Doctor Who BBC872 - To the Slaughter

Then again, from the smell of those horrid little wriggly things, maybe no
one would notice if she did.
The Doctor put down his continued liberty to the presence of this temperamental
decoratiste Falsh had mentioned. Warnings over the tannoy that dangerous
intruders were on the loose would hardly impress VIP guests – especially
ones in filthy moods to begin with.
He’d given Security the slip and was hiding in a kitchen store of some kind.
It was piled high with implements and tablecloths and crates of foil-packed
food, and while a stock of mercury was unlikely to present itself here, he
searched it diligently all the same – all the while hoping that Fitz had made it
back to Trix in the TARDIS.
A tramping of boots outside alerted him to a possible patrol approaching.
There were two other doors in the storeroom, one to his left and one to his
right. He went left, teased open the door. It gave on to a small antechamber,
the white walls either side festooned with surgical smocks. A large inspection
hatch straight ahead invited his attention, and he stepped forwards.
He stared, dumbfounded, his skin prickling at the sight of a herd of bizarre
creatures. There were about forty of them, wingless and apparently headless,
no fur or feathers, all tethered to treadmills. They trudged in lines on juicy
pink pig legs, their fat rumps wiggling from side to side as they did so.
The Doctor pressed a button beneath the inspection hatch and the whole
wall rose upwards. There was no animal stench here, only a herby, synthetic
sage-stuffingy sort of smell. The creatures made no noise, no snuffling. Pipes
stuffed into the fat, puckered flesh gurgled softly, fed them with fluid and
drained the waste away. The only other noise was the quiet hum of the treadmills,
the padding of soft, fleshy feet. . . and a low moan behind him.
The Doctor turned to find a bald man dragging himself out from a rustling
chrysalis of smocks, rubbing his head. Underneath he was dressed only in his
underwear.
‘I’m not sure I want to know what you’re doing here,’ said the Doctor.
‘Girl,’ he muttered. ‘Not seen her before. . . Knocked me on the head.’
‘A girl?’ The Doctor noticed a glint beneath the smocks, crouched and pulled
out a silver ladle. ‘She hit you with this?’
The man nodded painfully.
‘Petite, blonde, becoming if you care for that sort of thing?’
Again, the man nodded, and the Doctor checked the bump on his crown.
Nothing serious.
‘What are those things in there?’
‘In where?’ The man frowned. ‘Door’s opened. Has something got in with
the chiggs?’
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