REPOST: ST:DRG "Don't Leave Me This Way" [MISC PG] 48/54

[Douglas A. McLeod]

"So what's on?"
"We've got Mad About You or . . . Door Repair Guy."
"Oh! Quick! Mad About You! The teaser's the best part!"
A New York street scene. Paul and Jamie come out of a shop.
Paul puts his thumbs in his belt and turns around squinting at
something Up. Jamie is looking through her purse. She can't
find what she wants and begins to go through her jacket pockets.
Paul walks backwards with his arms folded, still inspecting
whatever it is Up There. Jamie is furiously rummaging. Paul
does a double take between Jamie and the sky.
"Lose something?"
"Here. Hold this."
She thrusts the purse into his hands and starts to go
through her back pockets. Paul stands there with the purse. He
makes eye contact with passers-by, smiling and trying not to look
like a man with a purse in his hand. A jogger in a hooded
sweatshirt dashes through the crowd like a running back coming
around the quarterback for the hand-off and disappears out of the
shot with the purse under his arm. A car door slams and tires
squeal. Jamie's head comes up like a bird dog's. Paul opens his
mouth. She narrows her eyes and fixes him a look.
"Aw, seen it. Put on Door Repair Guy."
Shot of a small Vulcan trading ship speeding outward past
Saturn.
DRG: "Okay, all right, hold the presses, who are you and who
signs your paycheques? And don't think you can keep it to
yourself for long. I'll find out one way or another. I've had
special training."
Long reaction shot of Vulcan. The eyebrow rises and lowers
in an eloquent expression of disbelief.
"I represent the Vulcan Trillium Marketing Board. It is
not important that you know my name."
"Oh, you think so? It's important to me. I've been
transporter-kidnapped more times than should reasonably be
expected in the course of four seasons and I highly resent being
subjected to such a tired plot device -- anonymously. You see I
have this scrapbook."
"Still, I do not see the necessity."
"Still, I do see the necessity."
"There is no logical reason for it."
"There is no logical reason for it."
"Pardon me?"
"Pardon me?"
"Kindly stop that."
"Kindly stop that."
"Humans. A Vulcan would never nag in this fashion."
"Humans. A Vulcan would ne--"
"All right. If it will mollify you. My name is Spam."
"Spam?"
"It is a time-honoured and auspicious personal name. Your
canned meat is a rank newcomer by comparison."
"You must find the typical Human reaction to it very . . .
onerous."
"That would be the word precisely."
"And so it has driven you to these acts of piracy."
"Inaccurate. You have only been witness to one such act.
You have no evidence of others."
"Of *the* others, don't you mean?"
"Your persistence is vexing."
"So why kidnap me?"
"I am taking you to the Maquis."
"Oh yeah? We'll see about that. Oh. That's what I wanted,
I guess. But how did you know I was going to be in that bar?"
"We have our sources."
"'We' meaning the . . . VTMB?"
"Correct. We have an interest in your success. The Vulcan
Trillium Marketing Board occupies a permanent chair on the
executive committee of the Vulcan Science Academy, the
organization that spearheaded your release from prison. It was
we -- particularly the members of the Eastern Pli'isit District
Trillium Growers' Co-operative -- who engineered your assignment
to the Special Anti-Maquis Unit."
"Do Vulcan farmers as a whole take an interest in spy
stuff?"
"Yes, as do many other Vulcan business concerns. You will
find on examination that Vulcan scientific, business, and
government bodies are remarkably well integrated."
"So you had the inside scoop on the meteor fiasco and
figured it for the red herring it was."
"As you so colloquially phrase it."
"I just said it that way so you would say that."
"You should take no pleasure in your manipulations. I am
incapable of humiliation. Frankly, your sarcastic humour seems
to me a complete waste of energy."
DRG: raspberry.
DRG: "Yeah but why does, uh, VulTrilMarBo want to get in the
middle of planting a spy in the Maquis? Where is the logic in
that?"
"You will find, as Starfleet Security yet has not, that
there is no single entity called the Maquis. There are many
competitive interests on the Cardassian border, and many double
and even triple agents at work there. Nothing is as it seems.
We know of seventeen distinct groups that are using the
insurgency to further their own ends."
"The tobacco lobby!"
"You have had dealings with them? They may very well be
implicated in the plot against you. You would be well advised to
guard against smokers once you have entered the Maquis.
Surprisingly, few Maquis leaders appear to be aware of the extent
to which their movement is being controlled by outside forces.
They are content to smuggle and traffic on behalf of anyone who
will supply them with weaponry and articles of trade. A
recognition on your part of these shadowy contraband carriers
will greatly enhance your prospects for survival. Allow me to
pull up an organizational chart."
An amber and violet Okudagram comes up on the screen. In it
a complex tangle of arrows and overlapping ovals spells out the
relationship of the various nations, arms suppliers and Maquis
cells on the Cardassian border.
DRG takes in about five percent of it.
"So, ah-h-h-h, what was that about a plot?"
Spam: "Our intelligence network made us privy to certain
information which suggested that you were about to be captured
and executed by some group of Maquis infiltrators. We stepped in
so that our interests would not suffer."
"Eh? Just how do I benefit your interests? I don't sniff
trillium."
"That you shall learn. And one does not inhale trillium."
"Well, what's it for exactly?"
"There are a thousand and one uses."
"Such as?"
"A tasty and nutritious veal substitute."
"Wow. So who was going to kill me?"
"We do not know. We intercepted a garbled message sent on a
Vulcan security channel from Starfleet Headquarters, Security
Division. Neither the sender nor intended receiver is known."
"So you plan to hand me off to the Maquis so I can get in
with my cover story and my skin intact?"
"That is so."
"Well. What a day. Busy old world it is out here in
space."
"Agreed."
"One never knows, do one?"
"No indeed."
"A regular dog's breakfast, what?"
"Confirmed."
"Yes sirree Bob."
"As you say." (Reaches for antimatter inducer.)
"You could knock me over with a feather."
Finger on the control.
Shot of the vessel disappearing in a warp effect.

"Crawlspace. The final frontier. These are the voyages of
The Door Repair Guy. His mission: to install and maintain
proximity-activated entranceways, to stake out new rooms and new
service conduits -- to boldly go where no one with a pass key has
gone before."

Star Trek: Door Repair Guy

Starring

Door Repair Guy as
Himself

Also Starring

Martha Hackett as
T'Rul

David Hyde Pierce as
Spam

[Commercial:
"Wendy's owner Dave Thomas is going a little Klingon."
Shot of two Klingon warriors locked in bat'telh competition.
They grimace and strain until two referees jam painsticks between
them and they break and we see Dave in the front row sampling a
hamburger and nodding.
Dave voiceover: "Needs something exotic."
A Klingon jostles past behind him, gets into a dispute with
someone in the next row and spills food on Dave's shoulder. Dave
puts his finger in it and gives it a taste. Nods.
"Not bad."]

View of shuttlecraft dropping out of warp near Starbase 21.
Starbase 21 is a 23rd-century facility built along the lines of
the deep space stations of its day -- state of the art once upon
a time, but now completely bypassed by progress and the expansion
of the Federation, and at that age when people have begun to
debate whether to sell it for scrap metal or declare it a
heritage site. In its favour it does have a quaint TOS look to
it, and a malt shop.
DRG and the Vulcan Spam materialize in the public concourse.
DRG: "Why do I have to hijack a ship? Couldn't you just
drop me off?"
Spam: "You have to at least appear to be trying to get away
from someone."
"I suppose so. But how do I get the engines going without
the access codes?"
"It has been seen to. Have you a weapon?"
DRG looks around, casually slips his hand into and out of a
pocket and turns his palm toward the Vulcan.
Spam: "A Swiss army knife will not suffice." He passes a
small object into DRG's hand inconspicuously. "Here is a type-1
phaser. Keep it on your person at all times."
DRG holds it up admiringly.
"I didn't know they still made these little guys."
The Vulcan gets a pinched look.
"Hey, I thought you Vulcans didn't have emotions."
"Pain is not an emotion. Please conceal your weapon."
"All right, all right. What now?"
"You must punch me in the jaw, then run down that corridor
to the left. You will find yourself at a docking bay. Employ
your professional expertise to gain entry to the ship docked
there. Steal the vessel and plot a course for the Zeta Neuralgia
system. You will find a Maquis saloon on a planetoid there.
Make contact. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Begin."
DRG says loudly, "Oh yeah?" then punches the Vulcan in the
chin, knocking him to the floor, and runs away down the corridor.
Several people hurry over to help the prostrate trillium
marketeer. Another Vulcan helps him to his feet.
"You allowed that Human to sucker-punch you. Why?"
"It was the least deplorable alternative. I suspected he
was preparing to explain his philosophy of life."
"Ah."
DRG slips into the pilot's seat and finds a torn-open
envelope on the darkened console. He looks inside and finds it
empty.
"Damn."
He notices some writing on the back of the envelope. He
reads (out loud): "Bread, laundry detergent, lightbulbs (60
watt)."
The console lights up with a hum.
"Cool."
View of a ship warping away from Starbase 21.

[Commercial:
Dave Thomas comes up to a display case in a Ferengi grocery.
Dave (affably): "What's new, Norg?"
Norg: "Today we have an excellent four-year-old beetle
paste. Very economical. And this is extra-salty ground locust
husk. Mmm! And how about some delicious extract of slug?"
Dave: "Hm. Got any feta?"]

Shot of a small vessel cruising along at warp.
DRG leans back in the pilot's chair and glances around the
cockpit.
"Computer."
*[Yes-I'm-listening-noise]*
"Distance from Earth."
*We are presently 395.1 light years from Earth.*
"395 years ago was what, 1977?"
*Correct.*
"Full stop."
Shot of the vessel falling out of warp and coming to a halt.
"Scan for radio transmissions, AM band."
*Receiving.*
"On speakers."

*t leave me this way,
I can't resist your tender kiss,
Oh baby please don't leave me this way.

Oh baby, my heart is full of love and desire for you,
So come on now and do what you got to do.
This fire is burning down in my soul.
Can't you see it's burning out of control?
Come on now and feed the need in me.
Only your sweet loving can set me free, set me free.*

"Those were the days. Resume previous heading."
Shot of vessel jumping to warp.

[Commercial:
"Wendy's new chicken-and-ghargh sandwich has everyone
speaking Klingon."
"Ptttu! Dochvetlh vISoplaHbe'!"
"Phui! muropchoHmoH nay'vam!"]

An alien saloon. Various creatures from the makeup
department walk past with drinks in their hands. Over to one
side a group of Nausicaans shoot pool raucously. In the other
corner Country and Western sensation Sonny Clemons pursues his
quadrant-wide comeback tour, the Jim Beam drinking record and two
or three waitresses. The swinging doors part and a female figure
enters. She is dressed in hiking boots, fatigue trousers, a
shirt with lots of pockets -- the sort of clothes that say, "I'm
ready for anything," in fact, the unofficial uniform of the
Maquis. Two similarly attired individuals at a darkened table
take note and follow the newcomer to the bar with their eyes.
The bartender comes over.
"What will you have?"
"I will have a Saurian brandy."
The bartender studies her face.
"Not a usual request for a Vulcan."
She locks her gaze onto his, removes a slip of latinum from
a pocket and deposits it on the bar with an audible thwack.
"Kindly do not stereotype me. Brandy, if you please, and
keep them coming."
The bartender produces the curved bottle and pours her a
stiff one. She throws it back and places the glass in front of
the bottle. He pours another. She retrieves a pack of
cigarettes from a breast pocket, taps out a cylinder, draws it
below her nostrils, then fixes the bartender with another look
and says:
"I require you to disable your fire suppression systems."
"Hey, Miss, there's bylaws. I can't do that."
She draws a phaser.
"I advise it."
He reaches under the counter, prompting her to direct the
weapon toward his chest. He freezes, then slowly reaches down
and straightens up again.
"I turned it off."
"I thank you."
She alters the phaser setting with her thumb, puts the butt
between her lips, and touches the phaser emitter to the
cigarette. Smoke curls upward. The two observers at the
darkened table nod and one of them rises and approaches her.
"Is this seat taken?"
She glances at him and smiles.

[Commercial:
"Wendy's owner Dave Thomas is always on the lookout for new
recipes."
Shot of Dave seated at table with Worf and the two Klingon
renegades Korris and Konmel from "Heart of Glory" eating pipius
claw, and nodding.
Voiceover: "Not bad."
Nurse Chapel enters the sickbay lab with a bowl of soup on a
tray. She looks around anxiously, places the tray on a counter
and goes into the next room. Dave walks into the shot and tastes
the soup. He nods.
Voiceover: "Hmm. Plomeek."
Shot of Spock and Dave seated on rocks in a prehistoric
cave. Zarabeth serves cube-shaped blocks of meat. They eat.
Spock makes a face, but Dave likes his.
Voiceover: "Hey, this would be great with a little Dijon
mustard."]

Shot of DRG's ship streaking along. Cut to DRG in the
cockpit, snoring in the dim red illumination of the sleep
setting. He wakes with start, looks around, and stretches.
"Computer."
*[Computer noise.]*
"Lights up."
The lights come up to their regular setting.
"Hey. What did I tell you?"
*Query produces 429 examples. Please supply additional
search parameters.*
"What did I tell you to say when I say 'Computer'?"
*Hey, dude.*
"Hey, dude. Why didn't you say it?"
*You did not save changes.*
"Hmph. When I say 'Computer', say 'Hey, dude'. Save."
*Rewriting.*
"Computer."
*Hey, dude.*
"ETA to Zeta Neuralgia system."
*Four hours, twenty-one minutes, fifty-seven seconds.*
"All right. Time for a nap. Restore night setting."
The lights go down. We watch DRG sit there with his eyes
closed. He opens one eye.
"Computer."
*Hey, dude.*
"Is there anyone following us?"
*Scanning. Sensors detect no pursuing vessels.*
"Good. Dim lights."
The lights come down.
Moments later:
"Computer."
*Hey, dude.*
"Is there any vessel preceeding us or paralleling our
course?"
*Scanning. There is a Type-7 Federation shuttlecraft
paralleling our course at a distance of 3.2 lightyears to
starboard.*
"Hm. That's strange. Probably nothing. Lights down."
The lights dim.
"Computer."
"Hey, dude."
"Don't always say it the same way. Sometimes say it really
short, and other times put a little rise in the middle. Okay.
Save changes."
*Rewriting.*
"Computer."
*He-e-ey, dude.*
"Yeah."
Silence.
"Computer."
*H'dude.*
"Which side is starboard in space?"
*The right side.*
"I was just wondering because there are stars all around."
Silence.
"You see what I mean."
*Search of linguistics database has failed to produce a
response.*
"Computer."
*Hey, dude.*
"I think it would look good if I brought this boat into Zeta
Neuralgia with some phaser blasts on it. Formulate a plan for
firing phasers at oursleves."
*Working.*
"Okay." Pause. "Got anything?"
*Working.*
"Dum-de-dum. Set me free, set me free. Got anything yet?"
*Working.*
Pause.
"Computer."
*Hey, dude.*
"Any results on the phaser request?"
*Working.*
"Look, can't we just fire the phasers, speed up, and get in
the way?"
*Negative.*
"Well, is there any reflective surface we can use?
Defensive shields? Can we fire into our own defensive shields?"
*Negative.*
"Oh, why not?"
*The ship's defensive shields are calibrated so as to
preclude that possibility.*
"Can't we recalibrate them?"
*Safety protocols are in place to prevent such an
occurrence.*
"Discontinue safety protocols."
*Please supply authorization code.*
"Huh. Authorization alpha alpha alpha . . . green."
*Authorization code error. Please supply correct
authorization code.*
"Authorization seven three zero zero . . . blue."
*Authorization code error. Please supply correct
authorization code.*
"Authorization gabba gabba hey."
*Warning. Further attempts to enter protected directories
will result in engine shutdown.*
"All right, all right. Forget about it."
He stews a while.
"Computer."
*He-e-e-ey, d'd."
"Delete 'Hey, dude' programme."
*Do you wish to delete 'Hey, dude' programme?*
"Yes!"
*Returning to default.*
DRG crosses his arms in a huff and glares out the window,
then has a thought and glances at the sensor reading of the Type-
7 shuttle.
"Computer . . ."
*[Computer noise.]*

[Commercial:
Transporter room. The transporter chief is fighting the
controls. A column of smoke bursts from the transporter pad.
The chief engineer hurries in and joins the transporter chief at
the controls.
"I have something!"
"Boost the gain!"
Two shimmering confinement beams appear on the platform,
phase in and out, and become identical copies of Dave Thomas.
The two Daves check themselves for solidity and then notice each
other.
Good Dave: "Hey, I just had an idea for the chicken
sandwich. How does gouda cheese sound?"
Evil Dave: "Gouda? Pepperjack is more like it."
Good Dave: "Oh my."]

"Canape, Admiral?"
"Why, thank you."
We're in the Type-7 shuttle. Special Agents McSorley and
Braun are at the controls, while Special Agent Baumgartner serves
hors d'oervres to Admiral Nechayev.
Nechayev chows down, glances forward and catches Agent
Brauns over-the-shoulder look.
Nechayev: "Is there something you wanted to say?"
Braun: "Ahem. Admiral. I was wondering why it was
necessary to keep Starfleet Security in the dark about the Vulcan
Trillium Marketing Board's role in this transfer?"
Nechayev: "I assure you the only persons in the dark were
yourselves and the subject. The entire transfer was a well-laid-
out plan devised at Starfleet HQ. The Marketing Board was
brought in quite late."
Braun: "The Marketing Board has certainly done a good job of
. . . appearing to be acting on its own initiative."
Nechayev: "All part of the plan. It was decided that the
transfer could be made more successfully if it was given the
appearance of characteristic Security operation."
Braun: "A blunder, you mean?"
Nechayev: "Don't let departmental pride obscure your
professional judgement. Starfleet Security has a well-documented
history of mission failure. We saw the opportunity to turn that
reputation to our advantage."
Stony silence.
Nechayev: "Tut tut. Think of the countless number of
redshirts who have blithely walked into the middle of career-
ending situations over the years. The Molybdenum Mines incident
will reinforce the subject's cover story by confirming Maquis
prejudices about Starfleet Security."
Braun: "Yes, prejudice is a powerful force."
Nechayev (ignoring that): "How long until the subject
reaches Zeta Neuralgia?"
McSorley (checking): "Subject has changed course!"
Nechayev: "What? Where to?"
Braun: "On attack vector!"
Nechayev: "Evasive!"
The scene rocks. Baumgartner showers Nechayev with canapes.
"Return fire!"
Cut to DRG: "Whoo Hooooo!!!" His vessel rocks and jolts
with the shuttle's return fire.
"Computer! Best speed for Zeta Neuralgia!"
Cut to Type-7 shuttlecraft.
Nechayev: "Full pursuit!"
Braun: "Starboard nacelle has suffered a direct hit! Am
dumping drive plasma to effect rapid warp engine shutdown!"
Shot of the shuttle spinning and rolling with drive plasma
rocketting out of the damaged nacelle.
The stars in the window come to a gradual halt. Admiral
Nechayev staggers to her feet and brushes an hors d'oervre off
her shoulder.
"Any propulsion at all?"
"All systems off line."
"Contact the nearest starbase and tell them we need a tow."
"Aye aye, Admiral."
Nechayev catches Baumgartner smiling at her.
"What!"
"Nothing."
Shot of angry Nechayev with a canape on her head like a
small beret.

[Commercial:
"Wendy's owner Dave Thomas is looking for ideas in New
Orleans."
Shot of Dave being thrown out on the street by Benjamin
Sisco's father.
Sisco Sr: "And if I ever catch you hanging around my kitchen
again I'll feed you to the alligators!"
Dave picks himself up and nods balefully toward the
restaurant.
Voiceover: "Hm. Alligator."]

Another alien saloon. In place of the Nausicaans imagine
Pakleds, and instead of Sonny Clemons picture a gentleman with a
moustache and a theremin, moving his hand solemnly, conductor and
player in one. The doors swing open and a guy in overalls and
baseball cap enters, surveys the room, and then walks over to the
bar, taking a long backward look at the action of the
reciprocating hinges on the way and barking his shin on a chair.
"Ow."
The bartender, a hulking fellow from Rigel VII, approaches.
"What'll you have?"
"Ah. Black Diamond?"
(Pause.) "Cheese?"
"I mean Black Label."
"We don't serve beer."
"You don't serve beer?"
"No beer."
"Because it's very popular in most places."
"Not here."
"Well, what do they drink around here?"
"Absolute Pink."
"What's in that? Vodka and . . . ?"
"Pepto-Bismol."
"Urhg. That would make me sick to my stomach."
The bartender growls.
"But . . . then I guess I would soon have a tranquil stomach
and a buzz."
"I'll mix you one. You'll like it."
The bartender mixes the Absolute Pink. DRG doles out a
couple of doubloons and has a taste, then looks around the room
with his tongue hanging out. At a table across the room two
people in hiking attire exchange significant looks. One of them
rises and comes over. She sits beside Door Repair Guy.
DRG: "Hey. You're Bajoran."
"Yes. You've been to Bajor?"
"That's right. I nearly became Kai. . . oops, ah, kind of
married to a Bajoran."
"Really? What prevented you?"
"Her folks didn't approve."
"Religious reasons?"
"For sure."
"Bajorans are very upright people."
"I'm more low-down."
The bartender comes over.
"The middle came out of this coin. Take it back and give me
some real money."
He searches his pockets, but draws a blank.
"I must've left it in my heavily phaser-damaged spacecraft."
The bartender makes a motion toward a large jaggedy sword
hanging over the liquor bottles. DRG shrugs and holds up his
hands. The Rigelian puts his hand around the grip. DRG reaches
behind his ears and motions that he can't find anything there
either. The Rigelian puts both hands on the sword grip. The
Bajoran watches this situation develop with interest, then
surprise, then amazement as DRG still fails to cough up. As the
Rigelian yanks down the sword she pulls out a slip of latinum and
throws it on the bar. The bartender looks at it, then puts the
sword back up and brushes the latinum into his apron.
Bajoran: "That was either very brave or very stupid. My
name is Ro."
"Ro?"
"Ro."
"Your boat."
She makes an impatient face and glances toward her table.
Her partner motions to keep going.
"You say your spacecraft is phaser-damaged. How did that
happen?"
"Had a run-in with Starfleet."
"Really?"
"Genuine Type-7 shuttlecraft phaser fire."
"Where were you headed when this phaser fight occurred?"
"Don't tell anyone this, but . . . the Cardassian border."
"Why would you want to go there? It's very unstable."
"So am I!"
"So I guessed. Aren't you afraid of running into the
Maquis?"
"I hope so. I'm going to join them. Say, you don't know
anyone in the Maquis, do you? I'd really like to meet them."
She looks at him in doubtful astonishment.
"I think I know someone. Why don't you come with me?"
"Sure. This drink is the worst."
Bartender (reaching for sword): "Grrrrrrrrr!!!"
Ro: "Come on."
She takes him by the arm and leads him out. After a
discreet interval her partner follows.
View of DRG and Ro in the street, hurrying along.
DRG: "Did you ever notice you wear your earring in the wrong
ear?"
Ro: [annoyed look].
As Ro exits the shot a man in a hooded sweatshirt bumps into
DRG and disappears into the crowd.
"Hey! My wallet!"

------------
Written by Douglas A. McLeod, ai...@freenet.carleton.ca
------------

--
!!!!
http://www.consecol.org/~ajeanes/doorguy/intro.html
ftp://aviary.share.net/pub/startrek/parody/misc/DoorRepairGuy