Post by georgiathekiwi on Sept 29, 2011 2:53:44 GMT -5
I suppose it's time I posted this fic here. I wrote it back when we had hardly any canon, and everything was shiny and strange. The Sergeant was the Postmaster, they were Hour Barons, and Jeffrey was just a random name.
Carbon dating has placed this at some time during the Sixth Inspector's tenure.
No One Needs To Die Today
“The time is now, Inspector. The Blogon fleets have arrived. All it takes is the push of a button to launch the attack,” said the Postmaster, waving his fingers in front of a large, red button in a threatening fashion.
“You fool! You think you can control the Blogons? Those machines know no master,” the Inspector replied. “Or Postmaster.”
“Silence! I’ve had it with you and your sickening puns. Jeffrey is dead. Your DARSIT is destroyed. Your bowler hat is in ruins.”
The Inspector ran his hand over his bald spot self consciously. “So, what? You and I both remember the time on Bellerophon Five when I saved the entire Eed race with a disposable razor and a piece of string.”
The Postmaster slammed his fist on the control panel, an inch from the button. “Don’t joke, Inspector. I’ll do it. You know I will.”
“I don’t underestimate you, Postmaster. However, I think you’ve forgotten to take into account one little thing. One teensey little thing.”
“And what, pray tell, would that be?”
“The small, explosive device that, as we speak, is burrowing itself into your large intestine,” said the Inspector. “You see, I spotted the opportunity as soon as we arrived. You welcomed us, and our traditional House Baron greeting ritual provided ample time for Jeffrey to sneak an atomic radon blaster into your unattended frozen yogurt. He was a good man, Jeffrey. A bit stupid.”
The Postmaster looked down at his stomach and grimaced.
“I can deactivate it. Simply call off the Blogon attack. No one needs to die today,” the Inspector said.
“Except Jeffrey.”
“Yes, poor fellow. But no use crying over spilt milk, it’s all water under the bridge, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” the Inspector waved a hand casually. “What do you say?”
The Postmaster leant towards the console and pressed a small button. “Blogon Zek? Go home. No. No, I’m sorry, you’ll have to eradicate elsewhere. Yeah, he’s an ass. Alright. I’ll call you.”
He hung up. “They’ve gone. Can you deactivate the bomb, now? I’ve hidden your DARSIT in the sewage treatment room.”
The Inspector nodded. “Good.”
He reached casually into his trench coat, and pulled our his sonic crowbar. With a quick flick of the wrist, he knocked the Postmaster on the head. The Postmaster collapsed, unconscious. Perhaps dead.
Inspector Spacetime picked up his tatty bowler hat from the floor, pulled it firmly onto his head, and dusted his hands off. “Well, that’s the end of that chapter. Good riddance to bad rubbish, time to take out the trash, I scream you scream we all scream for ice-cream.”
He whistled as he walked back to his DARSIT. It had been a good day.
END
I would like to point out that I'd still really love at least one Meta of the Inspector to use lots and lots of - sometimes unrelated - idioms/sayings. And puns. Horrible, horrible puns.
Carbon dating has placed this at some time during the Sixth Inspector's tenure.
No One Needs To Die Today
“The time is now, Inspector. The Blogon fleets have arrived. All it takes is the push of a button to launch the attack,” said the Postmaster, waving his fingers in front of a large, red button in a threatening fashion.
“You fool! You think you can control the Blogons? Those machines know no master,” the Inspector replied. “Or Postmaster.”
“Silence! I’ve had it with you and your sickening puns. Jeffrey is dead. Your DARSIT is destroyed. Your bowler hat is in ruins.”
The Inspector ran his hand over his bald spot self consciously. “So, what? You and I both remember the time on Bellerophon Five when I saved the entire Eed race with a disposable razor and a piece of string.”
The Postmaster slammed his fist on the control panel, an inch from the button. “Don’t joke, Inspector. I’ll do it. You know I will.”
“I don’t underestimate you, Postmaster. However, I think you’ve forgotten to take into account one little thing. One teensey little thing.”
“And what, pray tell, would that be?”
“The small, explosive device that, as we speak, is burrowing itself into your large intestine,” said the Inspector. “You see, I spotted the opportunity as soon as we arrived. You welcomed us, and our traditional House Baron greeting ritual provided ample time for Jeffrey to sneak an atomic radon blaster into your unattended frozen yogurt. He was a good man, Jeffrey. A bit stupid.”
The Postmaster looked down at his stomach and grimaced.
“I can deactivate it. Simply call off the Blogon attack. No one needs to die today,” the Inspector said.
“Except Jeffrey.”
“Yes, poor fellow. But no use crying over spilt milk, it’s all water under the bridge, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” the Inspector waved a hand casually. “What do you say?”
The Postmaster leant towards the console and pressed a small button. “Blogon Zek? Go home. No. No, I’m sorry, you’ll have to eradicate elsewhere. Yeah, he’s an ass. Alright. I’ll call you.”
He hung up. “They’ve gone. Can you deactivate the bomb, now? I’ve hidden your DARSIT in the sewage treatment room.”
The Inspector nodded. “Good.”
He reached casually into his trench coat, and pulled our his sonic crowbar. With a quick flick of the wrist, he knocked the Postmaster on the head. The Postmaster collapsed, unconscious. Perhaps dead.
Inspector Spacetime picked up his tatty bowler hat from the floor, pulled it firmly onto his head, and dusted his hands off. “Well, that’s the end of that chapter. Good riddance to bad rubbish, time to take out the trash, I scream you scream we all scream for ice-cream.”
He whistled as he walked back to his DARSIT. It had been a good day.
END
I would like to point out that I'd still really love at least one Meta of the Inspector to use lots and lots of - sometimes unrelated - idioms/sayings. And puns. Horrible, horrible puns.
