Taxi for Mr Helper Homeless! Or was it Homeless Helper? Helpful Homer? I really can’t remember now, because like most nicknames “HH” has overwritten his actual name*. We need a taxi, regardless. I did swear I’d leave piloting that blue box of his to the Time Lords…
Unfortunately, though, I don’t think I have much of a choice. It’s turned up, and it’s giving me a Look**. Alright. I get it. You can have him already. But keep the damn soap dispenser away from me, or else I’m going back for a drink. Trust me on that.
Now…where do I begin? HH seems to make it up, but there must be a trick to it. Last time I just held on. What the hell do all these levers do? And why is there a crank? I doubt it’s used that much. It looks rusty.
HH mentioned an inner viking. That must be important. He said it a lot. It must stand for something. He told me to embrace it.
There’s a typewriter here, actually. It’s wired up, like everything else, and the paper’s here.
Maybe “viking” is a password of sorts… and right now maybe’s good enough.
…what the hell just happened? One minute I’m typing, the next this place goes through the motions like a dolls house on a fairground ride…what did I even do?
HH’s up, I see. Looking worse for wear, but up. He’s got a scarf on, and that bloody top hat is back.
He looks at me quizzically.
*Nicknames are sort of like cuckoos, in that sense.
**As inanimate objects are often capable of doing. Traffic cones get into a lot of trouble over this, it must be said.