“Oh for God’s sake, Doctor!” the King says, “the Captain is already traumatised by his birth rights: he’s coarse and uneducated, how will an increase of his instinctive behaviour improve his thinking?”
“Good question,” Labaguette whispers.
Then the Captain walks up to the King.
“That’s how!” he exclaims before lunging into the King’s fat belly, grabbing the King’s ankle and pulling it up. The King falls on his back and the Captain sits over the King’s chest threatening strangulation.
“That’s what I meant,” the Doctor says to the Captain. “You no longer need me.”
“I asked you to help me find my way home,” the King commands, “don’t you dare leave me like this!”
“Your planet is right there behind you, what else would you want”?
“This isn’t my space nor is it that of my planet. Down here, the smell of the universe and the way it looks is different. It crumbles when you squeeze universal particles between your thumb and index. This just isn’t home.”
“Sorry but I don’t have a spare yellow brick road in my phone box and you’re not dreaming,” the Doctor says.
Out of pity or as some cheap excuse, the Doctor pulls out his silver stick once more and extends his arm. Now, the King is dressed in a King blue cape and standing by the Doctor, Captain Traumatic’s movements temporarily frozen.
“It looks and feels good,” the King says.
“It’s as close as I can make you feel home,” the Doctor says, “now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going; let me phone box free.”
To be continued…