"Hand me that spoon." the Doctor's voice cracked through the air like wonderbread in a bandsaw. "I've got a good feeling about this one."
He had been saying that a lot lately, every time we scored, actually - except for those times that Timbot punched him in the rags for getting on his one straight nerve ending.
Finally. I had thought when that happened. He's going to shut up and for once not ruin my buzz.
It was not to be... I could see the intent building behind Doc's eyes. His brain was backflipping covert signals down through his medulla, pingponging little jags of anticipatory goof-lust through his tangled-spaghetti neural network. All along his internal system, random nerve endings not burnt to a blackened nub were sputtering. Twisted against him in some goof-induced tourrette's... his lip quivered.
His lip tipped me off, blazing nanoseconds before "it" happened - and in that nebulous interim my royal rocket purple velvet cockatoo and rigatoni trumpet fanfare buzz was crushed into a smoldering pancake butt.
"Shut up, Doc!" Timbot puked, nearly shitting his pants with urgent, desperate, anguish.
"Whaaaaa?" Doc feigned aback. "I wuz just gonna say that, well... I've been thinking about things, I mean really thinking about, y'know, this situation we're in," He pronounced the syllables sit-u-a-tion. "The signs all point to it maaan. We're on the cusp of greatness - it's only a matter of time."
"I can't believe you are still gabbering that goof zombie fairytale." Timbot had chilled his guts by now and was simmering in his annoyance with Doc. "I'm tired of hearing about it. Have been for years."
"Yes, but it remains a statistical possibility." Doc's air jumped a level, "Just the fact that none of the squad has been tapped-"
"Ahh." Timbot burfed. "I spose you bleev in Santy Clawrz too..." It was not a question.
"In the memetic sense, yes." Doc's forehead befuddled.
"Well don't. Yer killin' the mood, fucker."