Written by Cat.
Directed by Cat.
Produced by Cat.
Sponsored by Slimcat: protein chunks for felines following the Katkin’s diet.
Warnings: unrealistic medical discipline melodrama, heavily reliant on smutty innuendo, terrible puns, bad language (and we’re not just talking punctuation and grammar here) questionable taste and absolutely no medical research. <G>Absolutely no offence intended to anyone.
Early antipodeans morning, an austere airport lounge in the outback.
“Look at these hands, look at them, LOOK! How can I perform pioneering surgery with hands that shake like this? I’m finished, FINISHED!” Brett Pip, 29, claps aforementioned hands to his face, sobbing hysterically, drawing odd looks from other patrons of the lounge. “We’ll have to stay in Australia until a cure is found Jake, we’ll HAVE to.”
Jake Swat, 35, folded his arms and spoke sternly to his partner, “you’ll be fine once you’re on the plane. You always shake with nerves before a flight. Now, are we quite finished with the histrionics?”
“No, not quite, but thank you for asking.” Brett hurled himself face down on the lounge floor, wildly drumming his feet and fists on the carpet. “I DON’T WANNA GO, I DON’T WANNA, I DON’T WANNA! There,” he rose to his feet and brushed himself down, “I’m finished now.”
“In that case, Brett, John, Peter, Andrew, Mark, Dasher, Dancer, Rudolf Pip, I think we need to discreetly adjourn to the restroom for discussions regarding this disgraceful display of temper.” Jake unfolded his arms.
“You mean you’re going to spank my bottom in the gents?”
“Say what you mean then.”
“Watch that attitude mister and get moving.”
“No, toilets are full of germs. If you’re going to spank me, you can spank me here in the lounge, bearing in mind,” Brett stared his partner straight in the eye, “that it would contravene rule 23, section 4, subsection 8 of the Discipline Relationship handbook, governing codes of conduct for Tops: no spanking of Brats shall be carried out in a public place, regardless of provocation on the part of the aforementioned Brat.” Brett smirked, “you could end up in front of a discipline, disciplinary panel getting your knuckles rapped and points put on your paddle.”
Jake smiled, “I’m impressed by your grasp of the rule book, however, young man, what you seem to have forgotten is that I’m a DP Maverick. The only rules that matter to me are the ones I apply to others. Why do you think we’re heading for England, I’ll tell you why, because I’m sick and tired of being dictated to by the namby, pamby discipline fascists who govern St.Nowhere’s, tapping wrists, and piddling around with a few botty taps, calling everyone else’s methods abuse. I’m going where I’ll be in charge, where I make the rules, where I can make a difference to the way people behave. I’m loving and fair, I never shout or spank in anger, I always hug afterwards, but by heavens, when a spanking is called for,” he grabs Brett, puts a foot up on a coffee table and bends him over his thigh, “I’m not afraid to give it, anywhere, anytime, anyplace.” Whipping out his travel paddle, he smartly applied it to his partner’s bottom, “I warned you, after that heart incident, that I’d stand for no more nonsense from you, my lad, and after I’ve finished not standing for it, you won’t be able to sit. I’m sorry to say it’s going to be a long sore flight for you.”
To Brett’s relief, a handy crisis arises, taking Jake’s attentions away from blistering his backside. An air steward, Stuart Slowly, 69, dashes into the lounge, almost tripping as his regulation high heels get caught in a passing crocodile, he beats it off with his regulation handbag. “Help, help, is there a doctor in the airport? It’s the pilot of flight 666, he’s collapsed with agonising stomach pains!”
“Don’t think this is finished, young man,” Jake tucked his paddle away and set Brett back on his feet, “we’ll resume just as soon as I’ve finished performing an appendectomy on the pilot, fortunately I have my travel surgical kit with me.”
Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, in Soho, it’s been a quiet night at St. Gays, only 57 deaths and 79 medical emergencies, calling for much dashing up and down corridors on trolleys, yelling unintelligible medical abbreviations. In the canteen the staff gather to drink morning coffee, gossip and generally ignore the patients under their care.
Dr Phil Good, age unknown, rests an elegant wing on the table, leaning towards nurse Sam Goodbody, who is applying a layer of high gloss varnish over her lipstick. “Quack, quack, quakity quack.”
“What the hell did he say?” Sam, 23, 38-24-36, looks enquiringly at nurse Bill Crossover, who is busily inflating his false breasts with a bicycle pump.
“Jeez, Sammy,” Bill, 27, 36-36-36, shook his head, “don’t you understand plain English, the guy’s paying you a compliment. He said he likes your new shade of lipstick.”
“Oh,” Sam blew a kiss across the table, “thanks Phil, you’re a sweetheart.” She turned back to Bill, who isn’t looking happy. “I’d guess your date with that brick layer didn’t go so well, huh?”
“Guy was a prick, and not where it counted,” Bill slipped the fully pumped breasts into the front of his uniform and buttoned up. “Phil’s right, that is a nice shade of lipstick.”
“Here,” Sam handed it over, “try it, I reckon it’ll tone well with your nine o clock shadow.”
“Thanks babe,” Bill, still 27, but now 38-36-36, grinned at her, “lips are looking good, are you getting set to pucker up to Matron?”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” Sam sighed, “she kept me behind on the ward last night, after our shift was over. I thought I might be getting somewhere, but she tore me off a strip, it completely ruined my cardigan, then she made me write a 600 word essay on the correct way to make a bed.”
“That’s tough, I don’t know what you see in her,” Bill stood up, twisting his head to look at his legs, “are my stockings straight?”
Sam nodded, “about the only thing around here that is.”
“Matron is straight.”
“She only thinks she is. I know that under that straight exterior there beats the heart of a true lesbian.”
“Quakity, quack, quack.”
“Thanks Phil,” Bill accepted the compliment with grace.
“What did he say?” Sam looked mystified.
“Fucks sake, am I the only one around here who understands Phil’s accent? He said I had nice ankles.”
The canteen door swings open.
“DICK, DICK!” Lickit Larry, 26, looking very self important dashes into the canteen, heading briskly to where his partner is sitting, “I’ve found out who’s been appointed to take over the running of St. Gays.”
“Stop looking self important, my boy, that’s my job,” Doctor Dick, age refused, stood up, certain that he was the one that had been appointed, “now share your news with this motley crew and then I can get on with kicking this place into shape.”
“I’m sorry, Dick,” Larry dropped his eyes, annoyed when not one person offered to pick them up for him, “but it’s not you.”
A collective sigh of relief swept the canteen, which was more than the idle janitor ever did.
Lickit licked his lips nervously, as dozens of eyes swivelled towards him, hanging eagerly on to his every word, which kind of slowed his speech right down, and made him lisp a bit, “it’s-thats-Australians-guy- thocktor-Jakes-Swat.”
The sigh of relief, which hadn’t yet finished sweeping the canteen, was sucked back up into a collective gasp of dismay and a shout of, “NOT AUSSIE JAKE SWAT, THE FLAYING DOCTOR!!!!!!!!”
“The very same.” Larry tried valiantly to catch Dick as he plunged backwards in a dead faint of pure seething, jealous rage.
Dramatic music signifies end of episode one.