Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!border2.nntp.dca.giganews.com!border1.nntp.dca.giganews.com!nntp.giganews.com!newsread.com!newsstand.newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: <6.1.2.0.2.20041106234311.023a6538@popd.ix.netcom.com> From: ASC Archive Team MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW: TOS "The Russian Always Screams Twice" 3/3, humor[PG-13] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable Lines: 545 Date: Sun, 07 Nov 2004 05:55:06 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1099806906 209.198.142.218 (Sun, 07 Nov 2004 00:55:06 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 07 Nov 2004 00:55:06 EST Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:85477 X-Received-Date: Sat, 06 Nov 2004 21:55:12 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: The Russian Always Screams Twice Authors: Jane Skazki, Arctapus, Ventura33 feedback@ventura33.com, Britta britta54@hotmail.com, Rocky roq@iname.com, Wildcat Wildcat7898@yahoo.com, Jungle Kitty, Laurel laurelstk@yahoo.com Series: TOS Rating: PG-13 Part: New 3/3 Codes: Humor, all TOS regulars, plus some guest appearances Date first posted: 9/27/04 Archive: ASC yes, all others please ask first Summary & Disclaimer: see part 1 Conclusion (by Laurel) The Space Carnival. I should have known. All the bad cases end up there, and this was no exception. On the midway, you could get anything you wanted--women, men, tribbles, drugs, lime-flavored Jello, connections, information--for a price. I knew the answer to the puzzle was there waiting for me, lurking somewhere between the Betazoid Fortune Teller's booth and the funnel cake stand. It was past midnight now, but things at the Carnival would just be heating up. I ran back to the flitter, woke Kyle up from his sugar-induced coma, and broke every speeding law on the books as we raced towards the outskirts of town. I don't know how long the Space Carnival has been around, but it's been coming to town once a year ever since I could remember. You'd see the huge silver ship touch down one summer day, and then for four weeks it was all lights and noise and greasy food (if you could hold it down after a turn on the Null-Grav Roller Coaster). Then they were gone, leaving behind broken hearts and windshields. Nobody knew who owned it, but whoever they were, they were in the deep green, because at the Carnival the house always wins. Kyle and I made our way through the huge parking lot while I turned a blind eye to the seventeen different kinds of illegal activities going on. First order of business was to visit the arcade, where Khan had "won" those armfuls of ersatz latinum that Marla liked so much. I sent Kyle off to find Jim Kirk, and to bring me a candied Keferian apple. The arcade was just like I remembered it--cheap, dirty, and irresistible. There were crowds at every booth, but the line was longest at the Starfleet Academy Simulator, where everyone was waiting for the current champion to blow his new assignment and get sucked into a gravity well. Next to that was the Whack-a-Slime-Devil game, and that's where I was headed. The carnie who presided over this mess was a skinny guy with a big furry mustache. He ran the game well, but he seemed like he might be easy to scare. I decided to go with the bad cop act. "Hey guy, Deputy Sulu. From the police," I barked, flashing my badge. I was right; he looked scared. "What? What? How'd you know my name?" he stuttered, as the Slime Devils popped up their evil little heads and laughed. "Your name?" "Yeah. Do I know you, man?" Now he looked positively frightened. "Look, guy--" I began, but he cut me off. "Nobody is supposed to know my name! I'm Carnie Number Six, and that's all! What do you want with me?" I realized that his name actually was Guy, and that he was just another loser running away from his past. I cut to the point. "Khan was in here last night and he won. Won big. I know your games are rigged, GUY," I said it again, just to make him nervous. "So do you mind telling me why you let him get away with the loot?" He looked around nervously and leaned close. As if anyone could hear us over the screams and shouting from the Octo-Ferris Wheel. "Boss's orders. Let Khan win, whatever he wants. And when the Boss talks, I listen." "The Boss? Who's that?" I knew I was getting closer. "I'm not supposed to say." I thought of Scotty, lying dead with cotton candy in his hair, and I got mad. I grabbed the front of his velour shirt. "Listen, Guy, I don't have time for this. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. And right now the hard way is looking pretty good to me," I snarled. But just then the night erupted with screams and roars and I knew I'd have to leave Guy for later. I dropped him back to the ground. "I'm not through with you. And if you still don't feel like talking, you and the Mind-Sifter will have an appointment." He was still squeaking when I turned and hot-footed it toward the Big Top, where all the commotion was. "Siegfried and Shahna with Their White Sehlats", the neon banner said, but when I got inside, all that was left of Shahna was a silver boot. Siegfried stood next to one of the sehlats, stroking its huge head. "Police!" I announced. "What happened here?" Siegfried looked at me gloomily. "Poor little Poopsie has ein tummy ache. I don't tink she vent down too vell." "It ate her? All of her?" I knew sehlats liked shiny things, but this was ridiculous. "Ja. But she had it coming. She vas never dat nice to Poopsie and he vas so hungry, so much hungry." Poopsie burped and bugged out his eyes, and then made the most horrible gagging, coughing, retching sound I'd ever heard. Thirty seconds later we were all staring at a wet silver furball steaming on the ground. Poopsie looked vastly relieved. "Good boy! Now we get you some Tri-Alka Seltzer and du bist all better," Siegfried cooed. The crowd, having seen the end of the act, was slowly filing out, in search of better entertainment. "Do you want to file a report, or...." I left it hanging. I'd never encountered a sitch quite like this and wondered what Harriman would want me to do. Collecting evidence was out of the question. "Nein. The Boss vanted to sack her anyway. She vos an Aqua Net addict, you know. Bad habit." That was an understatement. Aqua Net, that most potent of hairsprays, had been all but impossible to find in the aftermath of the Great Hair Care Wars of the last decade. Supplies of all hair care products were dangerously low and therefore impossibly valuable. An Aqua Net addict was nothing but trouble. An idea began to form in my brain, a tiny, tenuous connection between that missing case of D, Shahna, and the mysterious Boss running the Space Carnival. I was on the right track, I knew it. I just needed more information. "Detective?" A jolly voice spoke in my left ear and I spun to face its owner. A gift from above: Cyrano Jones, the best information broker in the quadrant. He knew what I needed to know; I knew it, he knew it, and I knew he knew it. Etc. "Mr. Jones. Can I buy you a drink?" Five minutes later we were sitting in the Babbit's Place, the heart of the Carnival and the only place you could get real Romulan ale this side of Risa. As soon as we were settled, Jim Kirk showed up, holding three glasses of the stuff and looking very pleased with himself. "Gentlemen." "Okay, Jones, what have you got for me?" I asked, taking a sip of the blue poison. "Sorry about your friend Scott, my boy, but sometimes these things can't be helped, can't be helped at all." He grinned coldly. "Who knew that so much trouble would come from a simple crate of D?" "Why was Scotty whacked?" Kirk cut in impatiently. "My dear Kirk, isn't it obvious? He knew too much, and he was about to find out more. It's a dangerous game, and even having this conversation with you puts me at great risk. But I have friends too, and my friends are the enemies of the Boss." He took a large sip of the ale and smacked his lips. "The Boss? Who is he? And how is he involved?" This was getting crazier by the minute. "Think about it, Sulu," Kirk said. "If you had a crate of D, how would you smuggle it off world? What's the one place where a crate like that wouldn't raise an eyebrow?" "It's here," I said suddenly. "Of course," Jones laughed affably. "Your Mr. Scott figured that out, and he was this close--" he held up two fat fingers so that they were a micron apart "--to finding out who the Boss works for. That's why the Boss had Khan kill him. You see?" Khan had killed Scotty. It hit me like a ton of plastisteel. That's why he'd been winning at the arcade, why he'd been able to beat the unbeatable Kid Mitchell at arm-wrestling--that was his payment. And I was betting that his Brazilian had been a gift, too. I made a mental note to have Chekov imprisoned in the Agony Booth, that traitorous Cossack. "If you don't solve this soon, you'll be next," Jones continued breezily. "You're smart boys. Follow the credits." "Say no more," Kirk said decisively. "I can say no more. Only that Janice is on your side. You can trust her." At that moment, as if on cue, Janice appeared behind Kirk, looking more alert than I'd ever seen her. "She was supposed to meet Scotty at the dock." "Say no more," I said. "I can say no more. I can't tell you who the Boss is--that would mean instant death. But I can tell you this: You'll find him under...the big W." Jones finished his drink and prepared to leave. "Please, say no more," Janice begged. "I can say no more. Au revoir." He put his hand on his round belly and sauntered out. "What in bloody hell is a big W?" Kyle asked from behind me, scaring me out of my wits. "It should be a big K. That's the most important letter," Marla piped up, plopping her jangly self down at the table in the seat Jones had just vacated. "You'll never find it alone, me buckos," Harry Mudd put in, clapping Kirk a little too hard on the shoulder. "Does EVERYONE have to know about this?" I shouted. This earned me a glare from the bartender, who bore a striking resemblance to the 20th century movie star Mitzi Gaynor. Come to think of it, the bouncer looked a lot like Eve Arden, too. "Sulu, belay that frustration. We have to solve this tonight, before more people die. Just for once, let's all pretend we're on the same side here. If we all search the Carnival at once, one of us is bound to find the big W. Spread out, check every booth, every dark alley, every alien popsicle stand. We rendezvous at 0300 hours, by the Shuttlecraft Crash Adventure ride." With that, he rose and led the way out. At the door, I paused and looked closely at the bouncer. "Aren't you--" I started, but she cut me off. "Yes, honey, I am, and that's Mitzi. Time travel accident. Working at the Carnival isn't like making movies, but at least I don't have to put up with Darryl Zanuck or that bitch Barbara Stanwyck." As soon as we were outside, we split up. I had two hours to find the big W, the Boss, and the solution to this case. I started with the main attraction. Inside the Big Top, the Ringmaster, Mr. Galadriel, was directing a bunch of Elves riding oliphaunts around the ring. The audience was cheering and clapping, the acrobats were whirling and jumping, but the Elves just looked stuck up and bored, like they always did. I hate semi-mythical beings. I got a crick in my neck from looking up into the high wires and support struts, but there was nothing even remotely resembling a W. Next was the Talking Horse show, where Mr. Ed (who was wearing a hat) was in the middle of telling a fantastically filthy joke about these three shapeshifters who walk into an art supply store. His assistant, Comet, was doing a brisk business selling vids of the performance along with specially enhanced Purina Horse Chow. I skipped the tribble juggling and the android races (first one to make the android's head blow up wins), and edged past the crowd waiting for a guy known only as Super Middle-Aged Boy to be shot out of an astro-cannon. I looked at every sign, every banner, every arrangement of flowers. Nothing. I stuck my head into a little tent that was supposed to look like a cabaret. Inside, a slim-hipped man in a bad Shirley Temple wig, knee socks, and a plaid schoolgirl outfit was singing, "Skippity doo dah, skippity day, my oh my what a wonderful day," to the bored-looking audience. He couldn't sing, but he was doing a great job prancing around in those purple platform saddle shoes. The guy at the ticket desk, presumably the promoter, was wearing a brown pinstriped zoot suit that complemented his dark skin and the crazy-ass tattoo on this face. I scanned the room. No Ws. "You paying?" he snapped at me. I shook my head. "Then get out." The singer batted his heavily-made-up eyes at the promoter in the zoot suit. He grunted and ripped open another bag of fake pork rinds. I was getting discouraged. It was almost three a.m. and I'd found nothing. I needed to clear my head and recharge my fuel cells, so I wandered over to the Food Court and stopped at a "Lembas 'n' Tranya" stand. Something Kirk had said rattled around in my brain. 'What's the one place where a crate like that wouldn't raise an eyebrow?' he'd asked. It had to be hidden in plain sight. Some place that wouldn't look unusual, but where no one in their right mind would explore. I stared at a blinking neon sign in front of a dark caf=E9, willing myself to find the answer. The sign kept flashing "Hot Plomeek Soup--Now...Hot Plomeek Soup--Now..." Of course! Who the hell eats plomeek soup at a carnival? Nobody but Vulcans can stand that crap, and Vulcans never go to carnivals, not even on their honeymoons. It had to be there. I finished my lembas and went to find the Boss. But one thing still puzzled me. Where was the big W? I knew that the others were racing around the Carnival trying to find it and probably having the same dirty luck I had. Had Cyrano Jones lied to me? I stood facing the door to the caf=E9 and noticed up high a hand painted on the old wood--a right hand giving the traditional Vulcan salute, third and fourth fingers split and thumb held slightly out. Instinctively I raised my own right hand in response (we're well-trained that way--never hurts to try a little diplomacy in police matters) and I saw as I held it up that when I put my thumb next to the painted hand's thumb, the two salutes formed a perfect W. I knew where I was now, and I didn't bother to knock. Inside was hot as a greenhouse and decorated like a New Orleans whorehouse, with flocked red velvet and brass statuary everywhere. A huge desk dominated the room, and behind it, facing away from me, was a tall captain's chair. "The Boss, I presume," I said, and my words fell like acid rain on to the carpeted floor. The chair spun around. "Correct," Spock intoned, his fingers pressed together. He looked perfectly groomed, as always, though I didn't much care for the black-on-black tie and shirt combo. "IDIC my ass," I said with as much scorn as I could muster. "You had Scotty killed, you turned HQ upside down, you sent me on a wild goose chase all night long, and for what? A crate of D. You've got thirty seconds to explain it all to me, and then I call in the heavy artillery." It was a bluff, of course; Harriman would never send reinforcements in time, and I still might end up dead. Fortunately my trusty two-way wrist radio was set on record, so whatever Spock said would give plenty of ammo to the next lousy detective on this case. "Mr. Sulu," he said smoothly, "I would advise you to stay out of matters about which you have no knowledge. A crate of Dippity-Do is missing. Is it logical that I am in possession of it, or that it is even on the premises?" "Look, Spock, I have enough probable cause to get a search warrant and turn this Carnival upside-down right now. Is that what you want? Not going to look good to have the whole Nexus City force out here, looking through everyone's garbage. No telling what they'll find." He seemed to consider this. "Perhaps you have a point. Detective, let me try to explain this another way. Powerful forces are at work here. Have you heard of the ShiKahr crime family?" I nodded. "Then you also know that Don Sarek is the head of that family. Mr. Sulu, Don Sarek is my father." That was news, no doubt about it. It explained a lot--his money, his job, his suit--but I still didn't get the connection to Dippity-Do. He must have sensed my confusion, because he continued talking in that annoying, condescending monotone that all Vulcans seem to use. "The Don's orders were to get the Dippity-Do back to Vulcan. As you know, Vulcans have no need for hair care products, but we understand the value of them to other species. If you remember your Earth history, Mr. Sulu, you know that the great Dippity-Do production plants were all destroyed in the Hair Care Wars. The secret to its manufacture has been lost, and the galaxy is much the worse for it. But certain scientists in the Vulcan Science Academy have developed a means to reverse engineer it--provided they have a pure sample. I will be providing that sample." It was all clear now. "And once you do that, it's only a matter of time before the ShiKahr family controls supplies of Dippity-Do throughout the galaxy." "An excellent deduction." He looked smug. I wanted to slap him. "I can't let you do that, Spock," I told him. He raised an eyebrow. "Hair care products should be freely and widely available to all that want and can afford them. Think of all the poor souls who have been waiting for D to come back on the market! Think of all those who lost their lives in the Wars! For one family to make such a profit off other people's misery is just wrong. What would Surak say?" "Surak? Surak was bald. Detective, I don't think you understand the seriousness of the situation. As you may know, I had a brother. Sybok. He endangered the family business, and I did what was necessary to protect it. Now he sleeps with the fishes. I would not hesitate to do it again." He hit a big red button on the desk and the sides fell away to reveal a small car, painted with red and white polka dots, with a big horn on top. A clown car. "Good-bye, Mr. Sulu," Spock said, and folded himself quickly and gracefully into the car before I had a chance to tackle him. He put the car in gear and raced past me, right out the door and into the night, still thick with partiers. I chased him, weaving through the crowd, trying to get ahead of him, but he was a good driver. I glanced to the left and realized we were passing the Shuttlecraft Crash Adventure ride, and Kirk, Kyle, Janice, Marla, and Harry Mudd were all standing together, talking anxiously. "Follow that clown car!" I yelled, pointing at Spock, and they took off after me. Spock made a feint toward the sideshow, where there were several transporter accidents on display, but I stuck with him, through the midway, past the Gamesters of Triskelion (they didn't take credits, only quatloos), and when we got to the Adult XXX Theatre (currently showing the All Nude All Singing and Dancing Silmarillion) he floored it and, honking madly, took a sharp right, the tiny wheels sending up clouds of dust. I turned the corner, my heart pounding, lungs aching, and thought: Damn, I lost him. Just then Jim Kirk barreled out of nowhere and stopped Spock cold with a flying leg kick, right in front of the Live Underwater Klingon Targ Wrestling exhibit. The car turned over, its frame squashed by the weight of its occupant, and the little engine fizzled out. Kirk got up, brushing himself off and grinning. His shirt was torn, showing a well-muscled, gleaming shoulder and pec. That was funny; I didn't see it tear when he landed on the car. Oh well. Together we grabbed Spock and lifted him out of the remains of the clown car. It would never honk again. At that moment Janice, Kyle, Marla, and Mudd came rushing up and when they saw Spock in custody, they executed a simultaneous four-way double-take. "Thank you, boys, I'll take over now," said a cool voice from the darkness. Uhura stepped forward, pointing a phaser at Spock. She motioned another woman, tough-looking with short blond curly hair, to take control of the suspect. "Take him away, Brandt. And put out an APB on Khan." As she left, hustling Spock ahead of her roughly, Brandt threw a leer and a wink at Kirk. He blushed. "Just what the hell's going on here, Uhura?" I demanded. She holstered the phaser and shook Kirk's hand. "Good work," she said to us. "Sorry, Sulu, I wish I could have told you before. I'm Special Ops, and we've been working for years to bust Don Sarek and his boy. This was just the break we needed, and it couldn't have gone off better." "Special Ops?" I said. I had heard of people's minds boggling, but up until that point mine never had. Kyle seemed equally dumbfounded, and I noticed that he'd acquired more donuts while chasing Spock. "Head of Special Ops, actually," Kirk told me. "But you can call her Captain Uhura. Everyone else does. And her All-Girl Band," he added, laughing. "Kirk, everyone knows women make better intelligence agents. I surround myself with the best. Just your luck they all happen to be women." "But what about the Dippity-Do? Did you find it?" I asked anxiously. "We've got to get hold of it before Spock moves it off-world--." "Oh, we had that hours ago," Uhura said. "Sam Cogley was using it for a three-card monte table. It's back on the way to its original destination. Remember the Shore Leave planet? Those machines can duplicate anything, and this is no exception. Soon there'll be enough for the whole Alpha Quadrant, and then some. Thanks to you, Sulu." I grabbed the bag of donuts from Kyle and inhaled a few, then offered them to Kirk, who was leaning over, his hands resting on his knees, as if he was itching for another fight. Harry Mudd pounded him on the back again, nearly sending him sprawling. "Ah, laddie buck, there's always more to you than meets the eye. Till we meet again." He threw a jaunty wave over his shoulder and left with Janice and Marla in tow, while Kirk gave his back a sour look. Dawn was just beginning to break and the clean-up crew had arrived--four skinny guys in identical 8-button Western shirts, one with a wool hat, one who could have been Chekov's twin. They were riding polo ponies and carrying brooms. "I think my shift is over," I said, feeling weary. The adrenaline had worn off and I realized I hadn't slept in two days. "I'm headed over to the diner for breakfast. Anyone want to join me?" "Let's all go. We've got some things to discuss," Uhura said, taking my arm. "We need you to keep quiet about this, for now. You know what they say: What happens at the Space Carnival, stays at the Space Carnival." Back at the diner, McCoy treated us all to big bowls of cold cereal (Triticale Crunch, with snozzberries) and we continued to chat while we watched Chekov scream in the Agony Booth. Since it was ten minutes for a quarter, and McCoy had thoughtfully supplied the entire tip jar, he'd be in there for a while. "Thanks, Bones," Kirk called across the diner. "Damn it, Jim, I'm a retired fry cook, not a doctor! I've told you a million times." "Sorry. What do you want me to call you?" Kirk asked. McCoy looked hurt. "Cookie." I needed to get some sleep, but first I had to clear up a few details. "I don't get it, Jim. I knew your working here was just a cover, but I thought you were through with the 'fleet. How did you hook up with Special Ops?" I asked. "Oh, I don't work for them, I work WITH them. I'm a consultant." He handed me his card. It said: "James T. Kirk Intergalactic Playboy, Soldier, Diplomat, Polo Player, Super-Secret Space Spy, All-Around He-Man Daily or Hourly Rates You've Tried the Rest, Now Try the Best" "You're an independent contractor?" "That's right, sugar," Uhura said, setting down a fresh cup of coffee in front of me. "Special Ops likes to outsource the work whenever we can. Less overhead, better skill sets. And we don't have to pay for the funerals if something goes wrong." "So how about it? You ready to ditch Harriman and join the ranks of the independents?" Jim continued, "You know, Sulu, when you're not working, you get to sit at home with your dog and watch the Sextasy Channel's 'Talk Dirty To Me' all night long." Uhura slid a non-disclosure agreement across the counter. "Come on, Sulu, Special Ops is always looking for a few good men. And we pay ALL your out-of-pocket expenses, including meals." Uhura smiled at me and that smile held all the promises I could imagine. I slapped Kirk on the back and raised my coffee cup. "Jim, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." THE END Messages from this list are mirrored on the ASCEM newsgroup. Read http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML/files/faq.txt for more information about your subscription to ASCEM/L. Yahoo! Groups Links [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: