Sage Advice 97: My Doctor Who Fan Fiction*

*(I must preface this piece with the following information: I have only seen the first ten and last five minutes of a single episode of Doctor Who. It was the one where Doctor Who and this attractive redheaded lady fought this dragon-lizard-bug-looking thing while Vincent Van Gogh looked worried the entire time. As such, I used the following formula to construct this piece: Attractive Redheaded Lady+ Mythical Creature Thing+ Doctor Who+ Historical Figure= Content.)

FADE IN to an alley somewhere in England or London or something. It’s raining because that place is pretty much the Seattle of Europe but with less grunge bands. The phone-booth thing that the Doctor uses as a car/time-machine instantly appears with smoke clouds and debris floating about. Doctor Who steps out of his car.

Doctor Who: I’m sure no one will notice this phone-booth thing I travel in if I leave it here because it looks like a phone-booth, something that isn’t really seen very often in the 21stcentury because everyone has cell phones. Why I haven’t I changed this thing to look more like a cell phone?

A very attractive and young redheaded lady follows Doctor Who out of the phone-booth thing.

Redheaded Lady: Good thing we’re only stopping here in the 21st century for just a little while before we go off into time and space or something to meet someone significant and fight a ghost and stuff.

Who: Is there a chance that my name is a play on that band? They’re both British right?

Red: Let’s get back into your car thing and travel to another place or something and fight a historical figure. No wait, we’re going to fight something that is troubling a historical figure or something. I’m not sure of the trajectory of this plot, but I do know that if this show were American I’d be more naked and wouldn’t spell colour with a ‘U’. See, my word document just said “colour” was wrong. I don’t know what to think now.

Who (cleverly): Yes, let’s.

Who and Red get into the car time-machine thing and travel to a place and/or time. They walk out of their vessel and into 18thcentury America to find George Washington and Thomas Jefferson being chased by a unicorn-scorpion. That’s a unicorn that has had its horn replaced with a large scorpion tail and its hooves replaced with pincers.

Washington: I probably have a British accent.

Jefferson: Me too.

Red: Don’t worry, founding fathers, we’ll figure out how to best the beast that chases you with its really menacing-looking tail and pincers.

Who (cleverly): Yes, let’s.

The Scorpicorn—did I call it that earlier? Because I meant to—attacks Thomas Jefferson. Washington jumps in front of Jefferson to shield him from the venomous stinger.

Jefferson: Washington! You saved my life even though you’re supposed to be the first president and lead America or something.

Washington: No bigs, TJ, for thou hast a greater destiny than mine in writing the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedoms and also to bang some black chicks.

Jefferson: That is a surprisingly progressive term for an African American during the 18th century.

Who (cleverly): Yeah

Washington dies as Jefferson holds his lifeless body. The scorpicorn hisses at Who and Red.

Red: Can our time-machine-phone-booth thing kill things?

Who (cleverly): Yeah

Jefferson stands up and heel-kicks the scorpicorn into the time-machine-phone-booth thing. The beast dies instantly.

Jefferson: I guess all I needed was some encouragement from a hot redhead and some ‘tard in a bowtie to find the confidence to kill the scorpicorn that was well known for ravaging early colonial America with its venomous stinger and menacing pincers. Also, my story was probably just a vehicle for development of this time-traveling guy who is probably not really a guy but like a metaphor or something. I’m Thomas Jefferson.

Red: Wait, are we allowed to kill people in history like that? I mean, George Washington is just dead now. Doesn’t that alter history or something? I’m not sure I understand time-travelling.

Who (cleverly): No one does. And we should probably leave before they figure out we’re British or whatever.


-Matthew Fugere

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