Just when it seemed all was lost, a wild Moffat appeared. "Jeronimo!" he screamed. He unzipped his trousers and whipped out his trusty iPhone, complete with an amateur screenwriting app. His eyes fixated on the zombie, and with a smug grin, his fingers danced around the virtual keyboard, erasing RTD's entire existence.
RTD lasted long enough to mutter, "I don't want to go." Of course, he was a rotting corpse with even less intelligence than when he was alive--not to mention he was missing the bottom part of his head--so to the others, his statement sounded more like, "WERGHLiengFSDHIF."
The undertaker turned to Moffat. "T-thank you," he said. His voice fluttered to the powerful beat of his worried heart.
"Don't mention it," Moffat started. "Doctor... Who? What does that mean? Don't tell me, I like a mystery. In fact I love to raise questions and not answer them, the best part is when you pretend to be teasing an answer without advancing the plot at all. It makes my trousers throb. Aren't I smart?"
"Actually-" the undertaker was soon cut off.
"Silence! You're my wife now."
This whole one sentence thing died in post 3, oh well.