Just in case anyone is still interested...
RWGibson13
LAW AND ORDER: SPECIAL STARFLEET UNIT
PART II
CUT to Enterprise mess hall. Briscoe and Munch enter and look around for red
shirts, but there are none apparent. They approach an ensign eating and
Briscoe shoves a sensor pad with a digital picture on it under his nose.
Briscoe: You know this guy?
Ensign: Why would I? He's a red shirt.
Briscoe: What, they don't eat?
Ensign: Not with the REST of us, they don't.
Briscoe: Too good for 'em?
Ensign: No, it's just that...let's just say, it's... safer for the more
important members of the crew not to be TOO close to the red shirts.
Munch: Accidents will happen, eh?
Ensign: You don't know the half of it. Just two days back when we were
engaging a Klingon cruiser I almost lost my best friend because he was standing
too close to a red shirt when a panel exploded. He was in sick bay for two
whole hours.
Munch: And the red shirt?
Ensign: Not even a pile of ashes left. Those guys are bad news.
Briscoe: So we're starting to see.
Munch: So if we were looking for this guy, where would we start?
Ensign (pointing to a corridor): Try the red shirt mess hall. Down that
corridor two doors to the right, past the special platinum-enforced shielding
walls and though the special phase-shifted Jeffries tube. The code to
deactivate the force field is 4CV56, though you didn't hear it from me.
Briscoe: Eh, thanks - I think.
Ensign: But you'd better hurry up.
Munch: Why?
Ensign: Chances are he's already dead.
Briscoe: Yeah, chances are.
CUT to Briscoe and Munch, obviously breathing heavily, punching the buttons on
a code pad to deactivate a force field.
Briscoe (pant): I remember back when the toughest part of this job was chasing
down perps. This Jeffries guy must have been a sadist.
Munch: Yeah, we don't have this much security on our holding cells.
(The force field comes down and an old door opens to a very old mess hall with
five or six assorted red shirts eating. All are very nondescript and have dour
expressions on their faces and all stop what they are doing as one and stare at
the two Inquisitors in anxious awe as they enter)
Briscoe: I dunno, John, maybe it's just my imagination, but I've gotten more
normal receptions during drug busts.
Munch: Don't everybody stop on our account.
(One of the red shirts stands up)
Red shirt1: It's just that...well, we never get visitors.
Briscoe: As tough as it is getting here, I'm not surprised.
Red shirt1: I apologize, Inquisitors, but it is...better this way.
Munch: So we've heard. Nasty things just seem to happen when you're around.
Red shirt1: It is...our lot in life, sad to say.
Briscoe (noticing a food replicator on the wall): May I?
Red shirt1: Of course, please. All we have is yours.
Briscoe: Krispy Kreme, warm.
(Briscoe grabs the doughnut and starts to bite into it, but notices that all of
the red shirts are now staring at him with rapt attention, mouths open in
anticipation)
Briscoe: What?
Munch: Partner O'mine, ever hear the stories about the old royal food tasters?
Briscoe (looking down at the doughnut in disgust): Oh, yeah. Suddenly lost my
appetite.
(He throws away the doughnut as the red shirts share the same disappointed
expression)
Munch (pulling out his sensor pad): Do any of you recognize this guy?
(All the red shirts bow their heads and tap their hearts once.)
Red shirt1: Crewman Fritz, may he rest in peace.
Munch: You know he's dead?
Red shirt1: We felt his sacrifice and have mourned as is our way. How did he
pass? Transporter malfunction? In an ambush of phaser fire? Alien
flesh-eating slime?
Briscoe: More like your normal everyday homicide.
Red shirt: Ah, that is...odd.
Briscoe: In exactly what way?
Red shirt: It is our lot in life to give of ourselves fully for the Holy Five
Year Mission, to lay down our lives in the exploration of strange new worlds,
to sacrifice ourselves in the quest to seek out new life and new civilizations,
to die so others can boldly go where no man has gone before. We do NOT get
stabbed in the back.
Munch: Vulcan neck pinch, actually.
Red shirt1: Whatever.
Briscoe: Anyway, our medical examiner says this particular red shirt...
Red shirt1: Please, Inquisitor, we prefer the term "Crimson Brotherhood of the
Sacrifice to the Holy Five Year Mission."
Briscoe: ...this particular red shirt died from what appeared to be a Vulcan
neck pinch. Do you have any idea of anyone who might want to hurt him?
Red shirt1: Well, considering there's only one Vulcan on board...
Briscoe: Anyone at all who might want to see him dead?
Red shirt: Uh, Detective, there's only one person on this ship who knows that
neck pinch.
Briscoe: Any motive anyone might have?
Red shirt: If there's only one person who could have possible killed him, you
might want to...
Munch: Listen up, "Mr. I Can't Survive More Than Five Minutes Into an Episode,
But Can Tell You How to do YOUR Job," just answer the man's question, or we'll
drag your sorry red jersey over to OUR ship and you can explain it in more
Spartan surroundings. We've got a half-hour to fill or we lose our minutes to
the lawyers and we're NOT going to let that happen. Now, for the LAST time, do
you know ANYONE who would want to see this Fritz guy laying dead in a corridor
on C-Deck?
Red shirt1: No.
Munch: Good. Let's go, Lennie. This place is too damned depressing.
(As they turn to leave, several red shirts are surrounding one of their own
with sorrow-filled faces, taking turns patting him on the back and waving
good-bye.)
Briscoe: What's with him?
Red shirt1: Landing party detail. 10% survival rate.
Munch (to Briscoe): Better than most of my relationships.
Briscoe: Where was Fritz's last assignment?
Red shirt1: Engineering, I think.
Munch: Maybe we'll have more luck there.
Briscoe (walking away): And, again, if you remember anyone else who might have
had it in for him, give us a call.
Red shirt1: You could always try the Vulcan.
Munch (to Briscoe): For a bunch of Starfleet's best and brightest, you'd think
they'd know more about TV police work.
Briscoe: Yeah, we've got at LEAST two more potential witnesses to hassle before
we get to him.
CUT to Engineering. The place is very busy, with assorted engineering crewmen
running here and there, none of them really doing much more than pushing the
occasional button on a panel, but doing so VERY diligently. In the center of
the confusion stands Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott, directing traffic more
than anything else...
Scottie: All right, laddies, look alive!
Briscoe: We're looking for a Mister Scott?
Scottie: Aye, that'd be me.
Munch: We're investigating the death of a particular red shirt who we
understand was stationed here yesterday.
Scottie: And if I had more time, I'd be more than happy to assist you, but as
you can tell, we got a bit of a problem here.
Munch: It'd only take a few seconds.
Scottie: I got none to spare, laddie.
Briscoe: This is an important investigation.
Scottie: No more important than a war, Mr. Inquisitor.
Munch: We're just doing our job.
Scottie: And me, mine. The Captain wants the warp engines back in shape for the
next round with the Klingons and I promised him I'd have us there in 48 hours.
Munch: Hmm, looking at the state of those generators, I'd say they're already
ready to go.
Scottie: And just what would a policeman know about warp cores, now.
Munch: Not as much as you, but what I DO know about are contractors who promise
to finish a job in twice the amount of time it'll really take just to pad their
profit margins. Hey, Lennie, how much you want to bet if we get our guys over
here they could have the job done in 6 hours.
Scottie: You wouldn't...
Briscoe: I wouldn't take that bet, John. Speaking of contractors, those
thermostatal neural relays look like they've been jury-rigged beyond safety
specs.
Scottie: Aye, we patched 'em together during last week's tussle with the
Romulans and haven't had the time...
Briscoe: And that plasma diagonally-charged framizat couplet looks a bit loose.
Scottie: "Diagonally-charged framWHAT?" What do you think this is, TNG?!
Munch: And I bet the boys from OSHA would LOVE to take a look at the way those
dilithium positron energy conduit seals are holding up.
Scottie: Oh, for the love of Romulan Ale, now you're just making things up.
Briscoe: And I KNOW that relay box on top of that cabinet wasn't there last
episode. I just BET the CCB would rake you over the coals for that one.
Scottie: CCB?
Munch: Continuity and Canon Bureau of the Fan Base Oversight Commission.
Scottie: Ack, PLEASE, I'll do anything you want, just don't bring the bloody
FANS into this.
(Munch pulls out his digital sensor pad display)
Scottie: sigh. Of all the Inquisitors in the UFP, I have to get two geeks.
(claps hands) All right, laddies! Take ten!
(All at once, the hustle and bustle stops suddenly, newspapers, pastries,
coffee cups, and assorted Nintendo gameboys come out of nowhere and appear in
the hands of the assorted crew members who plop down wherever they happen to
be)
Scottie (looking at the pad): Crewman Fritz, you say? Never seen him before.
Briscoe: Look closer. He was stationed here yesterday.
Scottie: Hmm, could be Crewman Kenny...no, wait, he was killed three days back
when the power relay panel he was standing next to overloaded. Almost got one
of my best boys killed along with him.
Munch: So we heard.
Scottie: I dunno. They all look alike to me.
Briscoe: We heard THAT before too. Just take your time.
Scottie: Aye, now I remember. But only because he came in late for his shift to
replace our regular red shirt...
Munch: "Crimson Brotherhood of the Sacrifice to the Holy Five Year Mission."
Scottie: Eh?
Briscoe: Never mind my friend the "geek" here. Did you notice where he went?
Scottie: Please, Inquisitor. I don't notice them when they're HERE.
Munch: Where's the regular red shirt he replaced?
Scottie (looking around): Never showed up for his shift.
Briscoe: You don't find that unusual?
Scottie (shrugging): It's been a whole day since I've seen him. Plenty of time
to get himself killed.
Munch: Do you mind if we talk to some of your industrious miracle workers?
Scottie: Not at all. Just don't get between them and their buttons.
Briscoe (looking around): Say, you wouldn't happen to have any food replicators
around here, would you?
Scottie: Does this look like a mess to you?
Munch: I'm not going to TOUCH that one, Lenny.
Briscoe: Never mind. Just a thought.
Scottie: Now, if you don't mind, I've got a contract...err, repairs to finish.
(An engineering ensign who has been in earshot of the conversation approaches
the Inquisitors)
Ensign: The crewman you're looking for is Crewman Packing.
Briscoe: A friend of yours?
Ensign: What, do I look suicidal? He replaced Fritz after the "accident" and I
only noticed him because he didn't strike me as your usual red shirt.
Munch: In what way?
Ensign: For one thing, whenever the sparks started flying, he ran the other
way.
Briscoe: Losing his religion, eh?
Ensign: I guess so. And during breaks, he would talk to the rest of us as
though we actually CARED what he had to say.
Munch: Which was?
Ensign: Kept talking about how he was onto something "big," and how he was
going to use it to get out of the Brotherhood and into a safer avocation.
Briscoe: I don't guess you would happen to know where we could find this
Crewman Packing?
Ensign: Same place I'd start looking for any red shirt.
Briscoe: Where is that?
Munch: The morgue.
Ensign (smiling): Very good, Inquisitor.
Munch (to Briscoe): Old Star Trek "geek" joke.
Briscoe: Figures. We've found the one place in the universe where you get all
the punch lines.
RWG (to be continued...)
Now I've seen the light and I've heard the word
And I'm stayin' away from that nasty Thunderbird
Word came from heaven, ready to find
And now all I drink is Communion wine...
...six days a week.
The Late, Great Townes Van Zandt
Leslie Rampey
> LAW AND ORDER: SPECIAL STARFLEET UNIT
>
> PART II
Um, I really would like to comment on this, but I'm sorta too busy
right now checking myself into the hospital for hernia surgery! :)))
ROTFLMAO, RWG! Keep it coming!
Cirocco
"Crimson Brotherhood of the Sacrifice to the Holy Five Year Mission" - hee...
RWGibson13
>Um, I really would like to comment on this, but I'm sorta too busy
>right now checking myself into the hospital for hernia surgery! :)))
>
>ROTFLMAO, RWG! Keep it coming!
And I thought the folks in the Trek groups were masochistic <g>
Well, OK, here's the next heaping helping...
RWG (I've made some slight changes and reposted the first part...)
LAW AND ORDER: SPECIAL STARFLEET UNIT
CHAPTER 3
CUT to The Precinct 2027. Briscoe and Munch are scrolling through records on
opposing viewscreens.
Briscoe: Well, Fritz looks just like the kind of nobody that would fit right in
with "The Brotherhood of the Doomed." Academy dropout. No family to speak of.
Just reading his file is putting me to sleep.
Munch: A real Mayweather, eh?
Briscoe: Yeah. How about Wooding?
Munch: Not much more interesting, although he DID graduate fairly high in his
class with a degree specialty in surveillance, which makes me wonder how he
ended up in a literal dead-end job.
Briscoe: Maybe he figured better to die happy on the flagship of the fleet.
You know, to boldly die where no man has died before and all that.
Munch: Hmm, now THIS is interesting. Before being assigned to the big E, he was
actually a security specialist at Starfleet HQ.
Briscoe: Sounds like a demotion to me. Maybe he pissed someone off?
Munch: You'd think so, but it says here he VOLUNTEERED for the transfer.
Briscoe: Are you pondering what I'm pondering?
Munch: Uh, let's not go there, Brain.
Briscoe: Right.
Munch: Actually, I'm thinking Section 31.
Briscoe: Oh, for the love of Roddenberry, give it a rest, John.
Munch: No, really, this is EXACTLY the kind of guy they'd recruit. Take a smart
kid fresh out of the Academy, train him at HQ, then ship him off to a low-key,
under-the-radar job on the Enterprise to keep an eye on things.
Briscoe: There is NO such thing as Section 31.
Munch: Keep telling yourself that, Lennie, if it helps you sleep better at
night.
(Cragen thunders back into the scene)
Cragen: What's new with the faceless corpse in the red shirt.
Briscoe: Inquisitor Munch here was just explaining to me how Section 31 had him
offed.
Munch: Laugh if you will, but my great grandfather was back there during the
old days of the X-Files and...
Cragen: Oh, John, shut up with the conspiracy theories already and tell me you
two have a name for this guy.
Briscoe (pointing to screen): Two names, actually. While Mr. Tinfoil hat over
there is conjuring up images of pointy-headed aliens from Dimension X, I'm
thinking more along the lines of plain, old-fashioned blackmail and mistaken
identity.
Cragen: I'm listening.
Briscoe: The dead guy, Fritz, switched shifts with this other red shirt named
Wooding who's been talking about something "big" he's involved in. I'm thinking
maybe it goes back to when he was at Starfleet HQ and dug up something on
someone on this ship and transferred here to take advantage of it.
Cragen: So how does this Fritz guy end up getting whacked?
Briscoe: Well, everyone seems to think all these guys look alike...
Munch: And the two DID switch shifts on the day of the murder.
Briscoe: Bingo.
Cragen: So you think whoever this Wooding guy was squeezing doesn't see too
good?
Briscoe: Or doesn't really KNOW who's squeezing him.
Cragen: I dunno, Lennie, seems like a real stretch to me.
Munch: There's always MY theory.
Cragen: OK, go ahead, just be warned if you make me lose my lunch it's raining
down on YOU.
Munch: On second thought, I don't know if you're enlightened enough to accept
it at this point in time.
Briscoe: C'mon, John, I think you'd look good in regurgitated Andorian clam
sauce.
Cragen: What does this Crewman Wooding have to say about all this?
Munch: He seems to be missing.
Cragen: You check the morgue?
Briscoe: Every half hour.
Munch: Seriously, they said they'd give us a call if any more bodies turn up.
(A flashing light goes off on a nearby panel. Cragen goes over to it and
punches a button)
Cragen (in background): THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT!
Munch: (to Briscoe): We could always go back to the Mess of the Crimson
Brotherhood and see if he's turned up there.
Briscoe: My body would never forgive me. I was thinking more along the lines of
the Officer's Mess to question the Vulcan.
Munch: Don't you think it's a bit early for that. We've still got fifteen
minutes to kill.
Briscoe (stomach rumbling): Yeah, but they've got better replicators.
Munch: Good point.
Cragen: Pack your magnifying glasses and sensors, gentlemen, your man finally
turned up.
Briscoe: Damn! So much for THAT plan.
Cragen: No, he's not in the morgue. By some miracle of fate he just ended up in
sick bay.
Briscoe: I was talking about lunch.
CUT to the Enterprise Sick Bay. Briscoe and Munch enter and are greeted by
Nurse Chapel.
Briscoe: Inquisitors Briscoe and Munch. We're here to see Crewman Wooding.
Chapel: Right this way. He had a slight transporter accident.
Briscoe: Oh?
Chapel: Apparently, he had hidden himself inside a container scheduled to be
sent down to the planet we're orbiting. The doctor can explain.
Briscoe (to Munch): And you still wonder why I never use the things?
(The three walk through some doors into the main sick bay. Dr. Leonard McCoy is
standing next to a bed containing Crewman Wooding, the lower half of his body
covered in a sheet)
Briscoe: He doesn't look so bad.
McCoy: That's only because they got him to me quickly. The damned fool decided
to hide himself in a box of Augmented Corinthian Leather.
Briscoe: And?
Munch: Oh, C'mon Lennie, every school kid knows what happens when radioactive
leather gets into the same transportation beam with human flesh.
Briscoe: He dies?
Munch: In the first three seasons, maybe...
(McCoy pulls back the sheet to show the lower half of the skin on Wooding's
body has turned to rich, smooth brown leather)
Munch: ...unless the good doctor can pull off one of his patented last-second
miracles, our witness here is going to turn into the first seamless baseball
glove with ten fingers.
Briscoe: Sounds positively kinky.
Munch: Well, some of the more suicidal fetishists have been known to experiment
with it on purpose, but this guy doesn't exactly strike me as the type...
McCoy: Stupid kids, nowadays.
Briscoe: So, how much time does he have?
McCoy: I'm a doctor, dammit, not a stopwatch!
(Briscoe, Munch, and Chapel all look at him with blank expressions)
McCoy: Sorry, force of habit. Unless I can reverse the process of that damned
molecular-scrambling travesty, I'd say a day or two at the most.
Munch: Can you at least wake him up so we can ask a few questions?
McCoy (points out a hypo to Chapel): Fifteen minutes at the most.
Briscoe: We'll only take five.
Munch (checking watch): Three minutes, ten seconds, actually.
McCoy (walking off, grumbling): Just what the universe needs. Even MORE
anal-retentive Vulcan bastard wannabes...
(Chapel hypos Wooding, who immediately wakes up)
Wooding: Whooaaahhh!
Chapel: Calm down! You're safe in sickbay.
Wooding: I had the most awful nightmare. I was standing on a stage with some
other guys dressed in strange clothing singing a song called "Macho Man."
Munch: We've got some bad news for you.
Briscoe: Yeah, whatever you do, don't lift up the sheet.
Munch: It's worse that that, Lennie.
Briscoe: How so?
Munch: Unless my sharply honed fiction instincts fail me, that was
foreshadowing.
Briscoe: Uh oh. Hopefully our half of the parody's over long before then.
Wooding: What happened? Last thing I remember I was guarding a shipment of
Corinthian Leather...
Briscoe: That's not the way we hear it.
Munch: Yeah, unless you mean guarding it from INSIDE the box.
Wooding: Why would I be INSIDE a box?
Munch: Why don't you tell us. The official story is that you got caught in a
teleportation beam with the contents of the box.
Wooding: Oh, no. That would mean...
Briscoe (looking at the lower half of Wooding's body): That if they ever need
to cast another "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" remake...
Wooding: AUGGGGHHH! It wasn't a dream.
Munch: But the doc assures us he's working on it.
Briscoe: In the meantime, we need to ask you a few questions.
Wooding: Like what?
Munch: For starters, what were you doing inside the box.
Wooding: I'm telling you, I was guarding the box from outside.
Briscoe: Then how to you explain being laid up in a bunk in sickbay with
Corinthian cow legs?
Wooding: I can't.
Munch: OK, let me explain your rather limited options. You can help us now and
we get out of the way so the doc can get started on curing your coriaceous
complexion, or we can stay here until you learn all the verses to "YMCA..."
Wooding: OK, OK...but the boxes were supposed to go down by shuttle. I was
trying to get smuggled off the ship.
Briscoe: Gee, and after you went through all that trouble just to get here.
We've read your file.
Wooding: Let's just say that it wasn't the dream assignment I'd hoped it would
be.
Munch: What, like you expected life in "The Brotherhood of Suicidal Stoics" to
be all Romulan Ale and Andorian Orchids?
Briscoe: C'mon, Wooding, we're not buying this for a minute. No one transfers
from a cushy job on Earth to be phaser fodder in the middle of an uncharted
Nebula somewhere.
Wooding (closing his eyes and reciting): It is our lot in life to give of
ourselves fully for the Holy Five Year Mission, to lay down our lives in the
exploration of strange new worlds...
Briscoe: Oh, let it rest, already! That crap sounded silly enough coming from
someone who actually BELIEVED it.
Wooding (opening one eye): Oh, well, it was worth a shot.
Briscoe: So what was it that made you so hot to drop out?
Wooding: Maybe I just didn't like waiting around to die.
Munch: You expect us to believe that it had absolutely NOTHING to do with a
certain Crewman Fritz winding up face down in a corridor on C-Deck?
Wooding: They killed Fritz?! Those dirty stinking fairies killed Fritz?!
Briscoe: Oh, don't act so surprised. We know you mysteriously switched duties
with him in the middle of your shift in engineering yesterday.
Munch: And just who might these "dirty stinking fairies" be?
Wooding: Nothing. Just something I heard in a movie once.
Briscoe: You're just digging yourself deeper here.
Wooding (looking under the sheet): Yeah, right, you're not the one who's balls
might someday be swinging from the rearview mirror of a redneck's pickup truck.
Munch: Now THAT's a picture I could have done without.
Wooding: I'm done talking. There's nothing worse you guys could do to me. But
just so you don't waste the eight or nine minutes you've got left in your
segment, go ask the Vulcan about how well photon torpedoes fit in Jeffries
tubes.
Briscoe: Eww, talking about pictures I could've done without.
CUT to a hallway outside of the Officer's quarters. Briscoe and Munch are
standing outside a door.
Munch: Have you ever interrogated a Vulcan?
Briscoe: Only once. All I can remember is he had plastic hair and a bad
attitude.
Munch: I think both of those come standard. We had one on our shift back when I
still worked sex crimes. Got so that no one wanted to partner with him because
he couldn't keep quiet about how much better he was at the job than the rest of
the guys.
Briscoe: What happened to him?
Munch: Cragen finally had enough and sent him to the Major Case Squad and
teamed him with Goren.
Briscoe: Oh, yeah, now I remember hearing about that. Something about an
explosion...
Munch: Yeah, they both tried to interrogate a suspect in the box at the same
time and their egos reached critical mass.
Briscoe: Ouch.
Munch: Yeah, everyone pitched in and bought Cragen a cake. It was one heck of a
party.
Briscoe (starts to knock on door): I bet. Anything special I should know?
Munch: The good news is, supposedly, they don't lie. The bad news is they don't
show emotion, so getting him rattled probably won't work.
Briscoe: Well, there goes MY idea of poking fun at the pointy ears.
(The door opens to reveal Mister Spock)
Munch: And did I mention they hear extremely well?
Briscoe: Not soon enough, obviously.
(They flash their badges and enter)
Munch: Inquisitors Briscoe and Munch. Special Starfleet Unit. We need to ask
you a few questions.
Spock: About the death of Crewman Fritz, I assume.
Briscoe: C'mon, now, I know those ears aren't THAT good.
Spock: Pure supposition on my part, Inquisitor. The body has not been turned
over to our Doctor McCoy per standard protocols. This would suggest a
homicide.
Briscoe: Very good. Now can you tell us why we're here?
Spock: You have information which leads you to believe I am involved in some
way.
Munch: Two for two. Very good.
Briscoe: Now the quiz gets harder. Had you ever met Fritz?
Spock: Not to my knowledge, no.
Munch: How about another red shirt named Wooding?
Spock: Again, not to my knowledge.
Briscoe: That's funny, because he seems to think you know something about this
case. Something about how well a photon torpedo fits in a Jeffries tube.
Spock: It IS theoretically possible for a photon torpedo to rest inside a
Jeffries tube, though I cannot see a logical reason for one to do so.
Munch: He wasn't speaking literally.
Briscoe: It's rather crude street slang. You know, like fitting a hot dog in a
hamburger bun, a croissant in a bagel...
Munch: A twinkie in a moon pie...this means nothing to you?
Spock (raising an eyebrow): Aside from obvious fact that you two have not had
lunch, no.
Briscoe (walking over to the replicator): Now that you mention it...
Munch: So you have NO idea what Wooding was talking about?
Spock: They do not exactly teach "street slang" in the Academy, Inquisitor.
Briscoe: Krispy Kreme, warm.
Munch: The red shirt in question was insinuating your Vulcan organ is making
music in the wrong church.
Spock: I do not know...
Briscoe (handling the doughnut): That your flagship's been poking around in the
wrong wormhole...
Spock: Really, I fail to see...
Munch: Your positronic trioptical synthicratic stabilization module is doing
the horizontal boogie with the wrong accentuated gesticulatory phase converter
outlet.
Spock (eyebrow up in hairline): Really, Inquisitor, I see no need to get CRUDE.
(Briscoe bites into the doughnut and his face turns green)
Briscoe: Ack! What'ya trying to do, poison me?! What the hell is this?
Spock: My personal replicator is calibrated to synthesize foodstuffs from
native Vulcan plant matter into the nearest approximate Earth...
Briscoe (throwing the doughnut away): Now I know why I've never seen any Vulcan
tourism brochures.
Munch: Not to mention why its the only UFP member planet without its own
cooking show on cable.
Spock: While this is...interesting...I am relatively certain you did not
interrupt my meditation to inquire about Vulcan cuisine.
Briscoe: No, we've interrupted it to inquire about a homicide. Do you
"meditate" about this time every day?
Spock: When not on duty, I spend much of my time in meditation.
Munch: How about yesterday about this time?
Spock: To the best of my knowledge, I was here.
Briscoe: "To the best of your knowledge?" Something wrong with your Vulcan
internal clock or just your memory?
Spock: I have been having...difficulties meditating as of late. Dr. McCoy has
prescribed medication. It is a...private...matter.
Munch: Anyone else here SEE you while involved in this "private meditation?"
Spock: To the best of my knowledge, no.
Briscoe: Wonderful. Let's move on to something else. That Vulcan neck thing you
do. Anyone else know it?
Spock: Half the population of my planet, several sects of Tullurian monks, the
Sacred Order of Hokuto Shinken, Warrior Princess Xena...
Munch: OK, OK, how about aboard this ship.
Spock: To the best of my knowledge, no.
Briscoe: Figures.
(A light starts flashing on a nearby panel, followed by a low pulsing noise and
Ohura's voice)
Voice: Mister Spock to the bridge. I repeat, Mister Spock to the bridge.
Spock: If you'll excuse me.
Munch: Sure. Just don't go on any unscheduled landing parties.
(Spock leaves hurriedly, followed by the two Inquisitors)
Munch: You know, Lennie, in all my time at this, I don't think I've ever been
given the run-around quite so...logically. You?
Briscoe: To the best of my knowledge, no.
CUT to the Precinct 2027. Briscoe and Munch are in Cragen's office.
Munch: He's hiding something, Captain. He's really got no alibi.
Briscoe: Yeah. I know Vulcan's aren't supposed to be able to lie, but that
business about not remembering because of medication feels like smoke to me.
Cragen: Have you checked it out with the Doc?
Briscoe: He's still up to his neck trying to keep Wooding from turning into the
next centerfold for Fetishwear Monthly. Besides, he'd just give us that
doctor-patient confidentiality mumbo jumbo.
(Munch's communicator goes off and he retreats into a corner)
Briscoe: He did admit that no one else on the ship knows how to do that Vulcan
neck thing and he was evasive about his relationship with Wooding. And Wooding
was definitely hiding something, but there's no way we'll get anything out of
him while he's convinced he's turning into jerky. But I still think he's scared
of something else.
Cragen: So how does this all fit with your theories?
Briscoe: I don't know about mister conspiracy over there, but the fact that
Wooding admits he's trying to desert just after Fritz gets killed tells me that
he thought maybe he's next. I still think there's some sort of blackmail thing
going on and Fritz was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We did some
checking on the Enterprise duty rosters and we're waiting for them to get back
to us.
(Munch rejoins them)
Cragen: Tell me it's good news.
Munch (nodding towards Briscoe): For him, maybe. Nothing new on the Vulcan's
whereabouts at the time Fritz was killed, but get this - the cargo that Wooding
was hiding in WAS supposed to be shipped down by shuttlecraft, but a decision
was made at the last minute to have it transported down instead. Something
about not being able to risk a shuttlecraft with the Klingons being so nearby.
Cragen: We ARE in a state of war, more or less. Sounds plausible.
Munch: Positively "logical," one might say. Guess who gave the order for the
change in shipping procedure?
Briscoe (raising eyebrow): Fascinating.
Munch: Some coincidence, eh?
Cragen (reaching for his uniform jacket): One too many for my tastes. Let's go
pick him up.
Briscoe: Us?
Cragen: He's a top-level command officer and the first Vulcan in Starfleet.
Munch: Then wouldn't it be proper procedure to contact his superior and give
him a chance to come in on his own?
Cragen: Normally, yeah, but this might be the only parody I'll be in, and I'll
be damned if I don't get at least ONE cool scene!
CUT to the bridge of the Enterprise. All the familiars are at their posts.
Kirk: Mister Spock, any sign of the enemy ship?
Spock: No sir. They are keeping out of sensor range.
Kirk: Very good. Let me know if that changes. Sulu, ahead slowly. Give me
one-quarter impulse.
Sulu: Aye, sir.
Kirk: Mister Chekov, go to yellow alert.
Chekov: Aye, Keptin.
(Cragen, Briscoe and Munch enter through the main turbolift)
Spock: Inquisitors on the bridge!
Munch: Gee, Lennie, how very formal.
Briscoe: Relax, gents, we're on the same side. (Gets out magnetic cuffs and
moves behind Spock) Well, most of us, anyway. Mister Spock, you're under
arrest for the murder of Crewman Fritz, the attempted murder of Crewman Wooding
and starting a really bad trend of "aliens" with minimal facial prosthetics.
Kirk: What is the meaning of this?!
Cragen: For a guy who's saved the universe a few times, you don't hear so well.
Kirk: The devil with that, we're in a combat situation here!
(The two of them get closer, almost in each other's faces)
Cragen: Who do you think you are, Ashcroft?! The law doesn't change just
because we're in a war.
Kirk: No one tells me what to do on MY ship!
Cragen: Well no one tells me what to do in MY parody! You may be the center of
the known universe in YOUR show, but we're not IN your show!
(Munch, Briscoe and Spock watch from a distance while Cragen and Kirk continue
to jaw)
Briscoe: Dueling Captains.
Munch: With dueling spare tires.
Briscoe: Ten credits on Cragen.
Spock: You are on.
Briscoe: Unless that cheesy '60s fighting music keys up in the background, then
all bets are off.
Spock: Hmph. Geeks. No bet.
(Cragen moves away towards Spock and his guys but continues to jaw at Kirk)
Cragen: Have your Admiral call my Admiral.
Spock: Uh-oh.
Munch: Heh, yeah, that was a cheap shot.
Briscoe: Yeah, our Admirals might be royal pains, but they're usually on OUR
side.
Kirk: You can't DO this! Security!
Cragen (looks at watch): Our time's up. Now you'll HAVE to save it for the
Magistrate's Office.
Briscoe: Yeah, you can beat Romulans, Klingons, godlike beings and plot
devices, but there's just no fighting format.
(A security team rushes onto the bridge just in time for the screen to fade to
black)
(To be continued)
RWGibson13
LAW AND ORDER: SPECIAL STARFLEET UNIT
RWG (an edited repost - and no, there isn't a part 2 anymore :-)
************
The year is 2010. With the continued rise in popularity in television programs
about the legal system, eventually producer Dick Wolf's amazingly popular Law &
Order franchise continues to proliferate until there are no more NYC police
departments left unchronicled. Indeed, by 2006, the television network consists
of all Law & Order, all of the time and the producer can still not satiate the
appetite of the public for his docudramas about the law and how it is applied
in cases both domestic and foreign. Coincidentally, a year earlier, Paramount
Entertainment and its varied properties had been acquired by the ViacomPlus
corporation, owner of NBC. While searching the Paramount vaults for ideas, Mr.
Wolf's executive secretary stumbled across a pile of old videotapes and the
next step in the evolution of television crime drama was realized.
"In the United Federation of Planets, the Sentients are represented by two
separate but equal parts - the Inquisitors who investigate crime and the
Magistrates who prosecute the accused. These are their stories."
LAW AND ORDER: SPECIAL STARFLEET UNIT
<CHA-CHING>
(FADE IN to two ensigns walk down the corridor of the Enterprise, engaged in
casual conversation)
Ensign1: ...and then he tells me he doesn't even know where Denobula is. Can
you imagine that?
Ensign 2: Don't take this the wrong way, but I couldn't tell you where it is
either. The only time I ever got to meet one was during a stopover on Risa.
Ensign1: Lucky you.
Ensign2: You kidding me? He was on vacation and wasn't wearing shoes. You
ever try and eat around a barefooted Denobulan?
Ensign1: hehehe...WHOA!!!!
(They come around a corner and stumble over the body of a dead crewman,
complete with red shirt. The cause of death is not immediately apparent).
CUT to Inquisitors Briscoe and Munch bending over the dead body, all but the
face covered with a white sheet. The two ensigns are still there, as a female
medical examiner wearing a long gray lab coat.
Briscoe: No wallet or personal effects. Could be a robbery.
Munch: Oh, join the 22nd century already, Lenny, no one carries wallets
anymore.
Briscoe: Oh, yeah, smart guy, then where do they keep their money?
Munch: There's no need for money.
Briscoe: Tell that to my ex-wives.
Munch: No, seriously. The proletariat has finally won out, the Republican and
Democratic Parties are ancient history, no more wars, no more disease, and
everyone's happy.
Briscoe (looks at the body): Well, I guess nobody bothered to tell HIM.
Examiner (looking up at them): Near as I can tell, he died from some kind of
internal injuries. There's no sign of trauma, no obvious external injuries or
punctures. I'll have to get him to my lab to be sure.
Munch: Look around you, Doc. This is THE Enterprise, pride of Starfleet. No
better labs to be found this side of Vulcan.
Briscoe: Yeah, and I bet it's all FREE too.
Munch (turning to the ensigns): So you two just came around the corner and
found him like that?
Ensign1: Yes sir. We were just coming off duty on the way to the lounge on
C-Deck.
Briscoe: You don't seem too shaken up about it.
Ensign1 (shrugging): He was a red shirt. It was bound to happen sooner or
later.
Briscoe: What, this a Crip neighborhood or something?
Ensign2: Where are you from, Inquisitor? New York City or somewhere?
Briscoe: As a matter of fact...
Munch: What he means to say, O' partner of mine, is that red shirts on these
ships are the equivalent of actors at the bottom of the cast lists of those old
slasher films of the '80s and '90s.
Briscoe: What? The 1980's?
Munch: As a matter of fact, yes. They generally don't even get to say anything
outside of the occasional gurgle as they're strangled or scream as they go down
in a hail of proverbial phaser fire.
Ensign2: Yes sir, we don't even bother to try learning their names anymore.
Briscoe: So I guess it's out of the question that you know this poor guy's?
Ensign2: Never seen him before in my life.
Briscoe: How about you?
Ensign1: They all look the same to me.
Briscoe: Oh, yeah, John, tell me again how everyone's happy and gets along just
swell.
Munch: It's not a racial thing, Lenny, this shmo really could've been played by
the same red shirt who got killed two episodes back. It's called recycling
actors.
Briscoe: Oh, yeah, like we'd know anything about THAT.
<Cue to theme music - having long ago exhausted the talented mind of Mike Post
for variations on the familiar musical score, and taking a note from the theme
from "Enterprise," we now have a badly out-of-tune soloist singing some bizarre
lyrics about cops and lawyers>
FADE IN to Briscoe and Munch aboard the Precinct 2027. Munch is sitting down at
his console, Briscoe is standing in front of a panel on one wall.
Briscoe (punching a button): I'm telling you, John, these flyboys don't know
how good they got it. Turbo lifts, universal translators, cushy comfy desk
chairs...
Computer voice: How may I help you?
Briscoe: Krispy Kreme, warm.
Munch: It's not all that, Lenny. They also have to deal with your garden
variety megalomanic aliens with godlike powers, uncharted spatial anomalies
with killer appetites, not to mention your ever-popular unstoppable,
planet-killing, death-ray dealing, planet-busters - AND the guys don't get to
go home to their families for years at a time.
Briscoe (gently handling a hot doughnut): Like WE should be so lucky. Did you
get a load of those miniskirts?
Munch: Certainly can't argue with that one.
Briscoe (grimacing as he bites into his doughnut): And I bet their replicators
WORK.
(Cpt. Cragen thunders into the scene)
Cragen: OK, you two, enough of lamenting your career choices already. Do we
have an ID on this red shirt with no face yet?
Munch: No such luck. It's like the transporter cobbled him together out of
unneeded molecules.
Briscoe (throwing away the doughnut): Or replicated him out of the trash,
considering how much everyone over there seems to care. My guess is that they
have a hundred more of them stuck in a closet somewhere and pull another one
out of it when they need to show how big and bad the alien of the week is.
Cragen: Well, the Admiral is all over me on this one.
Munch: Eh?
Cragen: Well, OK, not officially, but it seems the Federation Task Force on
Treatment of Minorities in Starfleet is breathing down his neck.
Briscoe: What? Red shirts got a union?
Cragen: It's the 22nd Century, guys, EVERYONE'S got an advocate, even the
nameless.
Munch: Let me guess - their logo is a burning red shirt with a bunch of holes
in it?
(Cragen's belt starts beeping)
Cragen (flipping open his communicator) WHAT?!
Briscoe (to Munch): I bet THAT union has a tough time staying funded.
Munch: Why?
Briscoe: All the funeral expenses, for starters. And it's hard to collect dues
when all your members keep dying.
Cragen (into communicator): Yeah. And? Really? I see. Thanks, Doc.
Munch: What's the good news?
Cragen: Seems our vic died from a lack of blood to the brain.
Briscoe: I guess there are worse ways.
Cragen: The only unusual marks she could find were, get this, bruising around
the neck area, like quick pressure had been applied.
Munch: Sounds like your standard Vulcan modus operandi.
Briscoe: Eh?
Munch: You know, Lenny, you really should spend more time brushing up on your
aliens.
Briscoe: Hey, it's all I can do to profile the RED-BLOODED perps.
Cragen: This is sensitive enough without us going around accusing the ships'
first officer of a motiveless crime, no matter how bad it looks. You can start
by tracking down the other red shirts and giving this guy a name. You're
Inquisitors - go Inquisite.
Munch (to Briscoe): You know, Lenny, I REALLY wish SOME things never changed.
Briscoe: Yeah. "Detective" sounded so much classier.
Red shirt1: It is our lot in life to give of ourselves fully for the Holy Five
Year Mission, to lay down our lives in the exploration of strange new worlds,
to sacrifice ourselves in the quest to seek out new life and new civilizations,
to die so others can boldly go where no man has gone before. We do NOT get
stabbed to death.
Munch: Vulcan neck pinch, actually.
Red shirt1: Whatever.
Briscoe: Anyway, our medical examiner says this particular red shirt...
Red shirt1: Please, Inquisitor, we prefer the term "Crimson Brotherhood of the
Sacrifice to the Holy Five Year Mission."
Briscoe: ...this particular red shirt died from what appeared to be a Vulcan
neck pinch. Do you have any idea of anyone who might want to hurt him?
Red Shirt1: Well, considering there's only one Vulcan on board...
Briscoe: Anyone at all who might want to see him dead?
Red Shirt: Uh, Detective, there's only one person on this ship who knows that
neck pinch.
Briscoe: Any motive anyone might have?
Red Shirt: If there's only one person who could have possible killed him, you
might want to...
Munch: Listen up, "Mr. I Can't Survive More Than Five Minutes Into an Episode,
But Can Tell You How to do YOUR Job," just answer the man's question, or we'll
drag your sorry red jersey over to OUR ship and you can explain it in more
Spartan surroundings. We've got a half-hour to fill or we lose our minutes to
the lawyers and we're NOT going to let that happen. Now, for the LAST time, do
you know ANYONE who would want to see this Fritz guy laying dead in a corridor
on C-Deck?
Red Shirt1: No.
Munch: Good. Let's go, Lennie. This place is too damned depressing.
(As they turn to leave, several red shirts are surrounding one of their own
with sorrow-filled faces, taking turns patting him on the back and waving
good-bye.)
Briscoe: What's with him?
Red Shirt1: Landing party detail. 10% survival rate.
Munch (to Briscoe): Better than most of my relationships.
Briscoe: Where was Fritz' last assignment?
Red Shirt1: Engineering, I think.
Munch: Maybe we'll have more luck there.
Briscoe (walking away): And, again, if you remember anyone else who might have
had it in for him, give us a call.
Red Shirt1: You could always try the Vulcan.
Ensign: The crewman you're looking for is Crewman Wooding.
Briscoe: A friend of yours?
Ensign: What, do I look suicidal? He replaced Fritz after the "accident" and I
only noticed him because he didn't strike me as your usual red shirt.
Munch: In what way?
Ensign: For one thing, whenever the sparks started flying, he ran the other
way.
Briscoe: Losing his religion, eh?
Ensign: I guess so. And during breaks, he would talk to the rest of us as
though we actually CARED what he had to say.
Munch: Which was?
Ensign: Kept talking about how he was onto something "big," and how he was
going to use it to get out of the Brotherhood and into a safer avocation.
Briscoe: I don't guess you would happen to know where we should start looking
for this Crewman Wooding?
Ensign: Same place I'd start looking for any red shirt.
Briscoe: Where is that?
Munch: The morgue.
Ensign (smiling): Very good, Inquisitor.
Munch (to Briscoe): Old Star Trek "geek" joke.
Briscoe: Figures. We've found the one place in the universe where you get all
the punch lines.
(to be continued)