“Ah, pain clears the mind; it’s time to work. I need a dual-plane temporal wrench, my silver-plated Double Fanucci set, a lock of Rose’s hair and a cauldron, oh and…” he clicks the list off the fingers of his free hand, “…in about an hour Koschei, I mean the Master, I mean Koschei, my but I’m whirly today, will be on the television again, nattering at me to fix that stupid problem of his. But I’m melting, look at that!” he holds up a glove, all lumpy and drainy and full of white liquid, like a blown up balloon filled with glue. “Temporal grace me, would you? I need to speed things up without going out like the wicked witch before I’m quite ready.”
An hour passes.
Koschei’s face appears in the screen again.
“I feel like a vitrola after it married a rainstorm and had an argument with a solar flare,” the Eighth Doctor Flesh slurs slowly, from a mouth now little more than a steaming pile of white on the floor. “And since I’m unavailable at any number, one of us will have to get Rassilon. He’s the only other one of us who has had contact with…That One… well, besides me. I don’t feel good. Do I look like curdled milk? Have I married a pudding? I feel like I did. A blood pudding? A Yorkshire? Black? Bread? White? Brown? Plum cake and cheese perhaps, or a nice fruit plate? No?”
The Master waits for a moment, looking on the talking pile of white goo. Then he says, “Yes, yes I get it. No need to speak the words. And speaking of sorry, the honeymoon was always over for me, you big lump. Where is Rassilon now? Do -you- know where he was going?”