miasmic messes, these crumpled tissues of wank, are UNITs of, but I said I was finished. Oh well. Never mind. I'm sure you'll make something up.
No, it doesn't add up. And then you take into account the last and most disgusting fact in all of this, and that's the look on this odd creature's face. He stares all round himself, looking at ceilings and floors and fucking plaster-moulded Victorian cornicing with his mouth open, all smiles, all full of the idiot joy of existence.
Please, God, there must be some arsehole in this building still clinging on to his old service revolver. Give it to me, I'll make all of this stop… Just for me, you understand. The rest of you can stay and fucking suffer.
None of it adds up. Or it doesn't seem to and then, right there, in the clear blue yonder at the top of an impossible, soul-rending rage, everything clicks.
That's why it's UNIT, isn't it? (Shut up, I never even fucking commented on them, and believe me, I could comment for days on those Manchurian Cuntidates!)
Fuck me, that's why I don't know who he is.
The pricks actually went and caught an alien…
[C'mon, c'mon, these are all too easy to hate! ...Or is that just Malc talking? Oh, which reminds me - C. , my sweet, I won't be doing Jim Moriarty here, for the sole and simple reason that it is my personal headcanon that he sometimes goes for drinks with Mal and Jamie, everybody's accents getting thicker and thicker until it's just noises and probably a fight.]