You asked for it, TCASM...
Disclaimer: Do I look like anyone from the BBC? Or Douglas Adams? I'm not even British... -sad little noise-
WARNING (Just in case you didn't hear the first one)Complete and total crack!fic, written while on a tea high.
DIRE WARNING: I saw Eight in two minutes of Shada. That's it.
-BAD WOLF-
In retrospect, he realised that he really shouldn't have come here.
But four of Grunthos the Flatulent's audience had died of internal haemorrhaging and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council had survived only by gnawing one of his legs off (He had fifteen of them, though, so it hardly made a difference), and that couldn't have just been because of bad poetry, right?
The Doctor had never listened to poetry from the Azgoths of Kria. He had never listened to poetry from the Vogons. He had never even listened to poetry from Tylgeth the Dead (He used to be Tylgeth the Immortal, but he eventually proved his title wrong), who was renowned as having the fifteenth-worst poetry in existence.
He sneaked into the theatre where Grunthos was going to read his poetry, and searched through the entire place for anything which could cause such an affect as it had/will have had on the audience.
He didn't find it, so he started looking again, using the sonic screwdriver this time.
He distantly heard Grunthos the Flatulent clear his throat, and searched a little more quickly.
"Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in my Armpit One Midsummer Morning," recited Grunthos, and the Doctor flinched as pain stabbed through him. He hadn't even gotten past the title of the bloody poem, and already this was the worst pain he had ever experienced. And that was saying something.
He searched, trying to ignore the searing pain tearing him apart.
The sonic screwdriver emitted a negative noise and suddenly he felt an intense desire to give up and run. After all, only four people and a leg were lost. Five people, including Grunthos himself.
The Doctor ran, tripping over three bodies and a leg as screams filled the air, clutching his side and trying not to breathe.
As darkness began to swim across his vision, something clicked.
Three bodies and a leg.
The last agonising verse somehow rose above the anguished cries of the tortured audience and reached the Doctor's ears.
And, with a final tormented cry, the world went black around him and he slipped to the ground.
Half an hour later he dragged himself slowly to his new feet and stumbled into the waiting TARDIS, reminding himself never to ignore the advice of the Guide ever again.
-BAD WOLF-
Rubbishy, random, and very crack!fic-ish. Woo! -passes out randomly-
Review, if I haven't killed you with my horrific writing already.