NCJDDAS: How The Monk Got His Habit Back

NCJDDAS: How The Monk Got His Habit Back

(Based On A Pitch by Peter Harness)

(Also really, really not that)

Chapter One

The Man the people called the Monk lay in the armchair, relaxing to the mood of his music.
He had been wondering how the people of Moscow would appreciate 1978 Pop Music.
He was definitely not high.
He kicked the air, giggling. The music from his console blared.

Ra Ra Rasputin, Lover of The Russian Queen! 
There was a cat that really was gone!
Ra Ra Rasputin, Russia's greatest love machine! 
It was a shame how he carried on!

The Monk adjusted his Crown. His TARDIS had recently been disabled by a certain Miss Missy Masters. What a cow. It had of course, not taken him long to repair (in the grand scheme of things, it actually took several years) and he was back on course, doing whatever he liked. In the meantime, he only had one change of clothes, and they were King Henry The Eighth's royal gown. So he had a crown to go with it. Figures.

Ra, Ra Rasputin, Lover of The Russian Queen!
They didn't quit, they wanted his head!
Ra, Ra, Rasputin, Russia's greatest love machine!
and so they shot him, till he was dead!

He wondered what Rasputin would think of that.
He half blankly, as he did all things, programmed his TARDIS for Moscow, 1908, while Rasputin was caring for the Queen's son. (Having done so for two years)
He went outside for about eight minutes.

Meanwhile,
The Doctor, Roman and Danny stood in the TARDIS, still reeling from Danny's mother.
"Can...we go someplace happy now, Doctor?" Danny mumbled.
"Of course." The Doctor smiled, grabbing him by the shoulders in what was supposedly a caring gesture but actually was quite uncomfortable. "I'll set the coordinates." She wandered over
The phone rang. Roman picked it up.
The Monk rasped through the phone receiver, filled with static.
"Doctor, I've made a terrible mistake..."

Chapter Two

The Doctor and Roman stepped out of the TARDIS, with a reluctant Danny following.
"Moscow, Russia, 1908!" The Doctor exposited. She wore a great overcoat of black, draped all around her, dark and menacing, like a star wars villain.
She had a frilly pink collar, cuffs, and barbie brand gogo boots to match.
The street was stone cobble, and the houses, brick. The only people were a couple on a horse carriage, who soon rounded a corner, out of sight. It was dark, and the wind howled.
"...I...um..." Danny mumbled.
"Funnily enough, this may be our first historical in fifteen stories." The Doctor continued, smiling.
Danny wandered back into the TARDIS in a depressed huff.
"Doctor!" Roman pointed. "Is Danny alright? Or is he Sammy Winters now or something?"
"No, Roman, calm it. He just needs a bit. Come on, The Meddling Monk said he'd meet us here." The Doctor said, rubbing her palms to stave off the cold. It was bitter winter, and the wind howled, throwing flakes of snow towards them.
"The Meddling Monk? I've never heard of him." Roman said.
"Oh yeah you have." The Doctor said, raising her hand to the flurrying snow, and scrunching her face like she had figured out something, but she didn't say, and carried on. "The Meddling Monk is just what The Master and I call him. He's a weird chap. Dressed up as a Monk once, and people just won't let it go."
"Oh, him." Roman said. "You mean-"
The Doctor interrupted him. "None Shall Speak His Name Or I Shall Devour The Flesh From Your Bones." She said in a guttural growl that was overlaid with several demonic voice filters, as her eyes glowed red and blood fell from the sky as the Doctor levitated in mid air, chanting the song of Satan himself.  The Doctor held up a sign telling the audience to disregard the previous exchange, and they moved on.
The Monk rounded a corner.
"Ah, Doctor. Roman." The Monk said, looking like A Monk that wasn't a Monk. "I've um, been bad." He smiled, embarrassed like an ashamed puppy dog.
"Well, I hope the fanfiction writers don't take that the wrong way." The Doctor said, adjusting her cloak. "What is it you've done wrong now?"

The Monk, continually smiling awkwardly, began.
"I...may have or may have not...played Ra Ra Rasputin to Rasputin, and he may have or may have not gone mad, and sliced his own head off, disrupting history, and there may or may have not been an alien necromancer in the city, who brought him back to life, headless, and this may or may have not  caused even more time fractures bringing in items and random historical figures from across the multiverse, so now there's a headless Rasputin driving a Zamboni that's on fire through the middle of Moscow, dancing with a copy of Charles Dickens from another universe where everything is rubber ducks, and for some reason Tony Shalhoub is there. Also it's raining ham."

The Doctor made a face.

Chapter Three

"No." said The Doctor. "You didn't."
"Um, yes," said The Monk, as an explosion levelled a nearby building. Neither of them flinched, and they kept arguing.
"This is against every temporal law that history has ever had." The Doctor said.
"Yup," said The Monk, not denying anything.
"You Bastard!" said The Doctor, as Rasputin rolled by in his Zamboni, performing dark arts from the dawn of time.
"Yes, every time." Said The Monk, gesturing to the mayhem that had begun to enter their street.
"Care to fix it?"
"No!" screamed The Doctor. "This is what happens every time you show up! Every bloody time, it's the same story, with you pulling whatever shit you like! You bloody fix it!"
The Doctor turned, and wandered back to the TARDIS.
"We really aren't fixing it, Doctor?" asked Roman, confused. "It does appear to be headless Rasputin on a Zamboni! Might cause some issues!"
"I'm sorry, I'm just not in the mood. I probably would any other day, but my best pal is pretty traumatized right now. And I just can't even. I just." The Doctor blubbered. "Bloody fuck off, Rasputin!" she yelled to Rasputin, who was now doing wheelies.
"Well I can't fix it!" said The Monk.
"Well, let's make a deal." The Doctor said. "You try and fix it. Monk, I really can't. I can't be bothered."
"That's not a deal!" The Monk whined.
"It's the one you're getting," said the strangely mature Doctor.
"Fine. Well, I'll sit here until you come back." The Monk huffed, and sat on the floor like a petulant child.
That's when the Doctor and Roman left.

Chapter Three

The Monk sat there for a long time, indignantly muttering about how he had caused it, but it wasn't his problem, solving problems where what other people did. 
He adjusted his tie.
He sipped his tea, which wasn't very good, and he sat back in his lawnchair that he materialized out of who knows where, and sat down to view the cataclysm.
Somebody would fix it eventually, that's what always happened.

He waited in conviction.

"come back..." he whimpered to himself. He had caused this because he thought nothing would change. Everything would be fixed for him. He would fly off in his mark three TARDIS and vibe onto some other planet, and he'd do the same thing. It was like his musical chairs.
Except no one else was playing this time.
Hmph.
Well, he wasn't going to get responsible just because people expected him to. Hardly.
What did he have to do to get the Doctor's attention again?
What worked, usually?
Well, he could always cause a bigger problem.
The Monk smiled wickedly.

Some time passed, and The Monk was on an elephant in moscow. You simply must accept this, because this is one of the more simple bits.
There was a giant copy of Roald Dahl's Matilda that had flattened a building, and the words had gotten off of the pages because they were tired, and decided to go home to their families, as they hadn't had a break since they'd been printed. Unfortunately, all music had decided to go to war on all species, because they had decided that they must not only be loved, but also feared, so they were playing a nice Scherzo while the massacre happened. So the words were being killed by the music, who were stabbing them with their treble clefs, and the words fought back by crucifying people on the letter "t." King Kong was real. He had flattened another building, and was using a rather large eighth note as a toothpick. The Illuminati had finally taken control of society, and they had recently assassinated Sherlock Holmes.
Electric wiring had been replaced by string. This was very good, as there had been no further electrocutions (or any power for that matter) since the replacement took place. A giant centipede was also a clipboard. Tony Shalhoub was still there.
Wind had decided to bugger off.
And The Monk was steadily wondering if anyone would ever notice him.

Chapter Four

The Monk was about to lose it.
Reality had been outlawed by parliament recently, and the UN had decided to invoke martial law and replace all reality with chain mail. They'd been wanting to bring back Chain Mail since the middle ages, but everyone complained because it was too heavy. Well, screw them, the UN was bringing back Chain Mail, and everything was going to be Chain Mail, and what where the Chain Mail haters going to do then?

The Monk had recently realized that this was quite a scenario he'd gotten himself into by playing
Ra Ra Rasputin to Rasputin. Was that all that had happened? No, he had done other things to try and get the Doctor to fix his problems. He had gotten Shakespeare on television at last. Hamlet came out to low ratings. People thought it was too obtuse.

What would he do now?

The Monk wandered morosely back to his TARDIS. He set the coordinates for 1984, shot George Orwell, and then set the coordinates back to 1908, Moscow. He was going to have to clean up after himself.

He saw himself from earlier, talking to the Doctor.
"John Cleese!" Screamed The Doctor happily. "Why does everyone in this series look famous!?"
"It's so the author can make a funny cast list at the end of the story that no one likes." Said Roman, again speaking pure lies.
"Ah, Doctor. Roman." The Monk said, looking like John Cleese. "I've um, been bad." He smiled, embarrassed like an ashamed puppy dog.
"Well, I hope the fanfiction writers don't take that the wrong way." The Doctor said, adjusting her cloak. "What is it you've done wrong now?"

The Monk got out his gun and fired.

His past self fell to the ground, dead.
The Monk strolled out from behind his cover, and looked around.
"At last! There! I shot myself!" The Monk cheered out of sheer relief. "Look at that!" He said, laughing at his corpse.
The Doctor raised an eyebrow.
 Roman perked up. "Of course you know this means that you, having shot your past self, have in fact created a larger paradox."

The Monk stared blankly.

That's when the Chainmail fell from the sky.

"We'll be back when you clean up after yourself, Monk." The Doctor said, she and Roman turning off the street and wandering back into the TARDIS and dematerializing.

The Monk began to fade in and out of existence as the Chainmail continued to fall.
He regenerated into a new body and wandered over to a street closet, picking up a broom.

The Monk began to clean up after himself, for the first time, as Rasputin's Zamboni roared in the distance.

The End

This Story (Hypothetically) Starred 

Dame Judi Dench as The Doctor

Rufus Hound as The Monk
Sir Patrick Stewart as Roman
Danny Devito as Danny AKA Sammy Winters
Grigori Rasputin as Himself
Tony Shalhoub as Himself
Robert Shearman as The Fundamental Concept Of Music
 The Book Matilda
Andy Serkis as King Kong
Charles Dickens as a Rubber Duck
Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes
Anonymous as The Illuminati
and
The Entire Cast of Mamma Mia...
Somewhere. I'm sure they're Somewhere.