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As they depart, the creatures of hate swoop down on an unlucky reporter, who's hoping to get a top scoop for Clarinda.
"I'm Roger Johnson for Pop News, standing outside the Arena waiting for Lucky," claims the lying bitch, hoping the creatures won't see her. But they do, and they close in as she meets her doom...

  

Doctor Who storms into Hawky's lair to finally confront the sexy genius. Never before has he faced a foe with such a whopper sausage.
"Ah if isn't the incomparable Professor Hawkspur!" says Who. 
"Glorious Evil it is he!" cries the chicken-in-a-basket Master.
"Tell me old timer," continues Who. "Why did you change time and halt my regeneration? Why pick on me, the handsome curly haired one?"



"The others like the grumpy one and the florist were all too inaccessible... the South Pole... Gallifrey... UNIT HQ...blah, blah, continuity blah," blusters the mad man-machine, as he gloats over the Doctor's captured incarnations. "You were a peach ripe for the plucking. All I had to do was pop down to Pharos, pick you up, and the rest was easy!"
"Say... you." murmurs Who.



While all this chatter is taking place, dear old Brigade Leader is positioning the Volotron Wave Transmitters in the yard outside Hawkspur's HQ. Darkness falls leaving shadows in the night, and the Brig's not afraid to wipe those tears from his eyes.



"I've had enough of this drivel!" cries Who. "I'm not going to stand by and let you pervert history! I challenge you great bag of wind, to a deadly death duel!"
Hawkpiss drops his cigar in shock.
"Very well oh meaty Time Lord, a fight it shall be. But I swear to thee thus, I shall be mistress of all that is."