The Loony Bin
(
loonies@bloodaxe.demon.co.uk
)
Tue, 2 Apr 1996 14:52:36 +0100
Hiya friends... Something more for the chosen few...it's fairly long but good fun... - A xx -- ************<andrea@bloodaxe.demon.co.uk>************ ******************<ajc6@ukc.ac.uk>******************* *** *** *** THE LOONY BIN *** *** loonies@bloodaxe.demon.co.uk *** *** *** ***************************************************** **********************ANDROMEDA********************** ------- Forwarded message follows ------- >Title: Star Trek: The Next Supermarket > >Author(s): Dan Gookin > >Forced by Federation budget cuts in the late 24th century, the crew of the >Starship Enterprise, 1701-D, found itself picking up part time work in >order to make ends meet. Several of them, in fact, obtained jobs at a >grocery store, where they made the best of dealing with 20th century human >life . . . > >It was the lull after the mid-afternoon Sunday rush and both Wesley >Crusher and Lt. Worf were working the Express Lane at Vons. Each was >dressed in a tidy white uniform, with a bow tie and bright blue apron >neatly tied around their waist. Wesley fit into the motif rather well. >But Worf, with his gargantuan Klingon head and snarly attitude, took a >while for the shoppers to get used to. > >Assistant Manager William Riker, on duty that day, had done his best to >instruct Lt. Worf to be kind and pleasant. And for the most part, Worf >was. Oh, he occasionally growled a forceful pleasantry ("Have a *nice* >day," was his favorite), and he almost blew his cork when a food stamp >customer bought $20 worth of gum. But for most of the day, Worf ran an >efficient checkout stand, dutifully (and somewhat forcefully) giving exact >change to each customer. > >"Thank you ma'am," beamed young Wesley, handing a small, easily-toppled >plastic bag to an plump elderly shopper. > >"You're so nice," she said, cheerfully, giving a cautious look over her >shoulder at Worf. To Wesley she added, "My granddaughter would like you. >She's 12!" > >Wesley got a goony look on his face. "Twelve?" He thought of his typical > fans, the screaming teeny boppers, none of them able to fulfil his >budding sexual desires. He gave her a goonish grin and she was off. > >"You were very polite to her," Worf commented. > >"Thanks," Wesley answered, turning to Worf who was looking quite >disgruntled with his situation. He asked Worf, "I bet you find it >frustrating to be polite to all these human shoppers. Some of them can be >quite obnoxious." > >"I know," Worf grumbled in a low voice, arms folded in front of him. >"Several times I've been close to getting . . ." he searched for the right >word: ". . . Mad." He took a deep breath and stared off into the distance. > >"But Commander, er, Assistant Store Manager Riker wanted me to be nice and >polite." He looked back to Wesley, adding "I will try." > >"I think you're doing a swell job," Wesley said goonfully. > >There was an awkward silence. > >"Worf," Wesley asked sheepishly, "how do Klingons do their grocery >shopping?" > >Worf gaped at him, he said loudly, "Klingons *do not* go shopping!" > >Wesley was taken back. He stared at the floor. "Sorry, I didn't mean to >insult you." He paused, still curious. "But, I mean, how do you get >food. You don't go hunting all the time . . . Do you?" > >"We hunt," Worf said quickly. > >Wesley started, "But what about simple stuff like milk and eggs? Where do >Klingons go to buy, say, a mop? Don't you have supermarkets? I mean what >about toilet paper . . ." > >"We don't have supermarkets," Worf loudly cut him off. Wesley was >relieved, however, to find that Worf wasn't going to deny having toilet >paper. > >"I'm just curious," Wesley said quietly. > >Worf took another deep breath, realizing that Wesley was only being >Wesley. He'd have to answer the kid's question. He looked quickly from >left to right, darting his eyes back and forth. "Klingons order their >groceries," he said in a deep, low voice. > >"Really!" Wesley whispered, all surprised. > >"Yes," Worf acknowledged. "We phone in our grocery list. They deliver." > >He added, in a very low tone, "But we *don't* go shopping."gave Worf a >goony smile. "Thank you, Worf." He added, clumsily, "I'm always >fascinated by Klingon culture." > >Worf rolled his eyes. > >After another pause, Worf grabbed the loudspeaker and thundered out, > >"There's no waiting on checkstand nine, express items only." >Just then another elderly woman, much smaller and more frail than the >first, approached the express lane and began unloading her groceries. As >each item wobbled down the conveyer belt Worf would lift it off, swiftly >pass it over the laser price reader, and enter its price. He then flipped >the item back down the second conveyer belt to Wesley, who carefully set >everything aside for bagging > >"Is plastic okay?" Wesley asked the old woman. > >"Excuse me," Worf bellowed, startling both Wesley and the old woman. He >said it again, louder, "Excuse me!" > >"What is it, Worf?" Wesley asked. The old woman looked up at Worf, >horrified to see his misshapen Klingon head and beady little Klingon eyes >drilling into her soul. > >In a trembling voice she asked, "Is there a--problem, sir?" > >"This is the *Express* lane," Worf began, using a low angry tone. "You >can only have ten items or less. You have twelve." > >The old woman was startled. She couldn't speak. Worf lowered his gaze at >her, scaring the bejesus out of the poor woman, "You must either take two >items back or get into another line." > >With wide eyes, the old woman quietly said, "But there's no one behind me. >Surely it isn't a problem?" > >Worf screamed, "Can you read this sign?" He ripped the plastic fluorescent >sign down from atop the register and shoved it in the woman's face. "It >says," he shouted, pointing out each word, "Express Lane. Ten items or >less. No checks." > >The old woman shook. > >In a low tone, Worf added, "Now take two items back or get into another >line." He tossed aside the plastic fluorescent sign and snarled at her. >"Worf," Wesley's voice squeaked, "I don't think we have to condemn the >poor woman for two extra tins of cat food." > >Worf turned to Wesley, "Rules are there for a reason, acting Ensign. >Otherwise Commander Riker would not have put me in charge of this >position." He turned to the woman and shouted, "Now go away!" > >Fortunately, just at that time Assistant Manager Riker stepped in to >mediate. Like Wesley and Worf, he was wearing a white uniform with a blue >apron. A large feather duster was stuck in his left rear pocket. "What >appears to be the trouble?" he asked Worf. He gave a smile to the elderly >woman. > >"This woman," Worf began, his tone bitter, "was trying to deceive me. She >placed twelve items on the belt instead of ten. Sir, this is the >*Express* Lane." > >Riker nodded, "Thank you, Lieutenant." To the old woman he smiled again >and said, "We're sorry for any inconvenience, ma'am." He looked at Worf, >adding, "There shouldn't be any problem with twelve items today. Just be >more careful next time." > >"Next time I'm going to Ralphs," she said under her breath. > >Before leaving, Riker whispered to Worf, "Remember Lieutenant, a little >pleasantness does well for business." Worf reluctantly nodded, still upset >that the rule had been broken. But he wasn't about to argue with Riker. > >Instead, he suppressed his innate desire to kill anything with a head >smaller than his. > >Assistant Manager Riker sped off to do more dusting, but before leaving >acknowledged Wesley with a shot of the old "finger gun." Wes returned a >goofy grin. > >With great pain, Worf managed to apologize to the tiny old woman, "I'm," >he swallowed, "Sorry." He stared off into the distance, yearning to grab >his phaser and melt away all customers in his line of vision. But that >urge was suppressed. He continued by quickly passing the woman's last two >items over the laser scanner and giving her the total. "$9.78," he said >flatly. > >Everything would have been fine, had the woman not produced a checkbook >and began writing in a check for $29.78. Worf was incensed. His eyes >grew big. He growled, "Now you're writing a check?" Wesley reached out to >stop Worf, but it was too late. The Klingon grocery clerk grabbed the >microphone and shouted into it, "Manager assistance on checkstand nine." >The entire store rumbled. > >Riker turned around immediately and headed back to Wesley and Worf. "What >is it now, Lieutenant?" > >Worf pointed, "She's," he took a moment to calm himself, "writing a check. >Sir." > >Riker folded his arms. The old woman looked up dolefully. Worf spoke in >a low angry voice, "Sir, permission to kill the shopper." > >"Permission denied, Lieutenant," Riker quipped. He apologized to the old >woman, occasionally giving a mean stare to Worf, "Again, I'm sorry for the >inconvenience, ma'am. Please feel free to write a check." To Worf he >added, "See me as soon as possible, Lieutenant." > >Worf responded, "Sir." He carefully checked the woman's ID and Vons check >cashing card, then stamped the check and gave her a twenty. She walked >out of the store slowly at first, then darted quickly to her car. Worf and >Wesley watched her the entire way. > >After a time, Wesley leaned over to Worf and said, "I think you handled >the situation well, Worf." > >Worf stared at him, "Meaning?" > >"I would have gotten mad too. I mean, this is the *Express* line." Worf >nodded. Wesley added, "Besides, I broke all her eggs, tore open her bag >of coffee, and kept her Jarlsberg cheese." He tossed it up in the air, >then quickly re-hid it back in his apron. He added, "I don't think she'll >be coming back." > >Worf agreed. "Thank you, Wesley," he said in all sincerity. "You can bag >for me anytime." > >* Next time: The Enterprise crew works in a 20th century restaurant!