The Doctor knows he is dreaming, this time, as the black muck enters his mouth.
It fills his throat with cold resistance.
Once he would have flailed, his hands clawing the air, feeling and touching and grasping and clutching in desperation.
Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now. The muck has him. He’s going to die.
It’s all right...
He tried. So hard.
Somewhere under the goo, his manhood tingles its distress.
“Bad, Pickles, stop that,” he thinks, chiding it softly, “... just because we’re naked doesn’t mean you get to direct the movie. The theatre’s closing anyway. The show is over...”
He leans back in the pitch-y slop, waiting for the goopiness to gush over him, to glop glop glop over his head.
The gloop sucks over his nipples, reaching little tar-hands over his tiny hairs... combing through all the forests of him slowly, like a marijuana mudslide.
“We didn’t even get any popcorn... so hungry...” he murmurs, as the goo crawls.
It’s over his considerable chin now.
He closes his eyes, relaxing further into it.
Blackness claims his upper lip, climbing him like a spelunker in reverse, mindless, exploring.