The Master dies on Sunday. The funeral will be held the week after.
Open invitation. Bring your own booze.
Let’s all go cry and get pissed.
HE WONT STEAL MY TARDIS!
You Otherfucking—Rassilon fucking christ. Someone’s fucking dying and all you fucking care about is your damn TARDIS. I’m glad I never became you. You actually make me sick. Congrats on that.
If you ever, ever come near him, I’ll have your head on a platter and leave it in your TARDIS.
And there’s at least five people I can think of who will give me an alibi and help. You don’t deserve to call yourself the Doctor. I honestly don’t give a shit about your feelings towards him, there’s a man dying and people actually give a shit.
So sit down and shut your Otherfucking mouth before you sign your death warrant.
a) Seriously: Stop cheering about my pilot’s death or I will sit very quietly in one place and watch you burn off your remaining regenerations.
b) Less seriously: My drink does not have alcohol in it for this. Alcohol is good for taking care of things, I have found. Somebody needs to remedy that.
(I know I get lost a lot and leave books everywhere and store questionable things in the fridge, but…)