The Master’s currently buried under exactly thirteen blankets, on his stomach, with a glass of alkaseltzer by his bed. Never in his life has he lamented more that aspirin is poison; he’s half convinced to use it anyway.
“Why was I born?” he groans.
Send 🍷 for my muse to drink a shot.
“Wife.”
Somehow, for his thorough inebriation, the Master manages to get to his feet, and elegantly take the Doctor’s hand.
“Would you be soooo kind as to get pissed with your loovin’ oosband?”
He kisses his way up her arm, growls a laugh and takes care to tickle her neck with his facial hair.
“AUWH, I di’NAH, sugar-tits!”
The Master reels over to the Doctor and unfastens his bowtie with alarming steadiness, and reassembles it, in a bow, around his head. He grins in the nearest reflective surface, sticking out his tongue at himself, and facetiously preening. Facetiously, or who knows, maybe he fancies the look. Maybe he’s having a good old time.
He then smacks the Doctor in the chest, emphatically.
“YYYOUUU got stark bollock naked, I filmed eht!”
Send 🍷 for my muse to drink a shot.
The Master stares at the shot offered him by the ex-colonel.
He stares good and long, and after about thirty seconds of dead air … . he erupts in a fit of steady hiccups.
Nothing else comes out.
He’s been broken.
Send 🍷 for my muse to drink a shot.
“ONLY TWO!” the Master howls.
And then he makes an indescribable face, licking his lips without any coordination to speak of, this terror of the cosmos, this god of death, this ingenious beast.
This idiot.
“Whass in it for me? Is’t exotic? Will it make me grow even MORE
grey matter?”
He tosses back both gingered shots, and throws up a hand in a gesture of victory.
Before tilting, like a bowling pin, all the way to the left, and crashing onto his side.
“RUDE,” he slurs indignantly, from where he lies.
Send 🍷 for my muse to drink a shot.
“Woooooow, you lot’re relentless.”
The Master keeps his eyes closed this time, sprinkling just a pinch of ginger in the shot before he throws it back, to keep from falling over via vertigo.
Send 🍷 for my muse to drink a shot.
“Oh nooooooooooooo.”
The Master sits down on the grated floor of his TARDIS and waves the new challenger over.
“HehHAH, I’m gonna … . be in a bit of a pickle here soon.”
One small sand grain of humility and common sense.
Then he drinks all five shots.
Send 🍷 for my muse to drink a shot.
“WOW. You look joost like my Significant Annoyance!”
The Master, expansive and loudly, aggressively cheerful, points to a holographic projection of the Tenth Doctor, sizzling brightly above his console mainframe screen: to put this into context, all thirteen faces of the Doctor have their place on this screen, completing the Master’s look of stalking wanton.
He takes the drink, toasts the image, and downs it.
“Wouldn’t you rather look like ME? What a BUMMER.”
Send 🍷 for my muse to drink a shot.
“Hiiiii HONEY,” the Master drawls, and then applauds the presence
of his oldest friend and lover with even more raucous jolliness than
usual. “I’m already sozzled! HehHAHAHAH! Hm. What’s this, then.”
He takes very, very deliberate steps toward the outstretched whiskey shot.
“Oh, COOM on, ANOTHER one of THESE? I expected you t’be
INVENTIVE.”
His ensuing pout is outrageously childish, even as his Mancunian dialect slips out. He reaches out and smooshes the Doctor’s porcupine hair and cheeks plaintively.
Send 🍷 for my muse to drink a shot.
The Master examines the challenge before him, and begins to laugh.
Then to cackle, like an incomprehensible Frankenstein’s Monster of hyena and wealthy English country squire.
And because the Master’s modus operandi is to be deeply quixotic, he strides over to the table full of shot glasses, pulls a packet of ginger from his coat pocket and doses half the glasses.
“Just you wait,” he thunders, pointing at the challenger.
And then he consumes the entire table.
He braces a chair beside it, eyes drowsy, one eyebrow arched.
“I will now recite the annotated History of Gallifrey,” he declares,
slurring only slightly as he proceeds to do so.
Icarus 