"The ONE TWO watch, CFCF, Channel 12 in Montreal."
The crescent Earth. The USS Bozeman curves into the shot,
approaching the blue and white planet.
Cut to the transporter room. DRG and two armed guards troop
in and take up positions on the transporter platform. Captain
Bateson enters close behind, says pointedly, "Relieved," to the
transporter chief, who exits, and steps in behind the transporter
Bateson: "And so our little galavant across the stars is at
an end. I must say, you have made it an interesting year for the
captain and crew of the intrepid USS Bozeman. Tracking your path
of skullduggery and malfeasance across the breadth of the Alpha
Quadrant has given this crew an introduction to the 24th century
that no amount of Starfleet temporal displacement training
courses and seminars could possibly have provided. How else but
for you might we have chanced upon the intense, yearning
romanticism of Wemorg ballet, the all-in fun of the first act
battle-scene of Melota! or the je ne sais quoi of a pan-fried
SISbat'telh Dawt with just the slightest hint of sage? Had it
not been for your itinerary of misdeeds I myself might never have
encountered the charming Admiral Bartlett, or stood in the very
office of the President of the Federation Council, Madame De la
Route. In a strange sort of way I really must thank you. Better
yet, I should salute you! Hail, Door Repair Man, master of
interstellar felony and architect of chaos!"
DRG: "That's Door Repair Guy."
Bateson (squirming with delight): "Do you think I care?
Your ass is in stir now, buddy! I hope you like mutton!
Shot of an annoyed Door Repair Guy dematerializing.
Grainy black and white film clip of the chain gang swinging
mallets under the suspicious eye of a shotgun-toting marshall.
"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
Star Trek: Door Repair Guy
Door Repair Guy as
Jack Warden as
Robert Duncan McNeill as
Tom Waits as
John Larroquette as
Kelsey Grammer as
Natalia Nogulich as
Clyde Kusatsu as
Majel Barrett Roddenberry as
W.G. "Snuffy" Walden
[Commercial: Palais des Pneus
A salesman in a knee-length leather coat struts around a
tire warehouse and gestures knowledgeably at the camera and
toward stacks and stacks of truck tires. Cut to the salesman
shaking hands with a happy truckdriver. A bikini-clad waitress
in rollerblades skates up with a pitcher of draft and poses for
Aerial view of the seacoast of New Zealand's verdant North
Island. Caption: NEW ZEALAND PENAL SETTLEMENT in Star Trek font.
Cut to a forest clearing. Door Repair Guy, the Warden, and a
phaser-rifle-wielding security guard walk up the path.
DRG: "I couldn't help but notice the transporter dampening
field generator over there. So when do I get to take off this
personal transporter dampening field anklet thing?"
The Warden: "Never."
"Because I say so."
DRG: "Huh. So, like, twenty-five years. Is that Earth
years or Gamma Trianguli VI years?"
The Warden: "Earth years."
"Because my lawyer says it should be Gamma Trianguli VI
"Let me guess. Are they shorter?"
"Well, yeah, but that's not the point, see. If you do the
crime on Gamma Trianguli VI, the amount of time you do should be
measured according to the calendar of Gamma Trianguli VI."
"You'd have to be in a Gamma Triangular jail for that.
Perhaps you should request a transfer."
"Yeah, but that wouldn't work because any jail they have on
Gamma Trianguli VI is unavailable because the planet revolted
from the Federation."
"On account of you."
The guard sneers.
DRG: "Well, yeah, but --."
Warden: "Everybody's a legal expert when they first arrive
here, Mr Door Repair. Pity you didn't know so much about the law
beforehand. You might've stayed on the right side of it. You'd
be well advised to study up on the rules of this penal colony.
The punishment for breaking any one of them is severe. I trust
you've heard of the guillotine?"
DRG: "The guillotine!"
The Warden: "Yes. Have you ever seen Papillon?"
"Guillotine scene scare you?"
"How about the first night on the ship?"
"Escaping from the Indians?"
"Were they strict on Devil's Island?"
"Well, here it's worse. The least violation of any of the
three hundred and forty-nine rules governing this settlement will
result in a mandatory visit to the screening room. You'll see
Papillon over and over again until you mend your ways."
"Even the part where he gets away on the cocoanuts?"
"We recut it. The sharks eat him."
"Yow! I'll be good!"
"We'll just see. Do you see that man there?"
Tom Waits hunches past, trying to avoid eye contact.
"That's Admiral Skanky. He's seen it five hundred and
sixteen times. He can't seem to break his bad habit."
"Talking back. Here are your quarters." They're outside a
small one-room building. "Why don't you go in and introduce
yourself to your new roommate? You'll be seeing quite a lot of
Guard: "That's 'Aye, aye, Sir.'"
"Sorry! Aye, aye, Sir."
They march off.
He peers into the small building. There is little more to
it than two cots and a table and a couple of chairs. Tom Paris
stands up from the table, where he's been holding his head in his
hands, and smooths down his hair.
DRG: "Hey, roommie."
Paris glares suspiciously, then puts on a companionable
expression, steps forward to shake hands, and at the last
possible moment hauls back and suckers our hero with a right to
Shot of DRG on the floor.
DRG wipes his chin and looks at his bloody hand.
"What'd you do that for?!"
Paris crosses his arms and glowers down at him.
"Just so you'd know who's boss around here."
"All right. All right."
He notices Paris's foot within reach and trips him.
DRG is on top of him. They roll over and over, punching,
yelling and knocking over chairs. A phaser rifle muzzle presses
into DRG's neck, bringing them both to a sudden stop. They turn
their eyes upward.
Cut to DRG and Paris strapped into two theatre chairs.
Both: "No, don't! No! Don't trust the nun!"
[Commercial: Stereophonie Plus
A guy in a plaid suit strolls around a stereo warehouse and
gestures enthusiastically at the camera and toward stacks and
stacks of stereo components. Cut to the salesman shaking hands
with a happy customer. A bikini-clad waitress in rollerblades
skates up with a pitcher of draft and poses for the camera.]
Paris and DRG are working on a piece of equipment.
DRG: "Didn't this thing break down yesterday?"
"It's programmed to break down every day or so."
"What's the point of that?"
"To keep us busy."
A large and very old grey-haired Klingon totters past,
pauses, looks the new inmate up and down, grunts, and continues
on his way.
"Hey, who's the Klingon?"
"Him? That's old Maltz. Nobody's been here as long as he
has. Back in the 23rd century he and bunch of renegade Klingons
tried to steal something called the Genesis Device, which the
Federation was developing to quick-terraform planets. They were
going to use it as a weapon."
"Did it work?"
"What, the device or the plot?"
"Neither." (Pronouncing it the other way.)
"You shut up."
"You shut up first."
"No, you shh!"
"No. Shut up. Listen to that."
The old Klingon is playing a harmonica and singing to
"He does that all the time."
"Klingon blues. Cool."
"You know what he's singing?"
"Sure. I speak Klingon. tlhIngan Hol vIjatlh."
"Huh. Well . . . I speak Romulan."
"You do not."
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"No, I'm calling you a petaQ, and you don't even know what
"I oughta drop you."
"Come on! Right here! Look out. Guard coming."
"Lucky for you."
"Lucky for you."
"Look. Admiral Skanky's catching the matinee."
Shot of Tom Waits struggling, barking, and growling in the
arms of four security guards on the way to the Bijou.
[Commercial: Venitiens Sont Nous
A friendly sales manager strolls around a Venetian blinds
factory and gestures toward the wide variety of blinds both
vertical and horizontal. Cut to the manager shaking hands with a
happy customer and presenting a certificate of warranty. A
bikini-clad waitress in rollerblades skates up with a pitcher of
draft and poses for the camera.]
San Francisco. Stock footage shot of an air tram cruising
past the Golden Gate Bridge. Stock footage of the outside of
Starfleet Command. A corridor in Starfleet headquarters.
Admiral Nakamura leaves off conferring with an aide-de-camp and
moves to intercept the oncoming Admiral Nechayev.
Nakamura: "Admiral. How good to see you."
Nechayev: "What the hell is going on here? They pulled me
out of the pool for an emergency meeting of the committee on
committees. Everybody knows the Cardassian Bureau opens when
I've had my fifty laps, not before. Is there nobody in charge
here at all?"
"Listen. Spooner from the Daystrom Institute found out
about the Door Repair trial. He blew a gasket and got dozens of
the top scientists in the R and D community to petition the
Council President to set aside the verdict. He's out for blood,
and he's got some big guns on his side."
"The Vulcan Science Academy just issued a synthesis
supporting Spooner. The Bolian representative intends to ask a
question in Federation Council this afternoon."
"Damn those Bolians. Who do we have?"
"The JAG Office and the Bajoran Desk are co-ordinating
efforts and mapping countermeasures as we speak. We have Smedley
from the Guardian of Forever Institute lined up to rebut anything
Spooner might come out with. And we can count on Starfleet
Security if things turn ugly."
"What about the Borg Office?"
"Impossible to say. The place is rotten with doves since
"Damn. Double damn. This is totally out of control."
Nakamura: "Ixnay. Ambassador! How good to see you!"
Lwaxana Troi: "Can it, deskjockey. The day the Federation
starts jailing eminent scientists is the day I marry an Antedian
Nechayev: "Eminent scientist? He's a ne'er-do-well and a
terrorist. The longer he's behind a security field the safer
we'll all be."
Troi: "He co-developed the interdimensional gateway. I've
seen the reports. The implication is that anyone can build one.
You want to keep it under wraps by keeping him under lock and key
on these ridiculous charges."
Nechayev: "He very nearly handed Bajor to the Dominion!"
"Horse hockey! If you and the rest of you tinpot tyrants
get your way on this every research scientists in the Federation
is going to pack up and head for the Ferengi Alliance."
Nakamura: "Ambassador, please. I think you're overstating
"Well, I don't. I'm going in there to give the committee a
piece of my mind, and I promise you there's going to be blood on
the floor. Heads will roll!"
"I heard that, Alynna Nechayev!"
She exits again.
Nechayev pulls at the hem of her jacket.
Nakamura's eyes follow her as she heads for the committee
room. He takes a deep breath and follows after.
[Commercial: Club Disco-Aerobique Roberge Plus
Shots of clubmembers stepping on and off the stairmaster,
treading the treadmill, cycling on stationary bikes, pumping
iron. Richard Roberge, very natty in a sharkskin jacket, shakes
hands with a satisfied customer in the reception area. A bikini-
clad rollerblading pitcher-bearing waitress skates into the shot
and poses for the camera.]
Paris and DRG move along the mess line. A cook flings dry
toast onto their trays, and a second slops chipped beef on top of
Paris: "I just love chipped beef on toast."
DRG: "Hey, there's Maltz. Let's sit with him."
"Nobody sits with Maltz."
"Aw, come on. It'll be fun."
He heads off toward the far corner of the hall where Maltz
has four large tables to himself. Paris looks around, shrugs
apologetically to the other inmates, and follows after. DRG
slides in across from the Klingon. Maltz sits back in surprise.
Maltz: "nuqneH." ["What do you want?"]
DRG: "ghopraj vItlhap vIneH." ["I just wanted to shake your
hand."] [Though literally: "I want to take your hand."]
Maltz pulls his hand away. "DaghajlaHbe'." ["You can't
"Ho'wI'ra' tIn jIH qaja' vIneH." ["I want to tell you I'm a
big admirer of yours."]
"bItInqu'be'." ["You're not so big."]
Paris: "What did he say?"
DRG: "He said I'm not so big."
"Come on. Let's move to another table."
"Hold your horses a minute. I just figured it out. This is
the guy that taught the Federation Klingon. I used to listen to
his tapes when I was a kid. Hey, I just remembered something.
The first Klingon sentence I ever learned. Dochvetlh
vISoplaHbe'." ["I can't eat that."]
Maltz looks up. "'e' yIjatlhqa'." ["Say that again."]
Louder: "Dochvetlh vISoplaHbe'."
Maltz: "Dochvetlh vISoplaHbe'."
Prisoner: "What are they saying?"
Paris: "They're saying that they can't eat that."
Prisoner: "Neither can I!"
Another: "Neither can I!"
The air grows thick with flung chipped beef on toast.
A security guard turns from his monitor and taps his
"Disturbance in the mess hall."
Full house at the Bijou.
[Commercial: Banque Royale
A teller smiles and hands a bankbook to a customer, and the
rollerblading bikini-clad pitcher-bearing waitress skates up
beside them and smiles at the camera.]
Shot of DRG turning this way and that in the middle of the
Paris throws down a technical manual in exasperation.
"I just noticed. Where's the replicator?"
"There is no replicator."
"In case we replicate phasers and bust out of here."
"What if we need stuff?"
"You go and get it. If you can't get it, you can't have
"All I want is some water."
"I was wondering when you were going to do some laundry."
"So where do I get it?"
"There's a well in the ravine."
Shot of Door Repair Guy lugging a bucket of water up a
forest track. He sets the bucket down, shakes his sore fingers
in the air, picks up the bucket with his other hand, makes a
pained expression, tries carrying with both hands, soaks his
legs, swears, hoists the bucket up to his shoulder, slops water
all over his head, sets the bucket on top of his head, balances,
starts to get the hang of it, begins to walk along without
holding onto the bucket at all, grins, picks up the pace, catches
his toe on a root, does a face-plant, stands up soaked from the
shoulder to the waist and drills the bucket into the undergrowth.
With a swish of undergrowth he's instantly surrounded by
bare-chested club-wielding tattooed nostril-flaring Maori
One of them bends down into the ferns and says: "He's
A warrior steps right up and holds his warclub a quarter of
an inch from DRG's nose. They stare, the Maori twisting his face
into an intimidating series of extreme expressions.
DRG: "If the wind changes your face will stay that way."
The warrior sticks out his tongue, clearly offended. DRG
delivers his best imitation Klingon snarl. The warrior snarls
From behind DRG: "Nigel."
Nigel steps back, angles his warclub in DRG's direction as a
reminder, and sniffs in pique.
DRG turns and finds himself in the presence of a mature
muscular woman with the strongest South Pacific nose he's ever
Woman: "You are the Door Repair Guy."
"You have the advantage of me, madame."
"You may call me . . . Queen Victoria."
"Let me guess. You are not amused?"
"On the contrary. We saw what you did in the Nepean Council
"Oh no, you don't. If you're planning on taking New Zealand
out of the Federation include me out. I'm in enough hot water as
"Apparently. But we're not from New Zealand."
Nigel: "We're from the Cardassian border."
Swish. He's suddenly alone, blinking.
[Commercial: Gouvernement du Canada
Two boaters cling to their capsized sailboat. A bright
yellow helicopter angles in overhead and a helmeted diver drops
into the churling water. Inside the copter a SARTECH gives the
thumbs-up and the rollerblading bikini-clad pitcher-of-draft-
bearing waitress picks up speed toward the open door.]
Paris and DRG's quarters. The place is spotless and bare
except for a cookie on a plate in the middle of the table. DRG
walks in, sees the cookie, eats it, and wipes the crumbs off his
hands. Paris walks in, sees the empty plate, and says:
"My mother baked that."
DRG looks at the plate and says, "That's too hard to eat."
Paris comes at him, fists flying. They're still rolling
around when the guards show up.
Cut to the Bijou. DRG and Paris are struggling against
their restraints and shouting, "Not the lepers, not the lepers!"
A gravelly voice from the back:
"Shut your jaws, Claus. Them old lepers are the best part."
Both: "Who's that? Who's back there?"
"You know my name. What's my number, chumber?"
Paris: "It's Admiral Skanky. Hey, Skanky, what screening's
that, number five hundred and nineteen?"
"Five twenty-one, son."
"It ain't so bad. Sometimes you watch it for the wardrobe,
sometimes for the sound editing, sometimes it's the leviticusly
deuteronimus camera-work, and sometimes I just take a load off
and watch out for Chuck E. Weiss references."
DRG: "It has Chuck E. Weiss references?"
"None that I've found yet. But you don't always catch them
things the first particular time."
"So you *try* to get in here?"
"It passes the hours til the establishments open."
"Establishments? What establishments?"
"Come over later. We'll raise a glass o' cheer for auld
lang syne. Let's say midnight."
DRG: "He's got a still or something."
Paris: "Nothing I love better than fine liqueurs. Argh!
Look out! The cigar."
"Yow, the cigar!"
Earth orbit. A small transport ship moves into the shot.
Cut to the bridge. Two pointy-eared humanoids are seated at the
command console. Behind them are heaps of containers marked
"Kevas" and "Trillium", though one label has peeled away to
reveal the words "Romulan Ale".
First trader: "Orbital Control hailing."
Second trader: "On screen."
Orbital Control: *Vulcan transport, identify yourself.*
Second trader: "We are the K'Mart. We are transporting a
cargo of kevas and trillium destined for the . . . South . . .
Island of New Zealand."
Orbital Control: *Confirmed. Assume standard orbit and
observe all customs regulations.*
"You may rest assured we shall be diligent in regard to all
*Orbital Control out.*
"That sounded Vulcan."
"Never mind. Where's that transporter signal?"
"Receiving it now."
They turn to see the Romulan Ale dematerialize. A moment
later the space is filled by cases of cigarettes.
"Transport complete. Plot course 375 mark 79. Engage."
View of the transport turning away from the planet. Before
it has accelerated from the shot the ship has faded from sight in
a watery cloaking effect.
Next week on Star Trek: Door Repair Guy:
DRG materializes in the human igloo of a rugby scrum. The
ball hits him in the head and he's trampled by dozens of knobby
Written by Douglas A. McLeod, ai...@freenet.carleton.ca