fuckitybye | 001 - Voice

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fcking love boat on acid

001 - Voice

[Prior to this, anyone near Malcom's room (level 7, room 5) will have heard him banging about in confusion for a bit; as his cabin looks like his office at No. 10, that's where he thinks he is. Then, in an attempt to page his assistant, he accidentally turns on the voice posting device and a loud Scottish voice is heard:]

—Sam? SAM? The fuck is up with putting a bed in here? This some kind of fucking joke? I can ream out that twat Nicholson just fine with him bent over my fucking desk, aye?

[Pause.]

Sam?

Oh, for fuck's sake—

[Sound of door opening. Long, stunned silence.]

What the fuck?

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Don't worry, most of us understand hyperbole. Some of us are even impervious to the language.

Some Inmates seem to come here from near-death experiences, so it's not completely unthinkable, but I wouldn't rely on it as a way out. Time passes differently between the Barge and your home world, so even if you come around in an ambulance ten minutes after 'dying' you still might be looking at weeks, months or years on the Barge. Sorry.

I'm sure your mum would tell you to remember your raincoat.

We're not letting you back in to Glasgow, lad.

You think so? Seeing as how I'm fucking dead and all, yeah? Oh, wait, we've been over that already. And the cursing. Right.

So what do I fucking do then? Sit on my happy arse and wait for Judgement Day?

You the fucking mayor or something then, chum?

Don't think mum has a raincoat for this kind of storm. Cats. Dogs. Glaswegians betraying their country for a bunch of sassenach politicians.

Aye, that I'm not, but I am Montgomery Scott of the USS Enterprise and I'll knock yer lights out if you come home stinkin' of those bloody jocks.

You're who?

Montgomery Scott. Scotty. Call me Scotty.

Oh Christ, please don't tell me we're related. My mum... her heart wouldn't take the news too well.

[Sexby is just heading up to see if Angelica wanted to go for another session of sword practice.

On the way along the corridor, he hears a voice from her room; Scottish, and unfamiliar, and he picks up, because it doesn't sound too friendly. His hand is already on the hilt of his sword when he reaches the door, and tells the man, before taking a few steps inside to get a good look at him,]

Sir, I do advise you not to give her a moment's further trouble or I... [He trailed off as he then did step inside and spotted who the man was. Or looked like. Modern clothes, no hair or beard, but a familiar enough face. Like him and the Master or Sam. Even so, part of him can't resist.]

So, they did not cut off your head? Seems it must not run with the face, then, sir. Or, if they did, I confess I am a little disappointed they did not make you carry it under your arm like a proper phantom would.

Christ, some proper perspective. Thank fucking god.

How long you been here, then?

Just over six months.

Toshiko Sato, by the way. I'm a Warden here.

Basically, yes. You may wish to try and improve yourself before then, though, because you can earn yourself another chance. You can do good in the world instead of whatever sins you may have committed in your life. That is the intention.

[There is a lengthy, comedic double- or triple-take where Malcolm looks from Angelica to Sexby, back to Angelica and back to Sexby, an angry and seriously flummoxed look on his face.]

Christ, I'm surrounded by fucking nutters.

Hey, we leant them a king. We can lend them some political monkey types. It basically means we own them in the end.

It's like what they did to us, but slightly more surrupticious, and in reverse.

[And she's relieved - so very, very, very relieved, but still a bit on the shaken side.

Angelica's not terribly pleased to see her husband reaching for his sword as he stomps down the corridor, as that wasn't very neighbourly at all. She does, however, stifle an amused snicker before she thumps Sexby in the chest for his words.]

Our mistake, sir. You have the face of a king. A very...unfortunate monarch by name of Charles. Come, Sexby, before we cause him further bewilderment.

[She pushes Sexby inside before he can say another word.] Oh...uh...welcome to the Barge, sir. Good-day. [A quick bow, and then she slams the door shut again.]

Scotty. Enterprise. As in Captain Kirk and all that shit, yeah?

[Looooooong silence.]

Jesus Christ.

[Right, Malcolm knows his history. He knows who Charles I was. He sort of scrubs his hand over his face in angry bewilderment and raises his fist to pound on the door again, but, for once, thinks better of it.]

Fucking hell. Devils and fucking pitchforks would've been easier to understand.

[And he goes back to his room.]

I'd say something about you not using His name in vain, but it's a little pointless, given the rest of your language.

[another long pause, and a sigh]

This is going to sound quite surreal, I know. But in your world, nobody outside of say, TV and books has supernatural powers, or is a vampire or... anything like that, right?

Malcolm Tucker. Though I reckon you've already heard that by now.

Yeah, yeah. That's the one. The Captain's here, in fact. Where'd you hear?

If only you were so good at justifying away the moral as you were the political, mate. Crafty fellow when you're really tryin'!

Oh, look at that, he learns. Good man.

There's a couple of wankers in Whitehall that I'd call vampires, but they're not the bloodsucking sort.

You're about to tell me this place has fucking got 'em, aren't you?

I just, generally, believe there's a thousand more immoral things in the world than a Scotsman working in London.

Not even sure that one made it into the Bible.

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