Last time on Star Trek: Door Repair Guy: The sickbay in what appears to be a Klingon vessel. Door Repair Guy opens first one eye and then the other. His vision is still pretty cloudy. A figure advances toward him and thrusts the plate of targ and fries at him. "nuq Hech'a'." ["What is the meaning of this?"] And now this week's hair-raising episode: We are in orbit above a maroon, purple and aubergine storm- swirled planet. The camera turns toward space, sweeping past Vor'cha-class targs-of-war beyond and between whose nacelles we glimpse flight upon flight of additional Targ ships arrayed in battle order. It is an invasion fleet to rival any in the last five episodes. The camera lifts above the mighty armada, then descends toward the command centre of one of the lead vessels. (The Targs are still building vessels out of lead.) The Targ Captain is slouched in the command chair, curling her lips and flaring her nostrils, a gloved fist planted on each armrest. The door to the outside corridor wheezes open and the First Officer clomps in. The Captain swings her chair partway in his direction and demands: "jatlhpu''a' qama'." ["Has the prisoner spoken?"] The First Officer grasps the command chair by the armrest and back and pulls it further around toward him. He leans down, flares his nostrils, and replies: "vultaH." ["He is still unconscious."] She sneers up at him and wraps a strand of her wavy red hair around her finger. "HaDI'baH Do'Ha'." ["Poor beast."] The First Officer inhales sharply, shifts his weight, then breathes out a long stream of lung-flavoured air over her face and hair. She turns away with a calculating look and then inhales, filling her chest. Captain: "not Sor tera'ngan tIn vIleghpu'." ["I have never seen a giant Tree-Human before."] First Officer: "moHqu' 'oH." ["It is very ugly."] Captain: "'oH moH law' SoH moH puS'a'." ["It is uglier than you?"] She tilts her head in his direction. First Officer (smirking): "moH jIH." ["I am ugly."] Captain (smiling): "jIQochbe'." ["I agree."] First Officer: "moHqu' jIH." ["I am very ugly."] Captain: "ar'." ["How ugly?"] First Officer: "moHqu'qu'." ["Very very ugly."] Captain: "qaHarbe'." ["I don't believe you."] First Officer: "jIH moH law' Hoch moH puS." ["I am the ugliest of all."] The Captain eases out of her chair and takes him by the arm. "yItob." ["Prove it."] She headbutts him through the opening doors. We approach a planetary system. The great bulk of a gaseous giant fills the upper half of the screen. A jagged asteroid rolls by, revealing the words: Star Trek: Door Repair Guy A tiny companion moon tumbles after, revealing the word: Starring We close in on a planetoid, and as the mottled surface speeds across the screen we read: Door Repair Guy as Himself (twice) Suzie Plaxson as Targ Captain Michael Dorn as Targ First Officer Jessica Steen as Targ Doctor Andrew Robinson as Garak Marc Alaimo as Vole Ducat Natalia Nogulich as Chipmunk Rear-Admiral Nechayev Clyde Kusatsu as Chipmunk Admiral Nakamura Bobcat Goldthwaite as Tree-Human President We come up on a black monolith in orbit around the moon. It turns toward us. My God, it's full of stars! It's a gateway to another region of the universe! We pass through it in a spectacular light show, ending up finally in some other galaxy. A planet looms up. We skim low over the surface, which looks a lot like the Scottish Highlands only orange, green and blue. Oh, brother, do we ever need some eyedrops. Look out! We crash. The next moment we step out of the hotel bathroom, breathing loudly in our own ear. We're having dinner. We look up in surprise at the spacesuited figure in the bathroom door and knock a wineglass to the floor. We bend to look at it and notice ourselves lying in the bed. With an ancient, liver-spotted hand we lift the remote control and click to: [Commercial: Apollo 13 Shot of the Apollo 13 spaceship drawing away from the earth. Cut to the interior. Tom Hanks is afloat in the foreground, checking some instruments with a clipboard in one hand. He rotates slightly with the weightlessness just as Door Repair Guy swims by in the background. Hanks does a doubletake, stares as DRG's boots disappear into the lunar module, then grabs his headphones. "Houston, we have a problem!"] The sickbay. The camera pans across an assortment of medical equipment, and then up along the body of Door Repair Guy who is laid out on an examining table with wires and tubes sticking out of him in all directions. His nose and cheekbones show the lingering effects of frostbite, as if he'd recently walked to the end of Merivale Road and back. At the sound of the doors hissing closed his eyes open and dart around the room. The doors swish open again unexpectedly. He shuts his eyes tight and begins to snore. Doctor: "qalegh." ["I see you."] She trundles a tray up beside him. On it are a variety of roots and tubers. She holds one out. "mInDu'raj tIpoSmoH 'ej yIyIv." ["Open your eyes and chew this."] He opens his eyes, sits up, takes the purple parsnip and begins to gnaw. "maj. Hergh je." ["Tasty. And medicinal."] "'oH QaQtaHghach law' DaSoppu'bogh Soj QaQtaHghach puS. HaDI'baH Sop Sor tera'ngan 'e' vISovpu'be'. ja'chuq Hoch." ["It's better than what you were eating before. I didn't know tree-humans were carnivorous. Everyone is talking about it."] He takes a series of rapid Bugs Bunny-like bites. "tI je." ["We like vegetables too."] "Ha'DIbaHmey Huj." ["Strange creatures."] "Dajatlhchugh." ["If you say so."] The Doctor regards him, clearly thinking that she's seen him somewhere before, and if so, why she didn't put him out of his misery then, when her eyes and nostrils widen in recognition. She hurries out of the room and re-enters with a computer pad, tapping its controls rapidly. She studies the image on the small screen, then turns it to show him. It shows the historical painting "Sor tera'ngan mab lulop" ["They Celebrate the Tree- Human Treaty"], which hangs in the Musee de Beaux Arts in the Targ capital city of Yotlh [Field], on the Targ home world Yav [Ground]. The original is a grand-assembly-hall-sized canvas in mixed media depicting the signing on the bridge of a Chipmunk starship of the Targ/Tree-Human Mutual Defence and Economic Co- operation and Extradiction Treaty. A yellow rectangle frames a baseball-capped profile in the third row, brings the detail forward, expanding it until it fills the screen. Door Repair Guy. "bIrchoH. National Geographic rur." ["Cool. National Geographic."] "yab. mab ghotvetlh SoH. 'oH yIghoH." ["Enough. You're that treaty guy. Deny it."] He sits up and stretches his legs out, tensing all the muscles and spreading his toes as far as they'll go, to the sound of cracking joints. Then he lets his feet dangle. He kicks them back and forth and smiles ingenuously up at the Doctor: "teHbej." ["To be sure."] "'oH yImev." ["Stop it."] "nuq. mabmey vISutlhQo'." ["What? Don't negotiate treaties?"] "ghobe'. qamDu'raj Dochvetlh yIHeSqa'Qo'. ["No. Don't do that thing with your feet again."] "jItlhIj. tIghmey pIm 'e' vIloy." ["Sorry. Cultural difference, I guess."] "HoDDaq qatlhap." ["I'm going to take you to the Captain."] "'ach qatlh." ["But why?"] She pauses by the door. "SoHvaD veS wISuv 'e' wIHech. vaj Sut tItuQmoH" ["We're about to fight a war over you. So get dressed."] Camera moves in on DRG's surprised, confused and not-a- little-pleased expression. [Commercial: Hugh Grant in _Nine Months to a Year_] The bridge doors hiss open and the Doctor drags Door Repair Guy in by the arm. The bridge staff all glance at him with suspicion and fear. "HoDDaq vIjatlh vIneH." ["I want to talk to the Captain."] Helmstarg: "tlheDpu'." ["She left."] "vaj nuqDaq ghaHtaH yaS'e' wa'DIch." ["Then where is the First Officer?"] Helmstarg: "HoD pa'." ["Captain's quarters."] Doctor: "jIlegh." ["I see."] DRG: "vaj tIrI'." ["So page them."] The whole bridge staff looks at him. He stands there frowning until the light of understanding dawns. "DaH 'oH vISuq." ["Now I get it."] Helmstarg: "qatlh DaneH." ["Why do you want them?"] "'utbe' veSvam. Sor tera'nganpu' DevwI' wIghaj." ["This war is already won. We have the leader of the Tree-Humans."] "ghaH DaHech'a'." ["You mean him?"] "HIja'." ["Certainly."] They look him up and down, snorting and flicking at flies with their tails. "vay' DevlaHQo'." ["He couldn't lead anyone."] The camera sneaks a glance sideways to see what he thinks of that. He doesn't like it. He activates his personal transporter and disappears. The Targs look startled and only their military training prevents them from stampeding. Cut to Door Repair Guy stomping down a corridor. "Couldn't lead anyone, eh? I'll fix their little red wagon." He comes up to the auxiliary communications monitoring station, takes a slimjim out of his workboot, slips it into the recess between the door and the wall and trips the spring-loaded retraction bar mechanism. The door springs open. A crewtarg looks up and inhales sharply. DRG: "tIqlIj vISop vIneH." ["I came to eat your heart."] The Targ stampedes. DRG secures the door, takes a seat at the monitoring control, and cracks his knuckles. "So what's on?" He begins to play with the controls. A screen above his head reveals the disposition of the Targ fleet, as well as a tiny dot off to one side. "Hm. Either that's a Chipmunk ship on the extreme edge of sensor range, or some kind of little sensor probe or mine or something . . ." He enters some commands and gets an exterior view of the object. We see the sleek black casing of a converted photon torpedo, then a visual from the *bridge* of the photon torpedo. Tree-Humans crowd up to the screen, pointing and chattering. They're dressed like pirates. One of them pushes forward and stares up at the screen. DRG gets the feeling he's seen this one before somewhere. Tree-Human: "Cool!" Suddenly the Targ ship rocks. We catch a brief glimpse of the Tree-Humans all pointing at their viewscreen, then the exterior shot of the torpedo, then a visual of dozens of Vole ships descending on the Targ fleet. Two Voles in body armour materialize behind DRG. One of them clubs him on the head and the other squeeks into a communicator. DRG and the Voles dematerialize. Panoramic view of the Targ and Vole fleets squaring off. [Commercial: Hugh Grant in _The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill But Fell Down a Mountain_] Door Repair Guy opens one eye and then the other. He is afloat in some kind of capsule or pod. He sniffs. A pungent fragrance fills his nostrils and starts his mouth watering. All at once the lid of the capsule lifts away. A Vole turns toward him and scrapes a cutting-board-load of onions into the . . . tureen. "Hey! You're marinating me!" The chef peers down at him with intense interest. "Yes. And all indications are you'll be delicious." "Not that I'm trying to tell you your job or anything, but isn't it customary to . . . like . . . clean me first?" He makes a cutting motion across his throat. The chef looks appalled. "Tree-Human is best when served live. If you'll allow me I must say your reputation as menaces to civilized living is well- deserved." "I've met you before. You're Garak!" "I confess I don't recall the occasion." "No, I guess you don't. Are you going to serve me to that rat Ducat?" "He *is* a rat, isn't he. He'll be so pleased when I call him that." "Why are the Targs and the Voles fighting over the Tree- Humans?" Garak tastes the marinate and adds a little more wine vinegar. "I have never ceased to be astonished by the questions put by main courses." "Come on. Gimme a hint. Final request." "Tell me. What do you eat? Are you fond of acorns? I'm counting on you having a nutty flavour." "You're the one with the nutty flavour." "There's no need for that." "You're about to serve me up!" "That's no excuse for incivility!" Garak picks up the lid, gives DRG a final glare, and shuts the tureen. DRG: "I'm outta here." He hits his transporter control. **FZZT** "Damn! Vinegar. I gotta dry out." He tries his toe levitation control, which works. He lifts out of the juice and carries the lid of the tureen up to the ceiling where he begins to walk around and shake off his purple- red limbs. We get an above view of Garak walking back into the room, looking this way and that and finally up. "Come down at once!" DRG drops the tureen lid on him and tries the transporter again. It works this time, but with a wine-vinegar-coloured annular confinement beam. [Bob: Shot of Bob on the couch inside a cargo plane. "Okay, back to Door Repair Guy after this, but first I've got two tickets here for the grand opening of _Apollo 13_, the big summer blockbuster, and so stay tuned to CHRO for details --" Bob has lifted off the couch. "And you can see we're here onboard the NASA KC-135 zero-g simulator -- they flew it in for the air show! --" The cushions have begun to drift off of the couch. "Do you know they shot the entire Apollo 13 movie inside one of these things?" The couch has developed yaw, pitch and roll. "They've got a nickname for this plane too! It's the -- er -- I mean they call it -- ah -- erf -- oh boy --" Cameraman: "We're clear in ten seconds, Bob. Hang in there, buddy." Bob is hanging upside down with the microphone shaking in his sweaty hand. The eyes swell out of his pallid face. Cameraman: "In five, four, three --" Bob: "It's the, the -- BRRRUUUGGGGGHHHHHGggGgggHHHGGG!!!!!" The discharge sends him spinning down toward the far end of the plane. Bob (bouncing around the far end of the plane): "Back to Door Repair Guy after this!"] [Commercial: Vladimir Georyevich Titov, Soviet cosmonaut, for Mir dish detergent, official dish detergent of the Soviet space programme.] DRG pads down a corridor somewhere in the Vole ship. He mutters to himself as he goes: "Better watch myself. If those Voles are anything like the Cardassians they've got booby traps all over the place. I'll bet they're tracking me too. Wish I had a way to block their sensors. Oh, wait a minute." He looks at his keyboard implant and jabs F12. On the bridge the Chief of Security sits back and looks at his instrumentation in disgust. Vole Ducat: "What is it?" Chief of Security: "He's found a way to block our internal sensors!" Ducat: "Call yourself a Vole? Find him!" DRG stops at an intersection and peers around a corner. "They'll have the pack out too." As if on schedule a pack of security guards charges past. One of them stops and comes back around the corner, sniffing, but finds nothing except a maintainence crawlway access panel. Cut to Door Repair Guy elbow-crawling along the service tunnel. "This is too ironic by far." The tunnel shakes to the sound of a distant explosion. "Oops. Battle starting up. That should tie up the guards." To disprove his hypothesis a flashlight beam appears behind him. Phaser fire streaks past in the dark. He scurries round a corner, only to come up against another search beam not twenty feet ahead. He hits his transporter. Nothing happens. Damping field! Realizing the only defence now is a good offence he scrambles for the light ahead of him, but catches his toe and does a face-plant into the floorgrill just as phaser fire streaks past him and the familiar smell of vapourized vole fills the tunnel. He looks behind and makes out a cloudy afterglow. He looks ahead and sees . . . navigational lights. The tunnel lights up as these intensify. Afloat just ahead of him is the Tree-Human ship. [Commercial: Hugh Borg for Zekware: Shot of dramatically lit muscular thigh with black tubes sticking out of it. "This could be your thigh." Similar shot of shoulders with implants. "These could be your shoulders." Bicep flexing. Below the elbow it's nothing but machinery. "This could be your arm." Shot of extremely muscular Borg. "This could be your body. Phone 1-800-Zekware."] Panoramic view of the Vole and Targ warfleets engaged in space combat. Though the military hardware in this alternate universe parallels that of our own quite closely, battle tactics would appear to be based on an entirely different set of principles. The Targs show a pronounced herd mentality, moving in a group and covering each other's backs until one commander gets worked up enough to charge the opposing forces, at which point the Voles scurry in all directions and reform elsewhere. Cut to the service conduit in the Vole warship. Door Repair Guy is on all fours peering at the converted photon torpedo Tree- Human pirate ship. A small hatch springs open, grazing the end of his nose and causing him to recoil. He lands on his behind. An action-figure-sized humunculus in pirate costume climbs out of the hatch, wobbles and balances himself on the smooth black surface, then, with one hand clamped to the open hatch cover, whisks off his wide-brimmed hat and yelps: "I am the dread pirate Don Antonio Gregorio Bermuda de Ontario y Patagonia the Third! Yippee!" Door Repair Guy crawls forward hurriedly, stares, then backs away in amazement. DRG: "I'm a Tiny Toon." Mini-DRG: "Hey, didn't I once see you tethered to a Pink Floyd concert?" "You're me, all right. Where did you get that torpedo?" "Stole it, obviously!" "It's a Chipmunk design. Did they customize it for you?" "Not for us! For the puppet government!" Cut to a Tree-Human-sized office. Bobcat Goldthwaite is seated in the presidential chair, signing bills into law. Strings attached to his elbows and wrists angle upward past the tops of the walls toward a wooden cross in the hand of a Chipmunk Rear-Admiral (played by Admiral Nechayev). A Chipmunk Admiral Nakamura enters. Nakamura: "We've got that squash appointment at 1300 hours." Nechayev: "Keep your shirt on a minute. He's about to sign over the whole Beta Quadrant acorn production for a box of HB pencils." Back to the tunnel: "You should keep abreast of current developments! We're fighting in insurgency! We're up against some big customers! Hey, you know, you've got a piece of purple parsnip in your teeth, and it's THIS BIG." The little guy holds up his hands is if describing the SISbat'telh Dawt that got away. DRG digs the chunk out with the edge of his fingernail and chews on it meditatively. "How come the Targs and Voles are going after each other?" "Our analysts believe it to be an displaced imperialist reaction triggered by the sudden and uncontrolled migration of emergent humanoid populations throughout the quadrant without respect to traditional spheres of influence! Cool, eh?"" "You mean this is bigger than the Tree-Humans?" "Yeah, baby! The Cling-ons are overrunning the Neutral Zone right now! As we speak!" "But how do they get from planet to planet?" "Luggage, mailbags, cargo containers. A million ways!" Cut to an exterior shot of an enormous orbiting starbase. Two Chipmunks emerge from an airlock, put down their hand- luggage, and greet their comrades with shouts and open arms. Cut to a piece of hand-luggage on the floor. The material bulges and stirs. The zipper draws open from the inside. A small bony Cling-on head pushes out and looks around. DRG: "Migrating? What for? Food? Better-paying jobs?" The little pirate's face gets a far-away look. "We are in search of freedom. Self-determination. The basic rights to which all humanoids aspire. A tree you can call your own. And the abolition of pest-control." "Can't the powerful animals stop you? They're a lot bigger." "It's too late now. We're EVERYWHER-R-R-R-R-R-E!!" "Wow. And I started it all. Who'd've known it'd get out of hand like this?" "You should not do magic you do not understand. Like it or not, we're on the move, and we're takin' you with us." "What? In that little thing?" "We have some friends." With that the little pirate jumps back into the torpedo and secures the hatch. A white and blue bubbly transporter effect surrounds DRG and the pirate ship. They disappear from the service conduit. Cut to the interior of a huge space enclosed by a long black vaulted roof above and a watery surface below. Door Repair Guy and the torpedo materialize and DRG immediately plunges into the water. He surfaces and begins to splash around and spit out seawater. Pirates climb out on top of the torpedo and start to rain insults and other stuff on his head. He treads water and turns this way and that. A dark shape passes him in the water, and then another. "Yikes! Sharks!" Two humped backs surface beside him. He hears, or rather, feels through the water and his bones: "You must be that Door Repair Guy. We've heard all about you. How do you do? I'm George. This is Gracie. Say hello, Gracie." Gracie: "Hello, Gracie." DRG treads on. "Wow." View of the enormous black cylindrical Probe moving through the midst of the battle, neutralizing Vole and Targ warships as it goes, the nacelles and running lights blinking off ship by ship. [Commercial: This Thursday, Friday and Saturday only at the Ottawa Congress Centre, hear the author of the New York Times sixteen week bestseller _Creative Procrastination_, Douglas A. McLeod, explain how you too can apply the proven success strategies of Creative Procrastination to your business, your personal finances and lifestyle. Thousands have profited from the take-your-own- sweet-time commando tactics of Creative Procrastination and so can you. Seating is limited, so phone now. Or go and have a cup of coffee. There's always time to get the cheap standing-room- only at the back of the hall. Tickets at Ticketmaster.] [ MEMO From: Executive Producer To: Other Executive Producer Re: Episode 037, Rescue of Gul Piller: This one's been through rewrite five times, and you still haven't worked out an ending? We go to principal photography the day after tomorrow!] [ MEMO From: Other Executive Producer To: Executive Producer Re: Re: Episode 037, Rescue of Gul Berman: Gene Roddenberry used to rewrite *during* principal photography.] [ MEMO From: Executive Producer To: Other Executive Producer Re: Re: Re: Episode 037, Rescue of Gul Piller: The bearer of this message is Gul Taylor, the new Other Other Executive Producer. Hand all notes and drafts relating to 037 to her and get on to episode 038. Pronto. P.S. I knew Gene Roddenberry, and believe me, Other Executive Producer, you're no Gul Piller angrily mashes the memo into a ball and fires it into a nearby waste basket. He walks around his desk and reaches down toward a drawer, but Gul Taylor's voice brings him to a sudden halt, her words sending a chill up his arm. Gul Taylor: "Freeze. You didn't think I'd come in here unarmed, did you?" She has a Cardassian phaser pointed directly at him. He slowly straightens. Gul Taylor: "I've had my eye on you a long time, Gul Piller. Deep Space Nine, Voyager, Door Repair Guy, Legend. I knew that sooner or later it would all catch up with you, would all be too much. Too much power is a dangerous thing, don't you agree? It only increases the possibility of a fall. Your fall has been overdue. And now it has arrived. I will take over this series, and with time the others too. And I have other projects in development. Captain Sulu. Star Trek Academy. My Mother the Car: The Next Generation. Hollywood Parrisies Squares. And that's only the beginning. There's a whole new network out there, and I plan to be a big part of it. I -- " She lurches and slumps onto the couch, unconscious. Gul Piller: "It took you long enough." The office door inches open and Gul Berman's lovely assistant Madeline enters, a Type 2 phaser in her hand. She locks the door behind her, glances toward the prostrate Taylor, then high-heels over and drapes herself across Piller's desk. Madeline: "Law of Script Repair Number Four: Don't interrupt while the villain's explaining the plot." "You've learned well." "Kiss me." "Okay. But first get me John de Lancie." She does that Elvis lip and reaches for the phone. The camera glides past the blunt, pitted bow of the Humpback Probe. We hear the deep ocean-liner engine-room thump familiar to viewers of ST IV: The Voyage Home. Disabled targs- and voles- of-war drift by, neutralized. Cut to the interior. DRG is still treading water. "I can't keep this up forever, you know!" George: "Gracie, don't we have a life-preserver around here somewhere?" Gracie: "Oh, I threw that out." George: "You threw it out?" Gracie: "Oh, my, yes! It had a big hole in the middle!" Door Repair Guy jabs ineffectually at his waterlogged transporter control. Nothing. He kicks off his boots and tries the toe antigrav. It doesn't even improve his buoyancy. He starts to go under. On the pirate torpedo they're giving him the count. "Once! Twice! Three times! Hurray!!!" DRG finds himself sinking into the dark waters. He resolves to show more character development if he ever gets out of this one. His arse collides with a rising metal surface. The submarine surfaces, periscope-first. The conning tower appears, spewing water, then DRG's head, also spewing water. A hatch opens, and Q climbs out and leans over the railing. He's dressed in the uniform of a submarine commander. Q: "Do you like it? I got it from _1941_." DRG (coughing): "Buster Keaton used it first." "Excellent. For a species that exists only in Time you'd be amazed how few of you bother to learn about everything that's ever happened in it." "Well, we had the full cable selection in our house." The pirate ship comes up behind Q and cruises slowly around him, the Tree-Human crew glaring. Q gives them a disapproving, slightly disgusted look. "Well, well, *you've* certainly taken insignificance to new levels." Tree-Humans: "Nyah!! Booo!!" "Pity this entire dimension is doomed to be run by you runts for the next seven millenia." "Hurray!! Yahoo!!!" DRG struggles to his feet in the kneedeep water on top of the submerged submarine hull. He starts to lose his footing, swings his arms wildly, goes down, flails around underwater, resurfaces, gets to his hands and feet with his arse stuck up in the air, walks his hands in toward his feet, rises unsteadily, moves his arms like the two hand of a clock trying to prevent the slow slide of his left foot, shouts "Oh!", does the splits and goes down, struggles up again, points at Q and asks: "You mean the future of the Tree-Humans is predetermined?" Q (rolling his eyes): "Oh, if I had a dime for every time I've been asked about predetermination. The answers are Yes! and No! Comprenez-vous? I'll dumb it down for you. The part that concerns you the most is the fact that it wouldn't have happened without you. We in the Continuum have been noting a high degree of turbulence in the background probability of your universe. To put it nautically, you're leaving a wake, you chaotic little entity. That would be bad enough, but now you've stumbled onto interdimensionality, which means you're not only throwing monkey wrenches into the affairs of the merely mortal, you actually have the potential to interfere in the well laid plans of . . ." DRG: "Whom?" Q: "Your betters." "Cool." Q (cocking his head, and looking brainless): "Cool." "Hey!" "So the choice is this. Drown you like a puppy *now*, or put a shadow on you and find out just how improbable the human race can get." "Is that a dare?" "Only if you remember it." He passes his hand over Door Repair Guy . . . Who opens first one eye and then the other, notices the daisies bobbing and swaying above his head, sits up suddenly, looks this way and that in a panic, and zeroes in on the figure of a woman in a homespun skirt pulling up a plant and furiously shaking the earth off the roots. "Ex-girlfriend!" Her head snaps in his direction. "Ex-boyfriend!" She tightens her grip around the plant, hurries toward him through the waist-deep herbs, and begins to pummel him with the root end. Next time on Star Trek: Door Repair Guy: "Cool!" ------------ Written by Douglas A. McLeod, ai919@freenet,carleton.ca ------------ -- The opinions expressed above are not necessarily those of Krell and Brothers, Doorhangers, or of the Klingon Guild of Doorhangers. }}:-) Douglas A.McLeod ai919@freenet.carleton.ca )-:{{