The Master throws his reading material down onto the latest pile of mouldy old books.
“Nothing but bloody love letters and a fucking museum orders list! Doesn’t anybody around here KNOW ANYTHING about the little twerp? The moron who organized this section is batshit! Who was it? I want him MADE INTO GOULASH AND SERVED IN TIME FOR SECOND LUNCH!”
A hand-like fleshy object coated in a white substance saunters into the Master’s line of sight. Slightly similar to a claw, the thing appears to be clutching a…
“Doughnut?” asks the Doctor with a naughty little innocence of a powder-caked smile, shoving another damn round of fried dough in his friend’s face again as though he didn’t just ask that very same murder-invoking question two minutes and six seconds ago. The infuriating man then sighs his content with the whole of his body, lifting up like a drama queen at festival, and proceeds to stick the first of five fingers in his mouth and suck off the sugary coating.
The Master thinks on this for a moment, tapping a finger on his scratchy stubbled cheekbone. Then the tapping stops before he does, and an idea puts words in his mouth, right there where everyone can see. “…oh you’re not saying it’s you. Don’t say it. Just you don’t say that, you whistle-brained waddling wintery warbling windbag! Wipe your mouth- you missed a spot you fool.” He dips a corner of the napkin in his swirly glass of deep delicious bourbon, wetting the tip of the paper, then tosses it onto the Doctor’s face, like a ring toss. Despite himself, an upward quirk of lip grabs him smoothly as the damp thing leaves his hand.