Written by masterchev

Friday, 21 January 2011


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image for Born to Spoof: the Finale: At World's End The End of Things to Come

15 minutes until Annihilation.


Being completely trapped in limbo space, with nothing but the rainbow haired vixen for company, didn't seem like that bad a deal on paper.

Being trapped in a timeless region, of which I could never escape, whilst time collapsed around me, however, was something else entirely.

"I'd say we have fifteen minutes of paradise left Masterchev," 3.5 nodded as bits of the 1960s flew over our heads: shattering the darkness which had previously existed.

And then impossibly, against every single odd imagineable, there came a dull roar from nowhere and everywhere at once. The darkness was ripped open, and from the shiny white hole emerged a battered silver DeLorean.

Out of the machine stepped Victor Nicholas, grinning madly as he inspected his surroundings.

"Masterchev. We have to get back to 1985!"

"That sounds a bit cliched. And specific. Surely anywhere would do?"

"Nope. You're coming with me!"

It was with a mixed feeling of guilt and pleasure that I left 3.5 in the darkness. Not before I gave her my phone number.

12 minutes until annihilation
America, 1985

After what seemed like forever, the DeLorean emerged into an abandoned corn field. I stepped out, watching as the Sun above my head blazed a furious brown-red colour.

"I'm leaving you here Masterchev," Victor Nicholas explained. "Lynton's stranded in the 1500s. Best go!"

The DeLorean raced off, appearing for a split second to crash into the barn before it disappeared with the blink of an eye. I checked my watch.

11:51. Nine minutes until the End of All Things.

I remarked hopelessly that this time, we'd failed. The project we'd started with great intent had failed dramatically. We would never find the nun. The hero wouldn't get the girl.

But if he was going out, he'd go out fighting.

And then the bullet raced through my chest, sending my vision a furious scarlet hue.

"Whaat?" I croaked, collapsing to my knees as blood seeped onto the corn fields. In the light of the dying Sun, I noticed a young man aiming a Glock at my head. A young man with an impossibly long moustache.


"You turn up from the middle of nowhere, and the Sun nearly goes out? You fuckin alien," he gloated, then stood back to reveal a young Dean Martin lookalike who was restrained behind him.


"I'm Welsh. Not an alien," I gurgled, frothing slightly at the mouth like Skoob did when he had his Gerbil Flu.

And then the idea hit me.

Sinking to my knees, my eyes barely noticed the watch showing 23:59. I had less than a minute to act.

Drawing the last reserves of breath, I reached for the revolver Victor Nicholas had given me, and took a shot.
Mark Lowton took a step forward, unfazed as the Welshman took his final shot with the revolver he'd somehow smuggled with him.

"I win young man! I'm going to be the one who saves the world! I'll open a mansion with nightclubs and everything. Everyone will know of Mark Lowton!"

And then impossibly, as the clock struck 0 hour, the young man spoke. He placed a rough hand against the gunwound and croaked loudly.

"I wasn't aiming at you,"

Quick on his toes, Lowton turned around to notice the young man he'd been sent to capture.

And found another dying body.

"What the fuck? You murderer!" Lowton yelled, rushing forward to hear the confession of a dying Welshman.

"Had to... it's what Number Three said... everything is..."

Lowton watched as life passed from the Welshman, then stood back as Masterchev slumped forward onto the cornfield. Nearby, Jean La Fete lay abandoned and forgotten: dead in his home.

The world had been saved, but at what cost?
Memoirs of a Welshman,
Found in Cardiff Library, 2011.

If this chronicle survives, I am most likely dead before I was even born. But that's alright, because it was a good run anyway.

I intend to kill Jean La Fete: my closest friend in the Spoofing Establishment. Everything all started when he joined the Spoof: the quest for the Oracle: our near deaths in the TARDIS: my imprisonment in a medieval world: and my unrequited love.

By killing Jean La Fete in 1985, he will never have entered the Oasis Bar and Grill. History will run a different course.

But it will always be recollected in this tome.

Victor Nicholas holds this tome now, and will be returned home. I know I will likely face my own end in doing this task, but I must take it.

I hope I did you all proud.

The reader placed the book down, then walked forward to the nearest computer. Wales was so boring, but he had a font of knowledge he could explore.

He loaded up the nearest Google page, and typed in two words.

The Spoof.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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