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Write a Doctor Who Story One Sentence at a Time

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Adam Ant Driver

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THE HIVEMIND

The light was fading fast as the undertaker finished up digging a grave, his shovel stood upright in the ground when he noticed the dirt start to twitch.

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Under the moonlight RTD's rotting corpse burst forth from the grave with an almighty "Allons-y!"

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Adam Ant Driver

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In a fright the undertaker grabbed his shovel and used it to smack RTD in the face, splitting his chubby face in two from the mouth. It was then that he wondered why he was digging the grave and not the gravedigger.

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But RTD was not so easily defeated and, lurching back to his feet, he sank his teeth into the undertaker's throat. The blood was tasty in his mouth even as he sucked the life from his victim, whose name was apparently (and rather oddly) "classic Doctor Who", and he cried out "Fantastic!"

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Adam Ant Driver

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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.

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At this point a dark-haired, good-looking guy pulled up at the wheel of a secret organisation's van with the word "TORCHWOOD" helpfully written on it, and then, emerging with a dramatic twirl of his dark-grey knee-length coat, shouted out, "Ooh... gender bending - can an immortal join in?" lasciviously.


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Oscar Wilde
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Then a flushing sound, followed by a latch on a door opening to reveal

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Shit. Love and Monsters.


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Meanwhile on Metebelis VII Clara Oswald and Peri Brown were down to their lingerie having a pillow fight when an urgent call (and something else yuk yuk) came through

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So Peri paused the video of Barely Legal Zygons 3 while Clara rushed to the phone in time to hear a voice croakily whisper, "7 days".

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Nobody else seemed to care when she revealed the telephone message, all except a lone voice laughing at her from the other side of her.

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And then the murders began. Smile

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But this was now Moffat Who, so the deaths barley lasted

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After reading on social media that he, his new companion and his show runner were all off at the end of the season the Doctor put down his guitar, stopped wondering why the murdered people had got better and prepared to regenerate into Brendan O'Carroll.


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"To disagree with three-fourths of the British public is one of the first requisites of sanity."

Oscar Wilde
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Coupled with the prospect of his future self being assisted by Brooklyn Beckham, the 12th/13th Doctor sighed, paused, looked to the skies and began his farewell speech.


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Divinely sweet and gorgeous.
But enough about me.
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Which lasted, like, 8 minutes or something?

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Just then, a gaping hole the size of Barrowman`s sphincter appeared out of thin air. Out came Teresa May wearing a leotard and leopard skin stockings. "This is the Hard Brexit I`ve been searching for!" she squealed in a manner that may brought the attention of her former pig fucking colleague were he not to have fucked off elsewhere.

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And somewhere, the tea was getting cold.


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And you will obey me.
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But it didn't matter, because Polly had already put the kettle on for another pot.

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When a voice behind her whispered, "You won't need tea where we are going"; she quickly spun around and gasped when she saw who it was.

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It was the BBC's commissioner for Saturday night entertainment, who was making her character, her fellow characters and her show runners redundant.


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"To disagree with three-fourths of the British public is one of the first requisites of sanity."

Oscar Wilde
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