“What light, through yonder window… nevermind…” the child-Doctor breathes in the face of the mask covering Rassilon’s tomb, “you always did overrate yourself with the ladies, or was that me?”
He puts the key back in his pocket, and brings out the coin. Rubbing the gold between his fingers, he starts to flip it. Once, twice, three tosses.
The lid of the tomb slides off in a cloud of dust; a shriveled hand crawls out, gripping the edge of the big stone coffin.
“Bela Lugosi would be proud, ‘Rasse”, the child-Doctor says, his voice nursing a growing tremor as the mummy of Rassilon’s ambition climbs its wrappy, wrinkled way out of the stone sarcophagus.
“Open wide for clunky!” he cries, and shoves the coin into the gaping, rotten mouth, then shakes his hand as if he’s dipped it in rubbish. Which he has. Just look at those green teeth!
Then he steps back, sweeps a flourish to the floor back the way he’d come, and watches the dead thing shamble toward him.
“This would have been so much easier if you’d just watched Blazing Saddles…” he murmurs as the mummy follows him back up the shaft, scraping and scratching and generally making an audible nuisance of itself.