Technically…

Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes.  Here is what I came up with.  I hope you like it.

“Technically, Peter Capaldi is the thirteenth doctor.”

A cold, sad silence filled the room like a mist. We knew what was coming.

Fox smiled weakly and shrugged his shoulders.

He started, “Obviously William Hartnell was the first doctor, but we can’t overlook the interesting work done by Peter Cushing in 1965’s Dr. Who And The Daleks and 1966’s Daleks – Invasion Earth 2150 AD.”

No-one was taking the bait. We were too busy trying to figure out if Morris was still alive.

One of the Norts had sliced off Morris’ hand while he was trying to open up the armored card – the armored car with the guns.

You could hear it coming…

”Nortnortnortnortnortnortnortnrt…”

I saw Morris bite his lip, trying not to scream. The Nort descended on him like an ugly blotch.

Wendy and I dragged him back inside. There was a smear of blood the size of outside the front door.

A few days earlier, before The Nort Invasion, someone made the mistake of mentioning Doctor Who around Fox. Fox who dressed up like Steampunk Boba Fett at conventions and who wrote an infamously pricklyWild Wild West fan site.

He continued…

”After that, you had Patrick Troughton. After Patrick Troughton, you had the underrated Jon Pertwee. Then, obviously the great Tom Baker. That’s five, not four.”

Morris was dead. He was probably dead before we brought him inside.

Norts gathered around the armored car like insects. Black plastic insects made in China to work in mines. The resembled catcher’s masks with jointed legs and buzzing silver teeth. They were mean as hell.

“Peter Davison, although tasked with following a legend, did a yeoman’s job with the role. Colin Baker, I think we can all agree, was misunderstood.”

Wendy had figured out that The Norts were impervious to fire, but a solid blow with a hammer would take them out of commission. Billy had gone upstairs to find the bats from the interdepartmental softball game.

”Sylvester McCoy was simply too little, too late. Now, Paul McGann should be celebrated…”

Fox clapped his hands together in appreciation for Paul McGann while we looked out on the parking lot for Morris’ hand. One of the Norts had scuttled away with it, presumably for dissection.

“I am not a fan of Christopher Eccleston’s efforts. He was acting in a different show as the other performers. David Tennant brought a much-needed light touch to the role. Matt Smith was a bit too Franz Ferdinand for me.  My very own personal jury is still out on Peter Capaldi. Now, to summarize…”

Billy slid in through the lab door. He dragged a duffle bag of baseball bats and hammers. His nose was bleeding.

“Siobhan is upstairs. The Norts worked her over. She’s some kind of zombie…”

Fox took the plastic spoon out of his mouth and put his yogurt on his desk.

“A biological zombie or a voodoo zombie,” he asked.

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