A/N:- Blub, blub, blub, blub. Can't thinkies of what to say… Except that, I am in dire need of a proofreading session with myself. I shall book an appointment tomorrow. And I'll rob Ryuk too. Well, before Light finds out and murders me. I may rob his Death Note too - just in case.
Disclaimer: Hello! You know the answer by now. If you don't… I'll NEVER tell you! You can be left to bask in the closet of Hidden Secrets FOREVER more… MWAHAHAHAHAPPYHAHAHA! Ahem. HEEHAW. =D
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Chapter 11
"AAAARGH!" a random man screamed, right into Ned's face, exposing the stunned Pie Maker to the reeking stench of onion, onion, and a hint of onion. The random man cared to eye the bewildered Pie Maker suspiciously, before he ran off to be gobbled up by the mob of people.
The Pie Maker stiffened. "Chuck, why is there a murderous-looking mob charging towards that particularly designated spot twenty-five metres away?" Ned gabbled, but when only the war cries of the crazed crowd met his ringing ears, he gulped and looked to the left. "Chuck?"
But the girl named Chuck had, in fact, disappeared... into the ravenous realms of the unanimously crazed crowd.
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One minute and seventeen seconds earlier, a red and white polka-dot clad arm had reached out from the suddenly congregated crowd, and coincidentally found itself tangled up, in the long, wavy coils of one Charlotte Charles's hair.
Whilst Ned had been pensively rabbiting on about: disappearing sneakers, pies, and one particular day in Longborough School for Boys, where an unfortunately complicated scenario involving chewing gum, a bent crowbar, and a saltshaker had taken place – Chuck had been plucked out of the nice, secluded corner, and into the not-nice, vast crowd.
"Hello, my name's Jonathan Jones, it's very nice to meet you. And isn't this a lovely day for mobbing people?" a curly, brown haired man fitted in cravat, polka dotted shirt, and waistcoat said brightly to her.
"Hello, my name's Chuck, and it's nice to meet you too!" Chuck introduced, still being frantically ushered forward by the crowd. "Yes, it is a lovely day for mobbing people - if you're not a pacifist, of course. Um, Mr Jones, would you mind disentangling your hand from my hair?"
"Oh, yes. Sorry about that. I was trying to reach for my little girl, but found yours instead," Jonathan Jones muttered sheepishly, disentangling his arm from Chuck's hair.
Chuck looked at him quizzically for a moment, but stopped and tore her gaze away, when she remembered it wasn't polite to stare. Instead, whilst shuffling and getting shoved along, she poked her head out of the crowd – scanning the area for a way out. When proven unsuccessful, Chuck sighed and tapped Jonathan Jones on the shoulder.
"Is there any way out of this mob? I normally wouldn't ask but it's just, I have a friend back there, who's probably waiting for me," Chuck explained.
"Oh," Jonathan replied, and suddenly looked crestfallen. "So, you're not here for the mob, then? I was looking forward to mobbing with you."
Chuck shook her head, but Jonathan suddenly brightened up a little and shrugged. "Ah well! There's always a next time," Jonathan dismissed. "You won't be missing out on too much, but I'll try to save a bit of shoe for you." He paused, musing, before he spoke again, "There's no way out, you just have to let the crowd push and shove you along, until you get to the front. Then you can squeeze out through the gaps and go find your friend."
"Thanks for your help, and I hope you find your little girl," Chuck said to him, shaking his hand. She started to walk off, when a thought struck her, and the girl named Chuck turned back to face the man called Jonathan. "Who are we supposed to be mobbing?"
"It's only some shoe scabs we're going after, this time: nobody special. Just a Private Eye, and a blonde waitress, I heard."
Chuck let the man's words roll in her head, as she nudged and pardoned herself through the muttering, crazed mob-crowd.
"Private Eye and a blonde waitress… I'm sure I've heard those words before," she pondered aloud, and faster than Emerson could sniff out money, the realisation struck her. "Emerson and Olive!"
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Lonely and confused, the Doctor was swept deeper and deeper into the pit of the mob-crowd, where the angriest, craziest, and passionate off the mob lay waiting.
The facts were these: though the expression bewildered him greatly, the nine-hundred year old Time Lord had concluded that mob-crowds were definitely not his cup of tea. Well. At least not, when compared to bananas, or when missing three good, heaped spoonfuls of sugar. Or rather, four spoonfuls, in this case, - as not only were the two spoonfuls of sugar called "Ned" and "Chuck" missing, but so too were the two spoonfuls of sugar by the names of "Donna" and "Rose". You see, while being ridden like surfboards on waves through the horde of people, like surfboards can sometimes be washed astray, the time travellers by the names of Rose and Donna had been washed away too. Away from the Time Lord, and into the thriving, vast unknowns… of the mob.
Suddenly, the Time Lord spotted it glinting in the distance. The Doctor gasped; as he saw, the most terrible and devastating sight ahead. It was a sight that shouldn't have even been qualified to be seen by the naked eye. The small, yet significant thing, that one clearly fearless, possessed, and clearly irrational fellow, male mob-member was carrying, glared at the Time Lord evilly – its ruthless doom and gloom reflected into the Doctor eyes. The Doctor shivered.
The alien called the Doctor gulped fearfully and screwed his eyes tightly, as the Evil Being manoeuvred its somewhat drunk, somewhat possessed carrier his way – ever closer. The possessed, drunk man staggered towards him, arms swaying about, and the Evil Being lurking evilly in his hands – obviously controlling the man towards him. The poor fellow.
The Time Lord was shoved forward, by the uninformed currently crowd, closer and closer to it. Its name was too horrible to say. Self-pitying and cringing, the Doctor grimaced and reluctantly stumbled forward, preparing to be confronted face-to-face with one of the most terrible of creations – the one thing that put the fruits of the Universe to shame.
The pear. Cider form…
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Washed away by the waves, Donna and Rose were reluctantly thrown about from person to person…
"Does anyone know where the gift shop is?"
Shoe fanatic to shoe fanatic…
"I'm only in it for the SHOES!"
Stink breath to stink breath…
"I VANT TO STEAL ZOUR SHOES!"
Crazed mob-member to crazed mob member…
"One dose of my sea shanty, and them shoe scabs'll be screaming, they will! Screaming, I tell you!"
Until, at last, three very helpful pairs of hands gave them one almighty shove, and brought them back to shore, where they met one fretful and nervous Ned stood in one nice, secluded corner.
"Thanks for the ride!" Rose yelled back to the mob-crowd, as the hands (of the anonymities) waved them away and submerged back into the crowds.
"Noooooo problem!" three wavering male voices replied, concurrently.
"Lost Chuck?" Donna asked Ned, as soon as she'd steadied herself on the floor and smoothed down the wrinkles of her creased clothes. Rose joined her.
Ned nodded and reciprocated, "You lost the Doctor?"
"Yeah," Donna said simply.
"C'mon then," Rose nodded her head to the East side of the exhibition, where a large, pristine, empty shoe gallery awaited them.
Ned just stared at her enquiringly, blinking.
"According to a very reliable source--" Donna began.
"Who happen to be called Matilda and Mathew Manderson," Rose continued.
"--That mob's not gonna be over with for a while. Apparently, they're mobbing some "shoe scabs" who tried to trick somebody out of their shoes or something. But I dunno, I still reckon they're all bonkers," Donna explained.
"Chuck an' "His Lordship"won't be allowed out of the mob, until it's over."
"We only got out by chance."
"So, there's no point hangin' about here. There's that murder to solve, righ'?"
Donna and Rose started walking off, but they stopped when they realised Ned wasn't following them and was still standing in the corner.
Rose raised an eyebrow. "You comin' or what?"
"But the Doctor said to wait here – in this nice, secluded corner, until he came back," Ned answered. "I'm sure he didn't want me to wonder off. He probably wanted you to wait here too."
Donna heaved a sigh, "Since when did anyone listen to what the Doctor said?"
"Me?" Ned tried.
"Wrong answer."
Ned looked worried – very worried. "Usually, when women say that, it means they're up to something."
"Usually, when men say that, they're being sexist," Rose retorted, raising an eyebrow.
"I didn't mean to--"
Donna smirked, knowledgeably.
"'Course you didn't."
Rose grinned the same wicked grin.
Both rolling their eyes and grabbing an arm each, much to Ned's confusion and unawareness, Donna and Rose forcefully dragged him off with them – whether he liked it or not.
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"Was it really necessary to insult her like that?" Emerson inquired hurriedly, as Miriam stepped back and watched the crazed crowd come roaring toward them.
"Yes," Olive replied, sniffing. "I don't regret one minute of it."
"THEY'RE OVER HERE!" Miriam shouted, using wild, ostentatious arm flails to pinpoint Emerson and Olive.
"Grrr…" Digby growled viciously, at their newfound audience.
"Even with that murderous mob of a crazed crowd stormin' up to us, with their ruthless glares, thunderous pitter-patter of feet, and unnatural shoe obsessions?"
"Yep."
"So, ya couldn't have been a bit subtle and stopped at her shoes?"
"Nope."
The mob-crowd had arrived.
"DON'T THINK FOR A SECOND! THEY'RE DOWNRIGHT SHOE SCABS!" Miriam yelled, stirring up the crowd and using what was known as mob psychology.
"YEAH!" the crowd yelled back, in unison.
"THEY'LL STEAL YOUR SHOES IF YOU LET 'EM GET AWAY!"
"YEAH!"
"D'YOU WANT THAT?"
"YEA— NO!"
"D'you mind shouting a little QUIETER?" Olive inquired from Miriam, sticking her fingers in her ears to block out the woman's yelling.
"YEAH!" declared Miriam, directly yelling in Olive's ear. "I'LL SHOUT AS LOUD AS I WANT!"
"She really hates you," Emerson commented, concealing a smirk and arching his brows instead.
Olive shot him a harsh, vicious glare and glowered forebodingly.
Emerson put his hands up innocently. "I didn't do nothin'." He bent down a little, and beckoned Digby in, to form a little three-person circle. He muttered, "Now we need to think o' a plan." Olive's eyes sparked and she put her hand up, but Emerson glared at her sceptically. "A good plan," he instructed. Olive pouted, dropping her hand. "Now.Any ideas, before murderous mob number one start attackin'?"
Digby barked several times. But, thanks to Simone and her dog Bubblegum constantly tagging along, with them, when they went out, Emerson managed to translate it as: "What are they attacking with?"
"Good point. Let me just check," Emerson agreed and raised his head, for a moment. "'Scuse me, Miss Miriam?"
Miriam glared at him. "What?!"
"What would the crowd be attackin' us with, exactly?"
Miriam turned to the crowd, and conferred with them, in small inaudible mutters.
A couple of grunts, mumbles and yells, from the crowd, later: Miriam replied, "Shoes."
Emerson bent his head down, and Digby barked some more; too bored to translate, Olive took over Emerson's job.
"Digby said…" Olive continued.
"Wha' type of shoes?" Emerson asked, this time.
More conferring. "Any."
"And the rotten apples?"
Mutter. Mutter. Mutter.
"GRANNY SMITHS!" a member of the crowd yelled, on behalf of Miriam.
"Granny Smiths?! Oh, hell no!"
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The crowd had suddenly stopped, and there was a whole lot of yelling going on. The Doctor suspected that they had reached their mobbing destination, as good as it was not being shoved and pushed and cascaded around; the crowd stopping meant only one thing.
Space to move. Space for one possessed, drunken man to come randomly hurtling forward. Space for one pear cider to be wafted under his very nose.
The possessed, drunk man stumbled and propelled himself forward, now practically face to face with the grimacing and aghast Doctor. There were dozens of people to go and provoke, so why him? Why a totally, totally innocent Time Lord, of all people, to target, carrying a bottle containing one of the foulest fruits ever created, no the foulest fruit ever created?
"Yoooooouuuu wanna shoooooooe, mate?" the drunken man slurred in a thick Texan accent, swishing his cider about. He had obviously had too much to drink, well that was judging by not the pear, but the several, empty cans of alcohol bulging out of his pockets. It was either that a "pear cider" bottle looked extremely shoe-like in appearances, or this man was clearly delusional.
The Doctor chose the latter, and wrinkled his nose in distaste – the scent of pear was really getting to him now. Darn his super Time Lord senses. "I'll pass," he said curtly, not at all bothering to be polite.
"Noooo," the man continued, sloshing the contents of half-full/half-empty bottle around. "Everyone in the mob must 'ave a shoooooooe." The drunk man pushed the bottle up to his face, squishing the Time Lord's nose. "Taaaaaaaake it then. I said takes it."
Phwoar. Now that seriously did stink. If it smelt that bad, the Doctor imagined how bad it would taste in his mouth. A shiver ran down his spine.
The Doctor backed away, and put his hands up in surrender. "Right, no need to be hasty."
"Are yoooooouuuu insulting ma shoooooooe?!" the man exclaimed, advancing. Everybody else was too busy shouting "Yeah!" and "Shoes!" and "Granny Smith" to bother about this drunk man, so the Doctor was on his own.
"No, I just don't fancy a--"
Too little too late, Doctor.
The randomly drunk, possessed, and ridiculously irrational man had lunged forward, the cap of the bottle had mysteriously unscrewed itself and thudded to the floor with a slow-motioned THWACK. And then… the clear liquid contents of the bottle had found itself hurtling out of the bottle, tearing into and across the air, and onto the Doctor's unsuspecting face – all in the space of two mere seconds.
Splash.
The Doctor's face was drenched.
"Now that is what you call plain unfair."
He guffawed sarcastically; as he peeled his eyes back open, only to find them sticky and horrible. Like a wet dog, he tried to shake his head free of the horrendous pear liquid, but only in vain. The pear cider simply stuck to him, and refused to come off, no matter how desperately the Time Lord rubbed, scrubbed, and shook. The stench of pear and cider clung to him, its cringe worthy existence stubbornly making the Doctor's unruly hair cling onto the sides of his face, and causing him to grimace in disgust. How would he ever look at another banana again, knowing that he'd betrayed their kind by coming into contact with pear?
"CHARGE!"
Those were the first and last words that the Doctor heard, before the crowd was off again: running, shouting, and shoe-obsessed. The pear cider thrower, however, was nowhere to be seen.
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{{translated into English}}
'You've too many shoes. Don't you think you've collected enough shoes already?' the voice in the back of Rickoji's head grumbled. 'Especially from this, what the humans call, "museum".'
As Rickoji teleported into right at the very back of the suspiciously desolate shoe exhibition, he stopped and cocked his triangular-shaped head to one side. Too many shoes?
'Don't listen to him. He's just jealous. Remember and continue your father's legacy. Collect more! MORE! MORE! MORE!'
"MORE! MORE! MORE!" Rickoji repeated, cackling with glee.
He hummed to himself, as he produced a bright purple laser gun and set to work.
"First Rickoji open glass!" he pressed down on a red trigger and a beam of heat neatly cut a circle in the glass, which was currently encasing Michael Jackson's shoes. "Next Rickoji jump in!" The purple and green alien leapt through the small circle. "Now Rickoji sniff for bad smell, and THEN if shoe goooood, Rickoji take. TAKE! TAKE! TAKE!" The short, squat alien sniffed the shoes, confirmed that they were "fresh", and plucked the pair of snazzy, white-and-gold shoes off their stand. "SHOES MAAAIIINE NOW!" And Rickoji followed suit to chuck the shoes onto the floor, to start his pile.
Little did dear, young Rickoji know, he had company.
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They passed about two to three dozen empty cases on one side of the gallery, leaving Ned, Rose, and Donna to instinctively deduce that that was where their infamous Trainer/sneaker Thief had struck. They moved down a few aisles, to where the glass cases still bore shoes aplenty.
"Pamela Penzance. Justin Kase. Kathryn Cortisone. Lara Lipinski. Amanda Agankiss. Norberta Rattinson. Ben Dover. Barnaby Darnstance. Seymour Butz. Hugh Jass. Oliver Clothesoff. Georgia Jockey. Chris Cross…" Ned read off the name plaques drearily, as they passed each glass- encased celebrity pair of shoes.
"Oliver Clothesoff? Anita Bath? Hugh Jass? Celebrities?" Rose chuckled. "I've heard them on the Simpsons! Is this some sorta joke?" She eyed a pair of brown and black platforms, belonging to one Anita Bath. "Though I like those sandals."
"No," Ned said seriously, not catching the joke. "They're all real celebrities, and famous people."
"Fat lot o' good they are, if they really are celebrities. Never heard of them," Donna inquired, with a laugh, rereading each name plaque. "Not one. Never heard or seen any of those shoe brands either."
"That's because this side is obviously for shoes, belonging to people originating from the Papen County and Couer D'Couers regions," Ned explained matter-of-factly. He then pointed to yet another large, empty area starting towards the very back of the white room, glancing warily around the room. "The film stars are probably down there."
Donna meandered down there quickly, leaving Rose and Ned to admire the shoes. She reached the back wall, turned right, and walked towards the large, white archway, when she saw it… Donna stopped in her tracks. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened, not in fear, but in surprise: if this were two years earlier, when she'd been completely oblivious to extra-terrestrial life, Donna would've screamed. But now, she was awed and utterly amazed, just definitely not scared. In fact, this sight looked… cute. She crouched, poking her head around the corner, watching.
"Rose! Ned!" she hissed quietly, and beckoned them over hastily. Donna put a finger to her lips and nodded at them to come forth.
Rose came first, as quiet as possible, with Ned following slowly behind. What was going on?
Donna grinned at them and ushered them both closer, as Rose seemed cautious and tentative at first. "Get a loada this!" she stared at Ned warningly, mentally assessing the chances. "You! Stay there," she whispered to Ned decisively, having come to her decision.
She guessed that Ned probably wasn't ready for a purple-and-lime-green spotted alien yet, magic finger or not. He'd probably scare the strange, yet adorably cute alien off…
Rose tip-toed the remaining couple of metres, and crooked her head to where Donna was looking. She gasped, almost silently, at the strange spectacle, then smiled and looked back to Donna.
"I think we've found our thief," Rose whispered.
"Yep."
"The Doctor is gonna love this!"
"Love what?!" Ned intruded, determined to know. The Pie Maker ambled forwards, and bent his head to look, at whatever they were looking at, too.
"NO!" Rose and Donna hissed, in unison
Too late.
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A/N:- MEEP! OK, you've probably all noticed by now, BUT I COULDN'T RESIST SOME OF THOSE NAMES!
Soz, I hate to admit it, but I rushed the end, so I'm not too sure about it. Need to work on my English homework. Sadly.
You know what to do. Review.
Ooh, and this chapter remains Titleless, as I am too uninspired, to think up one for myself. Suggestions loved.
