Chapter Eighteen, Part Three: We Bake a Likely Lussebulle, For Saint Lucia’s DayMature

“Oh, no you don’t! But first things’ first, Koschei. You only have one wish left. What’s it going to be?” 

“Honestly, I’d have to go with GET HIS HAND OFF MY THROAT YOU BLOODY WANKER. It’s the obvious one, but I’m at your discretion.” 

Whipping his favorite fizzy straw from somewhere and stuffing it in his mouth, the Doctor holds the Master’s chin on his fingertips, then raises one palm above and taps the man’s head as if taking measurements for a fitting. “Can you stop moving please? I’m trying to gauge the correct size.” 


“Of your coffin, silly! You’ll be dead soon. Just thought you should know. Bye!”says the Doctor, sucking idly on the straw. He holds it up. You’re just mad ‘cause you didn’t get a fizzy straw.” His eyes dart to the door of the Infirmary, then back to Rassilon and the Master. Obviously he’s been a gold member of the straight face brigade longer than either one of them. Obviously. 

“I never thought I’d say this, but you’re more insane than I am. At least I have my limits…” The Master trails off when he sees what’s on the chain the Doctor is pulling from his pocket. “What are you… doing? Are you hormonal?” 

Grabbing the Master’s cheek and giving it a good pudgy pinch, the Doctor adds, “Now don’t be flip. Tell me nicely. What do you want, little boy?” 

“You’re an idiot. I want OUT OF THIS ROOM! And I’m older than you.” 

“Ah, you should have said that to begin with!” Placing the chain around the Master’s neck, the Doctor skirts a glance once more toward the exit of the Infirmary, then holds the ring up to the Master’s face. “Be nice. I’m trying to save your life. Geronimo!” Then he presses the rose...

The End

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