Odd dreams of a fictional lemur monarch brought on by a bedtime story told by Sabrae not withstanding, there was, in fact, no incursion of daleks on Bruce at that time.
After Gothess' explanation of her mission, and an... interesting attempt at a two-being cricket match between Skippy and Julio (which somehow involved such odd side-activities as juggling juke boxes, shaving halibut, and a mock wedding between Tristan and a small bowl of guacamole), we discussed how to best pool our resources to accomplish our disparate goals.
During this discussion, we were a touch startled by the somewhat deafening impact of a meteorite in the distance, followed by a plume of dust and the strange sound of something inflating. In retrospect, this should have been investigated.
It is at this time I should explain something of my personal philosophy regarding strategy.
The sentient mind, even that of a Time Lord, behaves in certain, predictable patterns. Even my experience being merged with the vortex didn't change that fact of my own thought process. While most sentient beings couldn't quite follow my version of logic, it could still be predicted. This fact made stategizing, normally, a waste of time on the level of watching an episode of the American television programme "Elementary" and trying to suss out whose brilliant plan it was to have an Asian-American female play Doctor Watson.
However, if a variable is added into the thought process, strategy and thought becomes less predicatble, and therefore, more effective.
For this reason, our discussions with Gothess included copious consumption of Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters in an effort to loosen up the grey cells.
It should, therefore, stand to reason that we were not overly interested in investigating the meteor impact, nor the inflating sound.
We were, however, far more interested in the sudden (and, in reality, inevitable) attack of an 80 foot inflatable sex doll wearing a french maid outfit.
The giant inflate-a-date descended on us with a sound that can best be describe as an ominous squeeking of latex, knocking the larked TARDISes about and causing all sorts of havok.
Even in our somewhat non-existent state of mind, we understood the threat. Unfortunately, the only weapons any of us possessed were in our currently scattered TTCs and the extent of our ability to defend ourselves seemed to consist of a cricket bat and Tristan's newly wedded avacado-based dip/bride. Both proved completely ineffective.
I should note at this time that while the majority of us were engaged in a furious polyvinyl and food product based battle, Sabrae merely stood aside and watched, snickering.
After an hour of warfare, Sabrae calmly walked up to our sex-shop-purchased antagonist, pulled a pin from her pocket, and stabbed it.
The expression on its face changed fro one of open-mouthed hostility to open-mouthed surprise as the high-pitched whine of air escaping from the tiny pinhole surrounded us and we watched it slowly crumple to the ground.
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