The British Potato Council
So it has been brought to my attention by Mr. You-Know-Who-You-Are that my author's notes are no longer interesting. Sweetheart, the part you're supposed to be reading is the story. You know, the little words beneath the author's note? And now you have no excuse because you have actually watched Dr. Who. However, since I am a kind and loving person, I will include that I spent a good chunk of this morning crouched in my front hallway trying to persuade my cat to come out of the closet. He was rather reluctant to do so. However as I type this, he's sitting on a chair in the kitchen, resolutely looking out the window, but when I talk to him, he gives me his little innocent look just like Caspian's. That's all you're getting Mister. Deal.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith," said the disobliging BPC secretary, not sounding sorry at all, "but Mr. Pomme-Terre is very, very busy, and has no time for impromptu meetings."
"How about impromptu mad men?" cried the Doctor. "Because I'm about to get very, very mad!"
The secretary looked unimpressed. She popped a bubble with her gum. Jack, who had been standing a few paces back, next to Martha, moved forward. He clapped a hand patronizingly on the Doctor's shoulder.
"Okay, Johnny boy, why don't you back up." He winked at the secretary, who blushed.
Martha rolled her eyes.
"You'll have to pardon my friend," Jack said, leaning easily on the polished glass counter. "He doesn't often talk to such…" he let his eyes linger up the secretary's face, tracing the rising flush, "gorgeous women. He gets flustered."
The secretary giggled, then forced the smile away. "There are no-I mean-you'll have to show identification," she said in a commendable attempt at authority.
"I'm Captain Jack Harkness," said Jack. "And who might you be?"
"Martha Waters," said the secretary breathlessly, all pretense forgotten.
Martha let out a frustrated sigh. "It would be," she hissed in the Doctor's ear.
"Martha…" said Jack slowly, savoring each syllable. "Beautiful name for a beautiful face. Listen, Martha." He leaned in even closer and lowered his voice to a sultry murmur. "When I'm done with my very important meeting with Mr. Pottear-"
"Pomme-Terre," Martha Waters corrected.
"Mr. Pomme-Terre, I don't see any reason why I shouldn't take you out for a romantic, candle-lit meal."
"That's very against protocol," said Martha Waters. "No one sees Mr. Pomme-Terre without an appointment." Jack traced his finger along her jaw line. "But, I guess…I mean, I suppose…" she flashed a nervous smile, "if you're quick."
"Oh, Martha Waters," said Jack. He took bother her hands in his. "You may, truly, have just saved thousands of lives." He gave her one last grin, then turned to Martha and the Doctor. "Shall we?"
At the door, he looked back at the secretary. "I'll see you tonight, Martha Waters."
Jack, Martha, and the Doctor proceeded into the stairwell.
"Could you have laid it on any thicker?" said Martha.
"It worked, didn't it," Jack shot back over his shoulder, leading the way up the stairs.
After three flights they came to a door which led into a plush, richly carpeted hallway, at the end of which was a tall, polished mahogany door. Drawing nearer, they saw it was mounted with a bronze plaque which read, "Alfonso Pomme-Terre, Chairman." The Doctor pushed the door open without knocking.
"'Allo, there," he said brightly, striding right up to the massive desk which dominated the room and placing both his palms on its surface. "I'm the Doctor. You must be Alfonso Pomme-Terre."
Pomme-Terre, a small, round man with a round face and round little eyes gaped up at the Doctor, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
"I say!" he said finally, slapping a fountain pen onto the desktop and standing up. "What is the meaning of this, sir!"
"Alfonso, you need to stop the potato festival. Your potatoes are poisoned." He removed the potato with Jack's bite marks from his pocket and set it on the desk.
Disregarding it, Pomme-Terre blustered, "What is this nonsense? My potatoes aren't poisoned. This is preposterous! Who let you in?"
"Ah, well. That's not important. What's important is that in eighteen hours you will two thousand people dropping dead from your potatoes!"
"Outrageous!" shouted the little man. His face had darkened to a violent magenta, and he had raised himself to his full height such that he almost reached the Doctor's sternum. "You will leave, sir, or I will have security escort you out!"
The Doctor glared at him for a long moment, then took a deep steadying breath. "Mr. Pomme-Terre, please. We are positive that these potatoes will kill people.
"And where is your proof?" cried Pomme-Terre.
The Doctor pointed at Jack. "This an d- nearly died after biting that potato on your desk. Sir, I am begging you. Quarantine those potatoes and cancel the festival."
"I've had quite enough of this nonsense!" said Pomme-Terre. "Get out of my office."
"Alfonso, you're making a mistake," said the Doctor. "Please." The doors to the office banged open and six security guards came in. Two each grabbed Jack and Martha, who offered little resistance. The Doctor, however, strained every step of the way out of the office, flailing his limbs, shouting, "You'll be responsible for thousands of deaths, Alfonso! You will! Stop the festival!" They were thrown forcefully from the room and the doors were slammed shut. Instantly, the Doctor relaxed, and the three of them were escorted from the building.
Out on the street, Martha and Jack looked at the Doctor. "What kind of Potato Council has armed guards to spare?"
"None, besides the Potay," said the Doctor. "Dear Alfonso's keeping secrets." He led them briskly down the sidewalk, following his sonic screwdriver. The hot pink light flashed slowly, on…off…on…off. Down several blocks and across two streets-without using the crosswalks or looking up-back to the warehouse. Outside, a small crowd was gathered. The Doctor strode up to a flustered looking man holding a clipboard.
He held up the psychic paper. "BPC health inspector. What's going on?"
The man wiped his shining forehead. He leaned closer to the Doctor and whispered. "Our potatoes have been…stolen."
"Stolen?" said Martha.
The man nodded. He seemed to be very near heart failure. "There was a truck, right there." He pointed to a spot on the road, where on might parallel park for ease of access to the warehouse. "The shipment from Ecuador. And then it just…vanished! Right in front of my eyes! It was just gone!"
"It's alright, calm down." The Doctor placed a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "Everything's going to be fine. Are you in charge here?"
The man shook his head. "Mr. Pata is the festival director."
"Right, and where is he now?"
The man turned and nodded to a trailer parked in the alley beside the warehouse. "He's in there. Oh God, will you tell him? Please, it wasn't my fault!"
"Calm down," said the Doctor again. "Believe me, Mr. Pata's got bigger problems to deal with."
As they crossed to the trailer, Martha said, "That man said the Potay took the Ecuador shipment."
"That's assuming it was the Potay," Jack pointed out.
"It was," said the Doctor. "The Potay had good relations with the Time Lords. We shared technology. The Potay probably has a matter transmitter." Stopped walking, his sharp eyes roving all around the area. "Which means he's close."
"But he just took the Ecuador shipment," said Martha, "So maybe he does know his toes landed in South America."
"Right!" cried the Doctor wildly, pointing at Martha. "Good. Deductive reasoning!" He stared at her a moment. "Nope. We need to…" he frowned at Jack. "Human!" he shouted. "How many toes have you got?"
"Ten," said Jack, concerned.
"TEN! Good." The Doctor was breathing hard. "We need to talk to Mr. Pata." He wheeled about and sprinted to the trailer.
He burst through the flimsy plastic door, but when he spoke, he was surprisingly calm. He pulled the potato out of his pocket and held it out to a man in a pinstriped suit. "Mr. Pata, I'm John Smith, BPC consulting health advisor. You need to quarantine these potatoes."
Mr. Pata was tall and thin, even more so than the Doctor. The comparison Martha drew was to the walking stick from "A Bug's Life". He raised an eyebrow and looked down at the potato.
"That is a very serious demand, Mr. Smith. What evidence do you have to support it?"
"The potatoes are poisoned," said the Doctor.
"We shall decide that for ourselves." Mr. Pata indicated to white-coated lab assistants seated at a long white table behind him, in a portable lab which took up the rest of the trailer. "Prepare a toxicity template."
Vibrations won't show up on the test, Martha realized. She reached for Jack's hand and gave it a brief squeeze. He squeezed back, signaling that he understood.
"Great!" he shouted angrily. "A toxicity test. Why don't you just mail it to the poison control center? People will start dying at six o'clock tomorrow morning! You need to act now!"
Mr. Pata regarded him as one might a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of one's shoe. "You'll pardon us if we don't take your word for it. We will need proof before-"
"Proof!" cried Jack. He marched forward and snatched the potato out of the Doctor's hand, and took a bite.
"Jack!" Martha screamed. "NO!" she ran toward him, but the Doctor, taking the cue, held her back. She pulled against his grip for a moment, then stilled as all eyes focused on Jack. He swallowed. And dropped to the floor.
"NO!" Martha buried her face in the Doctor's coat, sobbing loudly, pounding her fists against his chest. The Doctor wrapped his arms around her. He was staring at Jack's body as though unable to believe what he'd just seen. Slowly, Pata bent to the ground and held to fingers against Jack's throat, then straightened, considerably paler.
"How's that for proof?" the Doctor snapped, still holding Martha. "How many more people have to die?"
Pata turned to the lab assistant nearest him. "Seal off the warehouse. Send word to the Council. And you," he said to the other. "Call an ambulance."
"It's too late for him," said the Doctor grimly. "He gave his life for London. Make sure it wasn't in vain."
He led Martha out, using his body to help conceal her tear-less face until they were clear of the scene.
"Now what?" asked Martha. "How're we gonna get Jack out of the morgue?"
"He's died plenty of times," the Doctor assured her. "He's got experience in getting out of morgues. We," he took her hand, "are going Potay hunting."
Thanks for reading! All reviews appersheated. And this is for Mr. YKWYA:
EXTERMINATE!