Title: Bad Luck, Captain
Characters: Martin Crieff, Douglas Richardson, ‘Writers’
Summary: “What are you doing?” Douglas quirked an eyebrow and watched with a bemused expression as Martin tried to fit himself, hat and all, into a smallish storage locker.
“It’s… it’s… they keep trying to whump me!”
Author’s Note: I don’t mean to insult anyone with this story- it’s a self-satire as much as anything. I know I’m as guilty as anyone of enjoying a bit of whump now and again- though Douglas is my ‘victim of choice,’ poor dear ;-) I hope people enjoy it for what it is.
“What are you doing?” Douglas quirked an eyebrow and watched with a bemused expression as Martin tried to fit himself, hat and all, into a smallish storage locker.
“It’s… it’s… they keep trying to whump me!” he exclaimed, arms windmilling frantically, almost bringing the cupboard falling down on top of him, though his hat remained fixed as if by some supernatural force. Or possibly it was glued to his head.
“They’re trying to what?! And, in any case, who are…” at that moment he happened to glance at the window and see a crowd of people with laptops and pens in hand. “Ah, I see, well then…” he pushed his Captain the rest of the way in and closed the door.
Unfortunately, this happened just at the same time as one of the writers (for this they were) happened to be glancing in the direction of the portakabin. “Did you see that?!” they exclaimed, netbook held aloft triumphantly, “they make Martin sit in a cupboard!”
At first, Martin refused to come out- but this made them write about how shy he was (or, in one case, led to speculation that he was actually agoraphobic… “he’s most at home inside GERTI”- there might even have been talk of ‘womb-like atmospheres and absent mothers’ which caused Douglas to snort and rumble something about Freud- he was enjoying this far too much. Martin began plotting ways of making him do all of the paperwork. For a year).
Eventually he emerged, red face clashing horribly with his hair and somehow provoking exclamations of adoration which confused Douglas no end. There was then a lot of very rapid chatter about pasta, attics and, for reasons entirely unbeknown to Martin, Sherlock Holmes.
By the time the writers had gone, Martin had been informed of so many hitherto unknown woes that he was beginning to feel quite down in the dumps (which was a shame- he’d been really cheerful before, having just received this month’s edition of his plane spotting magazine). He’d also been diagnosed with so many fictitious diseases that he felt quite queasy (perhaps they were right, and…)
“Martin” Douglas, whose absence the distracted Captain hadn’t registered, returned rested a hand on his shoulder. Martin squeaked and turned about sharply, as if this could very well have been the moment that that knife wielding maniac the writers were so sure was stalking him and trying to keep him as a pet made his move… In the flailing of limbs he nearly dislodged the plate from Douglas’s hands. The plate containing one, solitary baked potato. “Bad luck, Captain.”