A/N:- Blame the vacuum cleaner, the paint, the door, unpacked rooms, the guests, the wallpaper, the carpet. Yesh - and yes I did say yesh – that is what life is like when the contents of your piggy bank have mysteriously… disappeared into thin air (I'm telling you, it's Arthur Weasley! He's nicking all my Muggle belongings and money! If you don't believe me, ask NORBETA the dragon!), and your parents have a guest house, for a living. Me be staying in Brizzle for the ENTIRE summer hols, so you know…*sighs*
Many thanksies for your groovy reviews! BIG thanksies to LuckyBlackCat for the cheesetastic title suggestions, and more BIG thanksies EleBrother for the title-idea suggestion! Had to resort to a round or two of Nutcracker Crack, to decide… Hehe!
SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SHOO NOW if you don't want spoilers! HEHE! It's official, but they couldn't have made it more obvious in PotD… Ooh, didn't I tell you parsnips? The Master's returning! Officially! YAYZEE! You gotta love that evil, loony maniac! I hope it's not SoD/LotT all over again though… That would just be boring! ;D
HEEHAW! You HAVE to try iGod. Type it in on Google and click on the first result. Tis so funny, and full of hilariosity!
Eg:
Me:
You are a baby!
God:
Don't call me "baby". I will mention that to my botmaster.
Me:
I'll call you what I like. Baby. Baby. Baby.
God:
My name is God. Don't call me baby! Don't call me baby! Don't call me baby!
Me:
Can I talk to Jesus?
God:
They are having a private chat right now.
Me:
Who are "they"?
God:
"They" are not one's business. "They" could also represent the Bible and Mel Gibson, for instance.
Me:
IS Jesus your husband?
God:
It depends on whether you have faith.
Me:
What does that mean?
God:
Does "that" refer to "It depends on whether you have faith." ?
Me:
Yes.
God:
I don't want to talk about that now.
Me;
WHY?
God:
It is strictly private and confidential.
Me:
OO-ER!
Many thanksies and flying goldfish, for all you cheesetastic reviewers!
Disclaimer: [I own Pushing Daisies and Doctor Who. I bought 'em off eBay last night, for a pack of Top Trumps and a turnip. OOH LOOK, is it a bird, is it a plane, no it's a monkey!] No, I don't.
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Chapter 12 – Of Pensioners, Aliens, And a Large, Gaping Hole
Ned squeaked; his eyes widened, and the words that spilled out of his mouth were nervous, fast, and gibberish. "Its'eitherI'vegonementalorthereisapurpleangreenspot- tedalienwalkingtalkingandstealingshoesorI'mhallucinating."
"Come again?" Rose prompted.
But the Pie Maker's words had already reached out across the room, and reached the ears of one purple and green alien, by the name of Rickoji. Stunned and petrified, the dwarf-sized alien dropped the high-heels belonging to one Amy Winehouse. He turned around to face the worried Pie Maker.
The alien's and Ned's eyes locked.
"Ah!" squeaked the alien, in a strangled cry.
"Ah!" squealed Ned, in an instinctive reaction.
"AAAAAAH!" they shrieked together.
"Rickoji GO!" the squat, podgy alien squeaked. He reached for the watch-like device on his wrist, and his hand flitted down to press the teleportation button…
"Wait!" Rose shouted, just in time. "Don't go. We come in… in… peace! We're not gonna hurt you, or anythin'."
The purple and green creature paused, and tilted its head to one side to observe the strange being. "Rickoji thought Giants speak only human, but you Giant speak Rickoji's language?"
Rose froze, and her pupils swam from side to side, before she nodded slowly. "Err… yeah."
Ned's eyes practically bulged out to the size tennis balls. "B— But, he's speaking English! American English. I can hear him--"
"No. Giants are speaking Rickoji's language!" the alien piped up.
Ned's brain started drinking in the fact that there was a real live alien, standing in front of him, and accepting things as he saw them. Moreover, things shouldn't be as shocking as they first seemed, because 1) he could bring back the dead, and 2) he saw a blue box disappear, into thin air!
"You're speaking English!" the Pie Maker fought back.
"Rickoji's language!"
"English!"
"Rickoji's language!"
"English!"
"Rickoji's language!"
"Eng--"
"Well, how's this for gossip, you're both wrong!" Donna cut in, fed up. She turned to Ned. "You're not speaking R— Rick's language," The alien giggled gleefully. Donna turned to Rick. Yes, Rick. Rick was a nice name. At least, better than the name she couldn't remember properly. "And you're not speaking Ned's language – I mean, English, either."
Both alien and human stared at her, in confusion. "What?!"
Donna paused, before she backed out quickly. How was she supposed to explain to them about a Time Machine called the TARDIS, which happened to be disguised as a blue London police box, and belonged to the Doctor, because he's a Time Lord, not to mention, ooh, TARDIS could also translate different languages for you?!
Donna had the answer. She wasn't.
"Rose, how'd you like to be spokesperson?"
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"You still got them restrainin' orders?" the Private Investigator asked Olive.
"If you're trying to take advantage of my self-defensive skills, to ward off the murderously murderous mob, the answer's no…" Olive said quickly. Emerson opened his mouth to speak, but the waitress got there first. "Because; one more restraining order and I'm busted into a jail cell with rats, for three months."
"Dang it," Emerson grunted, shoulders drooped to his sides.
"You got a gun?"
"No."
Olive Snook mirrored the P.I's former actions.
"WOOF!" Digby barked, bringing them back into the reality scenario of angry mobs and one mad Miriam. The crowd grew ever closer, their roaring and rivalling ever louder, as they ganged up on the Private Eye, the waitress, and the Retriever.
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The facts were these: one Doctor, Time Lord, was 903 years, 24 weeks and sticky and uncomfortable, when he grumpily shuffled his way through the crowd of angered citizens, using one Sonic Screwdriver, in a vain attempt, to rid the offending sticky essence of pear cider that mercilessly clung to his face...
"What do you mean you can't dry up the being-that-shall-not-and-will-not-be-named, that is very rudely clinging onto my face?!" The well-known expression of a stroppy three-year-old, who couldn't get his way, huffily adorned the Time Lord's face, as he crossed his arms and glared sulkily at the offending blue device. "Fine. Suit yourself. Be like that! See if I care."
These were the last words that found their way out of the Time Lord's rather large mouth, before one large man by the name of Nathan Naero raised his rotten Granny Smith apple into the air, and found himself unintentionally lurching towards and into the man called the Doctor.
At that very moment, the Time Lord was 903 years, 24 weeks, and sulky and dissatisfied, when all the air was knocked out of his bi-respiratory lungs, and the screwdriver which happened to be sonic slipped out of his hands, plunged up into the air, and disappeared into the crowd.
Still sticky, uncomfortable, sulky, dissatisfied, and 903 years of age, but now filled with the additional sense of desperation, the Doctor frantically sniffed and searched for his trusty Sonic Screwdriver. Two minutes, twenty seconds later, the Doctor's eyes glowed with happiness and elate, as his eyes caught sight of a metal object on the floor, glinting blue, in the sunlight.
The Time Lord raced after it frenetically, as the Screwdriver was rolled around the place by the shoeless and the sockless, to the shoed and socked. It was finally kicked out, from underneath the cascade of feet, and spooled smoothly onto empty land. A grin that could light up the entire county lit up his face.
But his grin soon transformed into a wide-eyed frown, as he watched a gloved hand peel it away from the floor. The Doctor leapt through the crowd and made for the Screwdriver, diving for his beloved.
"NOOOOO!" he shouted.
It was too late. He landed onto the floor with a thunk, and found no Screwdriver – of any shape, form, or size – in sight.
Still strewn across the mob-free piece of ground, the Doctor's lip trembled, his eyes turned glassy, and he broke into a distant reverie. That was it. He'd lost everything. His companions, his loyalty to bananas, his cleanliness, 903 years and 24 weeks of his life, his Converses, and now… his Sonic Screwdriver. His precious, precious--
Hey! Hang on a minute. Since when did Converses get signed up onto the list of Lost Things? He didn't lose them, surely?! In fact, he was ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine percent sure that he hadn't lost them, and still had them on his feet. As a matter of fact, to prove his Time Lord brain he was right, the Doctor wriggled his toes.
Ha! See! There! Said feet were covered with the solid, smooth fabric of Con—
The Doctor's eyes widened in shock. He wriggled his toes again. But… But…Wait a minute…
He jumped up from his lying position, and stood on two feet – looking down at his feet, in complete and utter horror… His jaw dropped open. They weren't there! His shoes were not there! Just a shade of bright orange and yellow, staring back up at him, but no Converse. But it couldn't be… He certainly hadn't seen or felt anybody taking them either. Maybe it was a trick of the light… It had to be!
Toe wiggles. No, still no shoes. More toe wiggles. No shoes. One last time. The Doctor shut his eyes tightly, wiggled his toes, and cracked an eye open… STILL NO SHOES!
"But I liked those shoes…" the Doctor muttered to himself, quietly.
He didn't just liked those shoes. He fancied those shoes. He loved those shoes. He was very, very attracted to those shoes. But, who could blame him? They were very, very nice shoes, to say the least. They were his shoes; his Converses, and now… they were gone! Poof! Just like that. He hadn't even noticed they were gone. They could've been gone for ages. They could've been stolen just when he walked in. They could've been--
The man called the Doctor was interrupted, in his train of thought, when a small hand patted him on the back.
The Time Lord swivelled around on the balls of his shoeless feet. "Have you seen my shoes?!"
"No. But, I've found this!" Chuck informed, with a grin. She raised a hand into the air, to reveal one slim, blue-tipped device.
"MY SCREWDRIVER!" the Doctor exclaimed joyously and beamed at her gratefully, pinching his device from her fingers and cradling it gently. He was fiddling around with the settings, when he realised something. His smile dropped slightly.
"What's the matter?"
He smirked, and raised a smug eyebrow at her. "You were supposed to be waiting in a nice, secluded corner with your boyfriend. Ned," he stated, watching as the colour in her cheeks turned into a flushed red.
"A man called Jonathan, looking for his little girl, mistook my hair for his daughter's and unintentionally yanked me into the crowd," she reasoned. "Where are your friends? I thought you were trying to find them too."
The Doctor tucked the Sonic Screwdriver into his pocket, and he jammed his hands into his pockets. He shrugged and said, "There's that, and the fact that – I'm sorry and I hope you don't mind me saying – you're just so very, very wrong." The Doctor contemplated something, smiling slightly. "Reminds me of a certain Captain Jack, I know."
Chuck frowned and said, "What do you me--" Then, she remembered a certain something and eyed the charging mob… "Let's save Emerson and Olive, first." And she dragged the Time Lord off.
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"Emerson!" the voice of the girl named Chuck called out, suddenly. "Over here!"
Confused yet attentive, Emerson Cod's eyes skimmed the area to find one tall string bean in brown pinstripes and Converses, along with one Charlotte Charles cloaked in yellow, standing out against the cool white of the wall behind them, and mere metres away from them.
"Emerson!" Olive yelped suddenly. She looked to the Private Investigator with wide, bright eyes – totally oblivious to Chuck, and the Doctor. "Mob psychology!"
"What about it?"
"We need to think, and fast. We've got to confuse the crowd and--"
"There's a MOB coming your way!" a string-bean-in-a-suit yelled suddenly, from a daringly short distance away from them.
"We know!" Olive shouted back. A red and white Converse suddenly came zipping through the air, and connected with the back of Olive's turned back.
"OW!" Olive shrieked, and jumped around, scanning the crowd for the culprit.
"Well, don't just stand there lookin' like some a dumb dog. Just move precious behind over there!" Emerson growled abruptly, ushering Olive to move towards Chuck and the Doctor.
Digby whined, in complaint, as if to say "Dogs aren't dumb!". But Digby was ignored.
"But… But… But that's MY SHOE!" the familiar voice of the Doctor yelled at them, his voice festive and cheerful. "MY SHOE?!"
However, Emerson Cod and Olive Snook were far too busy arguing amongst themselves, to pay any attention at all to the needy Time Lord. Digby let out a soft bark, that could only be described as an exasperated sigh, as he picked the one Converse up into his jaws. And they said dogs were dumb…
The P.I. and the Itty Bitty slowly shuffled to the sides, with Digby mooching after them. They tried to make a dash for it, but suddenly a gang of grey-haired pensioners armed with their rotten Granny Smiths and shiny, polished black shoes, closed in on them – leaving the trio completely and affirmatively trapped; North, East, South, and West.
Gnashing their false teeth, like the devout shoe extremists they were, the pensioners loaded up their rotten Grannies. Giggling and cheering on the shoe thieves, the children trekked across the carpet, whipping off people's shoes as they went. Mumbling and straightening their ties, the business men and woman "pardoned" their way out of the crowds. High on pear cider and stories of shoe scabs, the drunks raised their bottles to the air. Shoes in hands, and minds mentally mobbed by one mad Miriam, the rest of the fuming shoe fanatics raised their shoes, in a warlike manner, and yelled nonsense…
And the whole murderous mob advanced. Rotten apples, shoes, and insults instantly came firing their way – their only protection being the thick, red rope that they had imperceptibly stepped over and were now, shielded behind. Temporarily.
Though their bodies were separated, from the ravenously ruthless shoe-frenzied mob, their bodies, however, remained vulnerable and exposed to the wild threat of rotten apples, and flying shoes. As did, one Olive Snook discovered for the second time, in two minutes, as the rotten and half-eaten Granny Smith coincidentally found itself lodged inside of her mouth.
"Alright!" Olive yelled, after she'd spat the dead fruit out with disgust. "Which one of you old-timers hit me with the Granny?!"
"I. Do. Not. Care. Look, Olive. Be reasonable. If you wanna a death by shoe, then please do stay. But I happen to value my life – money can't count itself ya know, so get out of my way!" Emerson demanded, trying to push the waitress out of the way. "Please?!"
Scowling, Olive allowed room for Emerson and Digby to attempt to squeeze through the small gap that would lead them away from the small, yet cosy society of tranquillity behind the rope, and into the shoe-driven reality of a mob.
The facts were these. As the cogs of Olive's brain changed direction, and although she was unaware of this fact, Olive Snook suddenly became the sole cause of eight different things, all in the space of fifteen seconds, because of her one simple, but significant action.
One: Olive Snook decided that enough was enough, and had randomly wrenched a prized and stubborn shoe off its small podium, from behind her, aiming to toss it at an unsuspecting member of the mob.
Two: one Time Lord charged through the crowd, intending to aid his friends, but bumped into one nearly stepped-over-the-rope-and-escaped Emerson Cod.
Three: one guilty, shamefaced Time Lord received a dark glower, as he, Emerson, and Digby were trapped behind the rope once more – too cornered to escape the clutches of the crowd.
Four: one Digby barked in warning, as one large trap door flapped open to create one gaping, black hole in the plush carpet.
Five: two humans, a Time Lord, and one dog were not capable of hovering above large, gaping holes, and stumbled down into it.
Six: one trap door flapped shut.
Seven: one mad, murderous mob, turned into a bemused, baffled one.
Eight: one Charlotte Charles squeezed her way to the front, and was very, very confused.
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A/N:-
SECRET TIME:-
Next chapter up… soon?!
Come right up! Come right up! Buy one get one twenty free today! One review, for twenty KitKats and a Batmobile! You won't get them anywhere else cheaper… =D
