I awoke, but everything was foggy. My vision was blurred, and the voices seemed amplified in sound but enunciation was barely existent.

"I think he's awake," a slightly effeminate voice rang, "Amy, why don't you slap him in the face?"

"Is that necessary? I mean, if he is actually awake, what would the purpose be?" A more effeminate voice inquired

"Safe measure."

"Fine," the more effeminate voice responded. Then, my face felt the icy hot sting of a woman's slap.

"Bloody hell! Is there something crawling up your arse to make you slap me so hard?" the words flew from my mouth as hard as I flew out of the closet at age thirteen. What right did this woman have to slap me? It wasn't like I had slept with her boyfriend. I have learned from that mistake. Did you know Victoire can punch, hard? Either way, she had no right.

"I think he's awake," said the bowtied man, in the voice I had heard first, "Why'd you follow me here?"

"You wanted me to follow you!"

"I took your hand and left a lingering touch. I didn't expect you to follow me,"

"Yet you act like a man who wanted a good shag,"

"Amy, define shag,"

"It's a slang term meaning… It means…He was expecting you to, um," stuttered model-like ginger woman, in the effeminate voice that had slapped me.

"He thought you wanted to make love with him," a masculine voice slashed through the air.

"I love making love. It's better than war. But making love should only be between living things. Because a rock can't produce love, it just accumulates it. I guess if we smashed rocks and gave pieces to the world, it'd be like spreading the love," He continued on rambling like that. I turned and faced the other man.

"Does he always ramble on like this?" My question seemed to attract the attention of the male.

"Yeah, always. Quite frankly, I can't see why my wife finds these fits of verbal diarrhea entertaining and intelligent. I barely see the brilliance in them, but it's always turned out all right in the end. My name is Rory, by the way,"

I took has hand and shook it, "I'm Teddy,"

"That woman is my wife, Amy. And that gent' over there is The Doctor."

"The Doctor. The doctor of who?" I said incredulously.

"The universe," Amy had turned to me, "He fixes the problems in the universe, along with the time stream."

"I don't get it done, though, without my lovely assistants." The Doctor interjected, "I am of a specific race, called a Timelord. I come from the planet Gallifrey. And this, this is a T.A.R.D.I.S. It sands for 'Time and Relative Dimension in Space,'"

"Well Applying to my situation, it seems more like 'Teddy and Related Dipwads in Space'. No offense, but you dunderheads seem rather incompetent," I said.

"Did he just call me incompetent," The Doctor was getting flustered," Me? Incompetent? Oh well!" The Doctor had given a quirky giggle, and then continued on , "Now, where is our next destination?"

"Let's go to Paris, winter of 1920!" Amy dashed for the controls.

"No," The Doctor sighed.

"Please?"

"No,"

"Pretty please?"

"No," and then The Doctor flipped a series of switches, pulled several buttons, and activated a mass of hoozits and whatzits. "Brace yourself, this could be a tad bumpy,"

And that is how my adventures began. But only time decides where I'm going from here. Because, you see, I'm in a space/time machine with a bunch of dipwads.