Disclaimer: This fic is not intended for women who are nursing, pregnant, or who may become pregnant.

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"I'm telling you, it would be wicked."

"It'd be stupid. Why go to all that work when you could just slip a squirrel some vodka and get the same result?"

"But it's all about the process, Chrys."

Chrysanthemum First rolled her eyes. She had involved herself in this conversation out of boredom, but some things--like pride--were more important than faint amusement. "Look, if you really want to spend countless hours putting together a... er... what did you call it?"

"Mechasquirrel 3000," Mike prompted.

"Right, well, that's all fine. But I'm not letting you mess with any of Dad's old projects; it wouldn't work, anyway." Mike's shoulders slumped, and Chrysanthemum found herself wondering for the nth time just why she had ever agreed to date someone so needy. Probably that pesky boredom, again. "You could give it a proper chrome body or something," she soothed. "It's just that stuffed animals really aren't designed for movement. It's little paws would fall off, and then where would your plans for world domination be?"

"'M not after world domination," Mike sulked. "I just want it to look real, so I can film it dancing and put it up on Youtube."

Chrysanthemum picked up a chip and pointed it at her boyfriend. "Then I'm telling you, just soak some peanuts or something in vodka--"

"I'm not going to get a squirrel drunk. It's immoral."

"As opposed to what, ripping apart one of the stuffed ones in my basement?" She popped the chip into her mouth and mumbled, "No respect for the dead."

"Sorry," he said softly, looking down at the tablecloth.

Detecting an incoming awkward pause, Chrysanthemum hurriedly said, "I was referring to the squirrels." But it was too late, and the awkward pause made itself comfortable in the café table's one unoccupied chair.

"So," the awkward pause cheerfully seemed to say, "how about your dead father? He sure is dead, isn't he? Chrysanthemum? Are you listening to me? I'm asking you about your dead, dead father."

Before either of them could think of something to say that would effectively banish the awkward pause, a shriek rang out from down the road. Chrysanthemum and Mike whipped their heads around to see what the fuss was about, and were confronted with what appeared to be--but couldn't have possibly been--a wooly mammoth. It was about a block away, knocking over dustbins. Faced with defeat, the awkward pause slouched off.

"What the hell is that?!" Mike asked, starting up out of his chair.

"It's gotta be a prank or something," Chrysanthemum said as the mammoth took out a street light and midday shoppers dove for cover. "It's gotta be," she repeated more insistently.

But the mammoth was having a grand old time and had no intention of ceasing its merry rampage just because some human female thought it improbable. It stomped over a parked Volkswagon, reached the little outdoor café where Chrysanthemum and Mike had been dining, and commenced throwing chairs.

"Come on!" Mike grabbed Chrysanthemum's arm and pulled her away from the clustered, helpless tables and into the street. They watched as the mammoth decimated their table (as well as all the others--it seemed to be making a deliberate attempt to flatten each and every one). It trumpeted victoriously, and then turned and fixed a beady eye on Chrysanthemum and Mike.

Several things happened in rapid succession. Mike cried, "Run!" and turned to do just that. Someone exuberantly shouted, "Don't worry, everything's under contr--" There was a whump, a grunt, and a crash. The mammoth took a purposeful step forward. Chrysanthemum turned around to run, only to see Mike sprawled on the ground. Also sprawled on the ground was a thin man who would have been tall had he been upright. The stranger was staring at the shattered instrument in his hand, his expression wavering between outrage and resignation.

"Every time! Every bloody time I get something new and--and potentially really effective," he waved the broken thing for emphasis, "one of you monkeys blunders in and breaks it! Every time!" He wrinkled his nose. "Never even got a chance to use it."

"Sorry," Mike said as he scrambled to his feet. "Didn't see you."

"Yes, well," the strange man stood, brushed off his pants, and adjusted his garishly patterned scarf (which was also thin, and which would also have been tall were it stretched out vertically). "I suppose we'd better run, then."

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Review, if you are so inclined. This is my first Doctor Who fic, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated.