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Message-ID: <43384asstr$1058130602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: shadowloup@aol.comAntispam (Shadowloup)
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Subject: {ASSM} (NEW) Dr. Screw II - The Return of the Screw (scifi, humor, no sex yet)
Date: Sun, 13 Jul 2003 17:10:02 -0400
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Greetings.  You must be physically and metaphysically old enough to read this. 
I'm sure your children are fine, I just have no wish to raise them.  Anyone
other than ASSTR who wishes to use this story for whatever purpose should
contact me, since I can actually prove I wrote it.  Everyone else, please
enjoy.  Constructive feedback is always welcome.  If you like it, please visit
my website at www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Shadowloup/www.

Dr. Screw II - The Return of the Screw
by Shadowloup


Chapter 1

OFFICIAL CAPTAIN'S LOG ENTRY, CONFEDERATION SHIP ENDEAVOR:

VOICE OF CAPTAIN JAMES T. TURK:

Stardate: 38DD-29-36.

Due to an emergency assignment, we were forced to conclude our dealings with
the Ryelians early to convey a diplomatic mission to space station Byzantium
III.

The nature of this mission is classified on a need to know basis.  Suffice it
to say that Admiral Kraag personally debriefed me of this, and warned me not to
put the "ass" in "classified".  Again.  That fucking moronic dink.

Ooohhhh! Shit! Shit!  Computer, erase last sentence!

Whew!  Good thing I caught that, ehh Splock?

VOICE OF CS ENDEAVOR'S SCIENCE OFFICER SPLOCK:

Captain, may I remind you again that computers are very literal.  Since you
uttered the colloquialism "shit" in three short, sentence-like bursts, it is
highly probably that the computer followed your orders exactly by removing one
of those "shits" and leaving the remainder of the embarrassing log entry
intact.

VOICE OF TURK:

You think I don't know how to use the computer on my own ship?  You're getting
to be as bad as those fucking turd-smokers at Confederation Central.  AAaahhhh!
 Shit! Shit!  Computer, erase last sentence.

****

The hyperspace drive room of the Confederation Ship Endeavor was large, clean,
and ran as smoothly as the finely tuned machinery it housed, thanks to the
authority of Chief Engineering Officer Montivardi "Snotty" Welsh.  The sturdy
Scotsman loved his work as much as he loved the mighty hyperspace engines with
their ability to cleave space-time.

Snotty watched his workers with pride in his eyes.  Until he saw a group warily
eying one of the Jeffries Tubes leading towards the main hall.

Suspecting them of planning an unauthorized cigarette break without inviting
him, Snotty ambled over.

"What's going on, laddies?" he asked, his slight Scottish burr just waiting to
roll some "R's".

One young ensign answered.  "We heard this very strange sound, Sir.  Like... a
big radioactive monster spurting joy juice all over the place."

Recognition dawned instantly in Snotty's eyes.  He grabbed a good-sized spanner
from a nearby tool shelve and strode towards the tube.

"I know just what it is, laddies.  I'll be right back," he announced over his
shoulder.

A second of crawling took Snotty to an area which widened out enough so that he
could stand upright and walk seven steps.  He considered this his secret
office.  But someone had installed a large, antique pornographic video booth
which took up half the empty space.

A worn placard on the side of the booth announced "Ton-O-Cum; Your one stop
ejaculation station."  An old, pink curtain obscured the entrance.

Snotty banged his spanner on an air duct, creating a horrendous crashing metal
ruckus.

A man popped his head out of the booth between the folds of the curtain.  His
curly hair was styled with cheap mousse.  His eyes were surrounded by wire
framed glasses with lightly tinted lenses.  A jaunty Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda
shorts and old sandals were his clothing.  The unmistakable smoky tang of mind
altering substances accompanied him.  He blinked as Snotty banged on the air
duct again.

"That's got it, I think!  But you'd better run a full diagnostic test now!"
Snotty yelled towards the main room.  He ignored the low groans of protest
which floated back while he eyed the stranger.

"That'll keep the lads busy," Snotty said.  "But you might want to warn a
fellow when you're coming, Doc."

Doc gave the engineer a smile of blinding luminescence.  It was as though the
energy of a supernova had been captured in the enamel of his teeth.

"If I had known I was coming I'd have worn a rubber," he said.

The Chief Engineer suppressed a smile.

"Still," Snotty said.  "Your popping into the engine room sudden-like is a
breach a protocols, and could get me in a wee bit a trouble." 

"My apologies," Doc said.  He reached into one of the pockets of his shorts and
withdrew a small vial filled with a clear liquid, which he presented to Snotty.

"Please accept this vial of Neptunian Juju juice to make up for my
thoughtlessness.  It's water soluble, and untraceable in drug tests."

Snotty's face lit up with his own smile.

"You're a sweet man, you are."

Doc reached into his other pants pocket and withdrew a clear plastic bag filled
with green vegetation.

"And also accept this baggy of Alpha Centauri cannabis buds.  For medicinal
purposes only.  I prescribe one bong hit a day."

If Snotty's smile was bright before, it now beamed radiantly.

"Ahhh!  A friend with weed is a friend indeed!" he said.  "If I'm feeling
especially generous later, I'll pump some of it through the air ducts. 
Sometimes that's all that keeps the crew from killin' each other."

"Excellent.  As a doctor, I heartily endorse that.  A lot of people are not
getting their daily minimum requirement of mellowness or slack."

Now it was Snotty's turn to reach into his Confederation uniform and withdraw a
clear plastic baggy of his own.

"Since we're in the gift givin' mood, here's a little something for you."

Snotty shook the bag, causing the white crystals inside to hiss as they rubbed
together.

"Look at these, laddie.  It's from me own private stash.  You'll be sailin' the
stars without your ship in no time."

"You still snorting those?" Doc asked.

"That's why the call me Snotty," the engineer joked.  "But I should warn you
that this is tri-lithium.  One better than my usual di-lithium brew."

Doc scratched his chin.

"Three lithiums makes it more potent?  Then tetra-lithium should be even
better?" he asked.

"Aye, but the wee atoms won't place right, so tetra-lithium is highly
unstable."

"Still, if you could just invent the process to get four..."

"You kennot change the laws of physics, if you ken my meaning," the engineer
said, shaking his head sadly.

"I can," Doc said.

To conclude the gift-giving portion of their agenda, Doc broke out his antique
metallic hipflask of Sonic Screwdriver.  As they basked in the friendly glow of
alcohol, Doc asked "So where are you folks bound this time?  Some place
exciting, I hope."

"Just a little dive called Byzantium III."

"Oh, I know that spot.  There's a lovely little place called the Porno Palace. 
Tell them I sent you."

"I think not, laddie.  Last time I told someone you'd sent me, some lawyer-type
fella tried to serve me palimony papers with your name on them."

"Oh," Doc said.  "Sorry about that."

After another round of Sonic Screwdriver, Doc asked "Is James T. Turk still
commanding this tub?"

"Aye, that he is, the egomaniacal bastard.  He considers Endeavor to be a
glorified garbage scow."

Snotty patted the wall affectionately to soothe the ship's wounded feelings.

"What does the 'T' in Turk's name stand for?"

"Just a T.  He originally didn't have a middle initial, so he gave himself one
to sound grander," Snotty explained.  "We call him 'Tirebiter' behind his
back."

Snotty and Doc's conversation was interrupted by footsteps from the corridor
outside.  Keeping behind cover, they watched three men walk down the hall.  The
lead man was tall and muscular, though in a few years that muscle would
probably go to flab.  His wavy hair had a youthfully tousled look.  His mouth
seemed to be set in a cocky sneer.

To his right was a tall, slender, dark-haired being with extra-large ears and a
pinched, dour look, like he had just smelled a particularly virulent eructation
but was too polite to comment.  The being on the left was smaller than either,
with brown hair and a perpetually peeved air about him as though he found
displeasure in everything.  He carried a limp white bag clearly marked
"Biohazardous Waste".

The trio strode to a door marked "Replicator Room", looked about as
nonchalantly as they could, and entered.

"Aye," Snotty said.  "Those three are thick as thieves today.  I wonder what
they're up to."

So saying, Snotty flipped open his palm-pocket computer and toyed with a few
settings.  A picture appeared showing the three men surrounding a strange
machine with more buttons than surface area.  Doc assumed the buttoned machine
was the replicator.

"I've tapped into the security net.  You kennever be too careful," Snotty said.

"Also helps you to know when the drug tests are coming," Doc said with a wink.

Snotty returned the wink, and pointed to the commanding figure in the
palm-pocket -(TM)s screen.  "That's the good Captain James T. Turk himself.  The
tall beanpole is Mr. Splock, and the short little twerp is Doctor McElory."

Doc and Snotty watched as Turk turned a few buttons on the replicator and
leaned over to speak into a microphone.

"James T. Turk.  Codeword: Monsterweiner."

Snotty snorted.  "Aye.  Now there's wishful thinking."

The tall being spoke next.  "First Science Officer Splock.  Codeword: Logic."

McElroy gave short, nasty, sarcastic laugh.

"That's a very logical codeword for you, Splock," he said.  "And as such, it
sucks.  You trying to get us caught?"

"Since it takes three of us to activate the program, the likelihood of our
being caught solely on one password alone being compromised are..."

"No, no, no," McElroy interrupted.  "You just don't get it, do you?  The
logical, unbreakable password in this particular case would be one that is
illogical, wouldn -(TM)t it?"

McElroy smiled devilishly, adding "See how your logic falls flat on its
pointy-eared little face?"

"Very well, Doctor," Splock said in a very precise tone.  "Let us hear your
unbreakable illogical password."

McElory glared at Splock as he spoke into the microphone.  "Chief medical
officer Lenny McElroy.  Codeword: malpractice."

"That password is neither illogical nor unbreakable," Splock said dryly.

"Oh fuck you, you... you chartreuse-blooded Hephaestian motherfucker!"

"Sticks and stones, doctor.  Sticks and stones."

"Splock!  Boner!  Please!"  Turk interrupted in his melodramatic gasping
cadence.  "We have got to stick together."

"He uses a lame ass password for the same reason I do, he can't remember it,"
McElroy protested, adding "He's dead to me, Jim.  He's dead."

As they argued, the replicator rumbled into action, creating a golden glow
accompanied by a low humming sound like a monk uttering a throaty, guttural
mantra.  Green stacks of neatly bundled paper appeared in the replicator's
opening.

McElroy opened the medical waste bag and Splock began tossing those stacks
inside.

"Ohh, those wee, rotten bastards!"  Snotty said.

"What are they making?"

"Money, you daft fool!  Those bastards are forging money and they're not
cutting me in."

"What are you going to do with this fascinating new tidbit of information?"

"I'll have to ponder that, laddie, while imbibing on your Neptunian Juju
Juice."

"Just remember only one hit at a time with that stuff," Doc said.  "It's pretty
potent."

"Aye.  It's this rotten trip.  Things have really gone to hell in a handbasket
ever since we took on that secret cargo."

Doc was on that in an instant.  "Secret cargo?  Are you guys ferrying drugs? 
And if so, can I have some?"

"No, laddie, not unless you know of some type of drug that requires food and
water."

Doc pondered the possibilities.  One put a gleam in his eyes.  "Hhmmm.  White
slavery?  And if so, can I have a poke?"

"Laddie, you've got more paranoid conspiracy theories than the Grassy Knoll
Club.  Maybe you should lay off the drugs."

"I can't do that.  I've a reputation to live down to.  Besides, I'm a Time
Fnord.  We live, eat and breath conspiracies," Doc said with a smile of
nova-like intensity.  He made to reenter his porno-booth-cum-ship.  "But I
think I'll pop on ahead of you.  See you at Byzantium III."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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