The Gang at 42nd Street
A small hand holds up a small note.
The note is blue, squarish. Straight-edged and unassuming.
“…-this- is what he wants us to do while he’s busy with that artifact he stole?” asks the owner of the small female hand, her small female head bobbing side to side with what must be disdain.
Her blonde straight locks are limp and dry, as though she’s been floured and pulled through a noodle machine.
“Ours might say differently, but we really shouldn’t compare; you know what he’s like, Borusa.”
The little not-girl raises a blonde crown and eyes like blue furnaces again to the smiling face of the Doctor’s latest companion. “I see your point, and raise you two pawns.” Her small fingers snap, and a wrinkled figure slips in from the outside door. “Pasmodius, River Song. River Song, Pasmodius.”
River Song nods to the girl, and to the old man who looks like an old man, her curls bouncing slightly off her bare bronzed shoulders like gold coins pouring from a leather purse. Then she sighs, and her lips curve into a smile unseen for quite a few weeks.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re mixing your human metaphors again,” says River, blushing as the old man grins a mouthful of what must be rusted teeth at her sea-scented heave of ample bosom, her full, earthy breasts nestled like rock doves in swathes of white ribbon-y cloth.
Borusa groans, ignoring her decrepit deputy, and begins to fold the note with meticulous hands back behind her young ear, in such a way as to make it stay there without assistance. “Well, we have no doubt as to who -you’re- married to.”