Airing the fraud through the aisles of our galley ship currentivism. Plank board rafters creaking with the sounds of wine glasses chinking.
"This here, the Dalekian Bonesaw, capable of ripping ribs and sucking blood, back in our hands, the curostesses with the mostesses, do I hear 5,000?"
Faint smile clipped across scenes of Jack Harkness standing on the invisible ceiling of his Chilean Warpship. The kids are rolling their eyes. Another door slams in the face of the commission vacuum salesman.
This is the way of the dream. Dostoevsky pulling the cord of the best ejaculation you've ever had.
"Here I come, Burroughs."
"Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"
"Do I ever?"
"Just give me a plate of stank crotch and some breast milk and I'm good to go."
"Here you are." he says, handing me the pull handle.
"What do you say we go all in on this one?"