That Night on Betazorn 9
Jul. 27th, 2008 04:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amberfocus A/N: Complete and utter Rose/Ten with Donna crack based on the quote at the top of the page on dw_forever, which are the first two lines.
That Night on Betazorn 9
A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walk into an intergalactic space bar on Betazorn 9. And when they leave, the bar is on fire...
Admittedly the blonde isn’t a true blonde as evidenced by her roots and the general condition of the ends of her hair, and it’s possible that the brunette’s hair isn’t even actual hair with it’s ability to defy gravity and raise itself a good six inches above the man’s head and stay there, but to all casual observers it can be said that the woman in the middle, the ballsy one with the incredibly loud singing voice that can be heard all the way down in the Torshan sector of town and the inability to stay upright without the help of her friends is a real redhead. We won’t at the moment go into why that can be said, but when a certain ginger girl recovers the next morning there are going to be a few memories she will beg and plead with a certain Time Lord to erase from their collective memories.
It can also be said that the fire was in fact an accident. It probably should have been expected that it was a bad idea when they’d shoved all 907 of the little wax candles into the chocolate cake with tiny ball bearings up and down the sides and someone had the bright thought to use a bit of alcohol on all the wicks so that they could get them all lit before the first set burned down to nothing, but they’d all been drinking rather a lot and judgment may have been a teensy bit absent from the trio at the time and the general mood in the bar had been why the hell not, so they’d said hang the sense of it and done it anyway.
On reflection Sorilian brandy might have exacerbated the situation a tad bit more than a normal human liquor, but the man had been imbibing it freely, saying if he couldn’t drink a drink that would actually get him drunk on his very own birthday then what was the point of being in a bar in the first place? His companions had agreed and since it had been the only glass with any alcohol still in it, it had been elected as the dipping bowl for the candles. And perhaps using the sonic screwdriver instead of something as tame as a match to excite the molecules of every single wick in tandem so that they all lit at once for a more impressive display wasn’t the smartest choice either.
The ceiling had gotten rather badly burnt in the rush of flames, if by badly you meant horrifically and by burnt you meant the roof was now missing and the building had been evacuated quite quickly and eventually the fire was put out by the local fire district. Later when it was wondered where the strange trio who were most decidedly at fault had got to it was claimed that they had disappeared into thin air, which was true in a way if you considered that they’d all shoved into a small blue box and the box had then vanished with a loud whoosh of engines and a sound that brought to mind the universe in all its glory, but of course that was just nonsense and the more sober among the bar patrons simply insisted that the three had made a runner.
The bar owner was rather put out by this until he received by anonymous post a small pouch of Cartusian diamonds the very next day and a note of apology with three illegible signatures scrawled at the bottom. It was enough to rebuild and it took very little time before the bar owner was back in business but he decided that Sorilian brandy was off the menu permanently.
The brunette did not erase the event from their collective memories until the blonde threatened to play a digital video recording of him that she had captured on her phone for a certain Captain Jack Harkness the next time they were in Cardiff. Since the man had been singing a very bad rendition of Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick by Ian Drury and the Blockheads and pole dancing a little too enthusiastically against the central support pillar of the bar in that particular recording, it was agreed that the memories and the recording both had to go.
They wondered why, one year later when they wanted to celebrate the man’s 908th birthday on a planet they’d never visited before they were chased out the door by the owner wielding a rather large and impressive laser rifle. It was entirely a coincidence that history nearly repeated itself when the bar across the street burned to the ground later that night.
Admittedly the blonde isn’t a true blonde as evidenced by her roots and the general condition of the ends of her hair, and it’s possible that the brunette’s hair isn’t even actual hair with it’s ability to defy gravity and raise itself a good six inches above the man’s head and stay there, but to all casual observers it can be said that the woman in the middle, the ballsy one with the incredibly loud singing voice that can be heard all the way down in the Torshan sector of town and the inability to stay upright without the help of her friends is a real redhead. We won’t at the moment go into why that can be said, but when a certain ginger girl recovers the next morning there are going to be a few memories she will beg and plead with a certain Time Lord to erase from their collective memories.
It can also be said that the fire was in fact an accident. It probably should have been expected that it was a bad idea when they’d shoved all 907 of the little wax candles into the chocolate cake with tiny ball bearings up and down the sides and someone had the bright thought to use a bit of alcohol on all the wicks so that they could get them all lit before the first set burned down to nothing, but they’d all been drinking rather a lot and judgment may have been a teensy bit absent from the trio at the time and the general mood in the bar had been why the hell not, so they’d said hang the sense of it and done it anyway.
On reflection Sorilian brandy might have exacerbated the situation a tad bit more than a normal human liquor, but the man had been imbibing it freely, saying if he couldn’t drink a drink that would actually get him drunk on his very own birthday then what was the point of being in a bar in the first place? His companions had agreed and since it had been the only glass with any alcohol still in it, it had been elected as the dipping bowl for the candles. And perhaps using the sonic screwdriver instead of something as tame as a match to excite the molecules of every single wick in tandem so that they all lit at once for a more impressive display wasn’t the smartest choice either.
The ceiling had gotten rather badly burnt in the rush of flames, if by badly you meant horrifically and by burnt you meant the roof was now missing and the building had been evacuated quite quickly and eventually the fire was put out by the local fire district. Later when it was wondered where the strange trio who were most decidedly at fault had got to it was claimed that they had disappeared into thin air, which was true in a way if you considered that they’d all shoved into a small blue box and the box had then vanished with a loud whoosh of engines and a sound that brought to mind the universe in all its glory, but of course that was just nonsense and the more sober among the bar patrons simply insisted that the three had made a runner.
The bar owner was rather put out by this until he received by anonymous post a small pouch of Cartusian diamonds the very next day and a note of apology with three illegible signatures scrawled at the bottom. It was enough to rebuild and it took very little time before the bar owner was back in business but he decided that Sorilian brandy was off the menu permanently.
The brunette did not erase the event from their collective memories until the blonde threatened to play a digital video recording of him that she had captured on her phone for a certain Captain Jack Harkness the next time they were in Cardiff. Since the man had been singing a very bad rendition of Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick by Ian Drury and the Blockheads and pole dancing a little too enthusiastically against the central support pillar of the bar in that particular recording, it was agreed that the memories and the recording both had to go.
They wondered why, one year later when they wanted to celebrate the man’s 908th birthday on a planet they’d never visited before they were chased out the door by the owner wielding a rather large and impressive laser rifle. It was entirely a coincidence that history nearly repeated itself when the bar across the street burned to the ground later that night.
