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!