“I mean what the fuck are you playing at?” roared the scrawny, grey-haired man in a thick, Scottish burr.
The Mau’phaat sat at his desk, phlegmatically puffing on a cigarette, unfazed by the interloper’s tirade. The Doctor continued.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but ahm gettin’ fuckin’ rinsed over here!” he screamed hoarsely, “The storylines are shite, the execution shoddy, and the supporting cast patchy at best!”
He punctuated this last point by sweeping all the various paraphernalia from the Mau’phaat’s expansive desk onto the floor, denting a Newton’s cradle beyond repair. He continued over the sound of the rattling ball-bearings…
“I mean the last episode had me wading across an ocean planet composed entirely of petrol in search of a fuckin’ magic tyre! Are you so bereft of ideas, is your budget so fuckin’ non-existent that this is what you call quality fuckin’ programmin’?”
His red eyes bulged, and a vein throbbed ominously in his temple, needing a response.
The Mau’phaat took a particularly long drag on his Marlboro, but gave none. The Doctor howled in frustration and turned away, looking for other things in the Mau’phaat’s office to destroy.
“I don’t know why you’re so fuckin’ blasé about it, you’re the one who’s gonna get blamed for all this…” he said, pacing furiously, his “magician chic” jacket billowing behind him.
He continued to rant and rave as the Mau’phaat rose calmly to his feet. Taking a final puff on his deathstick, he held the butt before him, waiting patiently for the opportune moment to strike.
The Doctor, oblivious, continued to pace, snarling and spitting with impotent rage, as the Mau’phaat stood, unmoving.
Then in a trice, he flicked the still-lit butt into the air, whereupon it Catherine-wheeled across the room, landing on the Doctor’s trousers.
A strangled cry filled the room as the flames engulfed the erstwhile Time-Lord. The Mau’phaat watched passively, the dancing jets of light reflected in his heavily-lidded eyes, as he awaited the inevitable coda to this macabre bonfire.
And sure enough, when the Celtic curses had died away, an even more brilliant flash of light filled the room. Streams of amber energy shot from every extremity, as the charred remains began to change. Then just as quickly as they had come, they ceased, leaving the Mau’phaat staring at a yet more diminutive figure than the last, this one young and smooth of skin, with a curtain of straight brown hair flowing behind her.
She stood there, the desiccated clothes of the last Doctor hanging awkwardly from her nubile frame, a perfect copy of Clara Oswin Oswald.
For the first time the Mau’phaat betrayed emotion, circumnavigating his desk and surveying this new sight with wide, exultant eyes. The Doctor looked at him, dazed, and uncomprehending, as the Mau’phaat caressed her elfin features and gazed deeply into her doe-like pupils.
“Excellent,” he breathed, “Just what I need: More Clara.”
She continued to stare, her expression tinged with foreboding. The Mau’phaat grinned maniacally.
“Everybody loooves Clara…”
~ James Le Lacheur 2015