MiSTied - The Haunted (DS9) a.s.c [1/2]
PhineasBog
My premiere MiSTie. Feedback is always welcome. Jay B.
[Opening Theme]
[1...2...3...4...5...6]
[S.O.L. Mike is standing next to Tom.]
Mike: Hello, everyone! Welcome to the Satellite of Love! I'm
Mike Nelson with my bot buddies. We've heard through the
grapevine that our next fanfic experiment will involve Star Trek
in
some fashion.
Tom: But NOT a fanfic by Ratliff, thank the Merciful Lord of
Goodness.
Mike: So we thought we'd get ready for it by having a session
of one of the most controversial debates in the history of
Star Trek: Who's better, Kirk or Picard? Classic Series
or Next Series?
Tom: The only problem is, Mike is pro-Kirk. And Crow and
I both want to abstain from this silly argument.
Mike: Right, so Crow and Servo have designed a mechanical
representation of your average New Trek fan: about 15
years old and wise in the ways of the world. Please welcome
The Eugene Model One!
[Crow and Tom push in a robot. The robot has horned-rimmed
glasses, pimples, and a very bad hairdo.]
Crow: You'll like this, Mike. We've taken the majority of
arguments on their side and programmed them into
Eugene.
Tom: It'll respond with the exact same rapid-fire wit and
the same creative originality.
Mike: Okay, I guess we better start the debate. I'll begin.
[clears throat] I concede that the special effects are better
now than they were 30 years ago, but I feel the Classic
Series dealt with real issues, like racism and Vietnam,
in a much better way... since it wasn't politically correct.
I also feel it had more genuine passion and drama. What
do you think?
[Eugene whirrs to life. His arms move stiffly up and down
as it recites in a monotone.]
Eugene: Kirk-is-old... Kirk-is-fat... Kirk-sucks...
Kirk-wears-a-tribble-on-his-head. [Nerd laughter]
Hyuh-hyuh-hyuh.
[Eugene switches off]
Mike: Ah, oooookay... Well, I see your point, but what
about the fact that the Classic Series did more exploration,
while in the New Series they just sort of wandered
around in Federation space?
[Eugene whirrs]
Eugene: Kirk-is-old... Kirk-is-fat... Kirk-sucks...
Kirk-wears-a-tribble-on-his-head.
Hyuh-hyuh-hyuh.
[Eugene switches off]
Mike: Hmm, I see. How do you feel about Kirk's
boldness and warmth? How do feel about how
they seem to be making Picard tougher and
more Kirk-like?
[Eugene whirrs]
Eugene: Kirk-is-old... Kirk-is-fat... Kirk-sucks...
Kirk-wears-a-tribble-on-his-head.
Hyuh-hyuh-hyuh.
[Eugene switches off]
Mike: Well, you've convinced me! I'm pro-NextGen
all the way! With such powerful arguements like
those, how can I resist converting?
Tom: Now who says teeny-boppers are incapable of
intellectual debate?
Crow: Yeah! All that evidence of each new group
of kids having lower and lower IQ's is all poppycock!
They can bring up rational, relevant reasons... even
*without* watching a single episode of the Original
Series in its entirety!
[Commercial sign lights up]
Mike: That's right!
[Mike pull-starts a large chainsaw and starts walking
toward Eugene]
Mike: We'll be back.
[MST3K logo is shown. The sound of a chainsaw grinding against
metal is mixed with the sound of "Hyuh-Hyuh-Hyuh"]
[Several headache-inducing commercials later...]
[S.O.L. On the table is a pile of twisted metal with the glasses
on top. Mike is grasping the deactivated chainsaw while
sweating and shivering]
Mike: I told you... I'm all right now, guys.
Crow: Alas, poor Eugene. We hardly knew ye.
[Deep 13 light flashes]
[Mike, still shivering, just thumps the light with
the chainsaw blade]
[Deep 13. Ms. Pearl Forrester is placing 8x10 glossies of famous
actors on the wall, which is already covered with pictures.]
Pearl: Hello, there! You've caught me at a rather bad time.
I've cleared out this deck so I could get some work done.
I kicked out Clayton for a while.
[S.O.L.]
Mike: And what work is that?
[Deep 13]
Pearl: As you all know, I have close ties to Los Angeles.
And I have received a call by Warner Brothers Studios.
They've informed me they're already working on yet another
Batman movie. They want me to pick the next Batman.
[S.O.L.]
Tom: I'm getting sick of these rotating Batmen.
Mike: That's a pretty awesome responsibility. How are
You going to choose the actor?
[Deep 13]
Pearl: The same way the studio does it... by throwing
darts randomly at a wall full of pictures.
[Pearl covers her eyes with one hand. She throws
a dart. The sound of a man screaming is heard from offstage.]
Pearl: [yelling to offstage] I said, keep this room cleared!
[Pearl throws again. This time she hits a picture.
She takes the picture off the wall.]
Pearl: And the new Batman will be played by none other than...
[turns picture around] Norman Fell!
[S.O.L.]
Tom: Oh, that's great and... huh?!? Who?
Crow: You know, Mr. Roper? "Three's Company"?
Mike: Trust me guys, he can't possibly do any worse than the others.
[Deep 13]
Pearl: Okay, enough of this drivel. Let's get down to business.
Set your phasers on "suicide", cause it's Star Trek fanfic time.
Your experiment today is a gory, but short attempt to make
Deep Space Nine into the next Stephen King vehicle. Get ready
for Henry Chatroop's mess-terpiece entitled "The Haunted."
[Pearl covers her eyes again]
Pearl: Now, who will play the villian?
[She throws a dart wildly. After a pause, an eagle falls
from the sky and lands with a thud on the floor, impaled
on a dart. Pearl eyes the bird quizzically.]
[S.O.L.]
[Sirens blare]
Mike: AAAAUUUGGGHHH! WE'VE
GOT FANFIC SIGN!
[6...5...4...3...2...1...]
[Mike carries Tom into the theatre and sets him in his chair.
Crow follows.]
Tom: Y'know, Mike, Kirk *is* kind of fat.
Mike: Shut up, so's Riker.
Crow: Psst... it's starting.
>Subject: M.O.P
Tom: Mop up the vomit when you're finished reading this.
- REPOST: The Haunted part 1 (DS9)
Crow: A bad DS9 fanfic. How's *that* for a triple-redundancy?
>From: hen...@zipper.zip.com.au (Henry Chatroop)
Mike: Henry Chatroop. Remember that name. I'm going to send him junk
email after this.
>Date: 4 Dec 1996 09:59:07 GMT
Tom: What's GMT mean?
Crow: Grossly Maligned Text.
>Message-ID: <583i1b$hej@the-fly
Mike: I feel like The Fly right now.
[squeaky voice] Bad fanfic, help meeee...
>The Haunted
>Part One.
Crow: Haunted one, Readers zilch.
> Julian Bashir, Chief Medical officer of DS9, brilliant
>interspecies Specialist,
Mike: ...a man barely alive. We can rebuild him.
Tom: But who'd want to?
pest to some,
All: SOME?!?
was feeling
somewhat
>confused and just a little worried as he reached across his
>desk for the report that had been practically at his fingertips
>a minute ago. For the last week or so he'd had the strangest
>feeling he was never alone.
Tom: Bashir not alone? That *is* strange.
It was getting so bad that
instead
>of stripping when he had a sonic shower, he went in fully
>clothed, and when he dressed, he did so under the bed covers.
Crow: Yeah, but what did he do that was unusual?
> He kept imagining that he could sense someone else nearby,
>breathing. Yet every time he turned around to try and catch the
>mystery watcher, he found he was thoroughly alone.
Mike: As opposed to being "partially alone."
Worse still,
>the last few nights he'd woken up after kicking off his
>blankets only to be trapped in that state where you can't move
>while phantom hands tucked the blanket around him and cool
>hands stroked his hair and warm lips kissed his forehead.
Crow: [gasps for air] Now that's the *ultimate* run-on sentence.
He
>imagined a very sultry voice telling him to have sweet dreams
Tom: Bashir's being tormented by the spectre of Patsy Cline?
>and always fell back to sleep within moments. He kept telling
>himself that he'd imagined it, that it was just a dream. He
>tried to put those thoughts from his mind as he looked at the
>report, then called up the appropriate file in his personal
>data base. His head hit the desk with a thud as he saw what had
>happened to his data base.
> "This is not happening, (thud)
Crow: [Bart Simpson] Ow! Quit it.
this is not happening,
(thud)
Crow: [Bart Simpson] Ow! Quit it.
>this is all just a weird dream," he said to himself as
>he hit his head on the table.
> It hurt.
Tom: Nothing like a little self-inflicted pain to
rid yourself of evil spirits.
He looked up and groaned, nothing had changed, it
>was still the same as it had been a few seconds ago, thoroughly
>different than the data base he had paid a programmer a small
>fortune to design just for his personal use.
Mike: Which would be important to us if we knew what was
*on* the data base.
> "Calm down, there's a perfectly rational explanation for
>this.. Obviously it's a surprise, that is, it a surprise from
>Dax - designing a more efficient data base for me," he told
>himself and then reached for his tea.
> Only to find his tea cup was gone.
Crow: It ran away with the spoon.
He looked around
the
>desk and then looked around on the floor, no, he hadn't knocked
>it off the desk without noticing.
Tom: Beause Sulu already did that in Star Trek VI. And the new Treks
have done enough ripping-off on their own.
Mike: Enough, guys.
A
chill ran up his spine.
> "I was sure, I made my self some tea," he muttered, then
>stood to cross to the replicator.
> Punching in the command he gave his order then hit himself
>in the head.
Tom: [Bashir] Wow, I could've had a V-8!
> "What am I doing, this things on the blink again," he said
>to himself then turned away to start heading for the bathroom
>where he had set up tea making facilities.
Mike: Bashir has tea-making facilities in his BATHROOM?
Crow: What kind of "tea" are we talking about here?!?
> He stopped dead in his tracks as he heard the replicator
>produce his cup of tea. Looking around he saw the cup. He
>stepped closer, and sniffed; he could smell the fragrant
>Tarkalien tea he had ordered. He reached out to pick up the cup
>and take a cautious sip, testing it. Then his eyes closed in
>bliss, it was absolutely perfect,
Crow: [Bashir] [slurping sounds] Mmmm... oh, this tea... oh, yesss...
Tom: [Bashir] Oh, it's so *good*... Mmmm... oh, God... oh, GOD!
Mike: Uh, guys...
far superior to the
>substitute tea he had scrounged of one of his nurses to tide
>him through until O'Brien could repair the replicator.
Crow: [Bashir] This is so much better than *real* stuff!
> He made a mental note to thank O'Brien for doing such a
>good job, he'd *never* obtained such a perfect cup of Tarkalien
>tea out of the replicator before. He punched in a command
Tom: Then he faked to the left, returned an uppercut
to the jaw, and parried with a jab to the kidneys.
>and requested his favorite meal, to pick it up after it
>materialized. Turning he was about to head back to his desk
>with his dinner when he stopped dead - eyes widening -
Mike: Hair sticking up like Buckwheat...
cup and
>plate falling from his suddenly nerveless hands..
> The previously scattered reports, Padd and journal he'd
>been using were now neatly stacked on the desk leaving him with
>plenty of room to set down his meal. Not only that, but, the
>terminal was not showing his data base any longer, instead it
>was displaying a quite interesting looking newsclip from the
>local newservice
Tom: And that local newservice was showing
a newsclip that had... news. Trust me.
- and - there was a cup of steaming tea
>waiting for him at the desk..
All: [Twilight Zone Theme] Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo...
> The feel of hot tea, food and slivers of shattered
>crockery
Tom: I'd like to shatter this crockery of a story.
hitting his legs brought his attention back to his
>person and he looked down in time to see a sliver of crockery
>detach itself from where it had impaled his trousers.
Crow: I'm not even going to respond to that one... too easy.
>It was soon followed by another sliver, then another. Julian started
>screaming - sure this was a nightmare, that he would wake up
>any moment.
> And so it began.
Mike: Welcome to the hellish world of alt.startrek.creative.
>
> End of `The Haunted' - Part One
>______________________________________________________________
>
>Standard disclaimers apply. Copyright 1995 Mission Ops
>Productions.
>Send your comments to Red at hen...@zip.com.au
>Re: The Haunted.
>As always, please put a reference to 'Red' in the subject line
>to make it easier to sort out the incoming messages.
Tom: And it makes it easier to throw away the flames he's receiving.
Crow: Can we go now?
Mike: Not for a while. One down, four to go.
Crow: Poop.
>_____________________________________________________________
>Subject: M.O.P REPOST DS9 Story "The Haunted" - Part 2/5
>From: hen...@zipper.zip.com.au (Henry Chatroop)
>Date: 4 Dec 1996 10:00:43 GMT
>Message-ID: <583i4b$h...@the-fly.zip.com.au>
>The Haunted
>Part Two.
Mike: Haunted 2--Citizens on Patrol.
>
> Julian Bashir wandered onto the promenade looking dazed
>and out of it, the lower half of his trousers were stained with
>food and blood, and his face was positively bloodless.
Tom: Torgo?!?
Mike: [laughs] This is a downright goofy portrayal of Bashir.
Crow: Does Henry Chatroop *like* or *hate* Bashir?
Mike: You got me. It's a toss-up.
>Odo intercepted him with a concerned look, to take his arm and lead
>him to the infirmary.
> Whilst a nurse
Tom: Ooooh, the literary side of Chatroop.
Crow: He probably wore a smoking jacket while writing this.
attended to the cuts and scalds on Julian's
>legs Odo listened to him babble dazedly about a ghost haunting
>his quarters. Odo's mind went back to a time before Starfleet
>had taken over management of DS9 and long before Julian
>Bashir's arrival.
Mike: In other words, happier times.
Tom: Flashback alert! Hide the children!
>
> He had been on the station for only a few weeks as part of
>the security team when there had been a report of screams
>coming from the quarters that in later years would be occupied
>by Julian Bashir. On arriving and investigating constable Odo
>had discovered much to his horror the mutilated remains of what
>was apparently once a young woman. It was impossible to tell
>what her species was, or her age, the only clue to her gender
>was the various scattered female reproductive organs that lay
>around her mutilated corpse.
Tom: Ugh, was that neccessary?
Mike: Henry is one sick puppy, folks.
Crow: Hmmm... Ovaries on the floor... Uterus on the ceiling...
I deduce it's a female, Watson.
There was nothing left of
her
>skin, it had been destroyed utterly - by what - her hair in
>bloody clumps and her eyes, her eyes were the most horrific
>sight. They were no longer in her head, instead they had been
>attached to a painting on the wall
Tom: Was it a painting of Mr. Potato Head?
and a smile had been
>sketched in the woman's blood below them.
> Had Odo possessed a stomach and gag reflex, he might well
>have thrown up as had the Cardassain security officer who'd
>accompanied him.
Mike: [nauseated] I'm glad I didn't bring popcorn.
Never had such an atrocious crime been
>committed on the station before.
Tom: Besides the crime of creating this show in the first place.
Crow: Flashback is over! You can all come back now!
>
> Odo's mind returned to the present and he delicately
>questioned Bashir,
Tom: [Odo] [kicking and beating noises] Dammit, Julian, TALK!
learning all he could about the alleged
>ghost in his quarters. Once he'd learned all he was going to
>from Bashir, Odo took the nurse aside and instructed her to run
>a quick scan to see if the good doctor was suffering from the
>delusionary side effects of alcohol, intoxicants or even a
>virus of some sort.
Tom: [Scrooge] Or just a bit of undigested potato.
> The nurse reported back to him soon after to state that
>Bashir had *quite* a high level of alcohol in his blood. More
>than enough to explain his delusions. Odo breathed a sigh of
>relief
Crow: [Odo] Whew, he's just an alcoholic.
then instructed the nurse to pacify the good doctor and
>keep him out of mischief.
Mike: And don't forget to powder his widdle bottom.
>
> End of `The Haunted' - Part Two
>______________________________________________________________
>Standard disclaimers apply. Copyright 1995 Mission Ops
>Productions.
>Send your comments to Red at hen...@zip.com.au
>Re: The Haunted.
>As always, please put a reference to 'Red' in the subject line
>to make it easier to sort out the incoming messages.
>_____________________________________________________________
>
[Continued in Part Two]
________________________________________________
<Insert so-called witty signature and lame ASCII art here>
Phine...@aol.com
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