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STAR TREK: THE CROUTON GENERATION
SEASON THREE
Episode #199
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Date: Sun, 12 May 91 22:06:40 -0400
From: ender2@husc9.harvard.edu (Matt Ender)
Subject: ST:TCG (long!)
(Editor's note: Sorry, Kevin, for this being delayed so long, but I ran out
of good ideas and didn't have the heart to close off the alternate episode.)
*** While the Croutons continue their adventures, little do they know ***
*** that their every movement is mirrored in a parallel -- and much ***
*** sillier -- universe. See how part of an episode maps into the ***
*** alternate reality we know so little about. ***
Metag: Artificial Gravity Repair Technician's Log, Stardate
102073.4. Yesterday, a certain scientific experiment
involving the juxtaposition of a Holocorridor device with
some number of Silmarils was repeated for experimental
integrity. The white chocolate and scan- ... never mind
... were as pleasant as before, yet several crew members
think that intellectual curiousity is taking too strong
a hold on our Silmaril officer. At any rate, [his tone
brightens] I can once again check the AG machinery for
psuedocyberpsychosilmarilic damage.
[ He stands up, walks to a metal box about 1 foot cube, with three tiny
flashing green lights, which would be recognizable as a standard Z-29
Gravoh Gee-ni, except that it's so small. He blinks, then pulls out
an eyedropper and drips three drops of water on the machine. The
machine promptly plumps up, to about 1 meter cube. Now visible on the
side are the words: "Z-29 Gravoh Gee-ni. Just Add Water, and We'll
Add Gravity (tm)." ]
Computer, commencing AG testing sequence 1-alpha.
Pandora: Sequence 1-alpha.
Metag: Protocol A. [Presses red button on box. The lights continue
flashing.] Function Status.
Pandora: Normal.
Metag: Protocol B. [Removes huge sledgehammer from utility belt far
too small to contain it, and whacks the box seven times with
all his strength, cartoon-style.] Function Status.
Pandora: Normal.
Metag: Protocol C. [Takes a phaser, sets to maximum kill-o-zap, fires
at the box. There is no apparent damage.] Function status.
Pandora: Please wait. Math unit damaged. [The camera turns to show
a small computer bank frotzed by a phaser ricochet.]
Function status 3x^2 - 2xy + 8y^2.
Metag: Testing sequence complete. Everything working, as always.
The universe may collapse to a singularity every now and then,
but with gravity, you always know which way is up. [Grows
thoughtful, and an evil grin spreads across his face.] Of
course, if the silmarils had affected my machinery, would my
machinery necessarily tell me? Computer, check all onboard
gravity sensors.
Pandora: For all sensors, register = 1.0 and differential = 0.0 over
sensor scan, except sensors element of group G. G = { sensors
in rooms: yaz-pistachio, Matt Ender, ...
Metag: Hush a minute. Now, how can I be sure that those sensors
are telling the truth? I can't. [His grin twists into
a wicked smile betraying a touch of madness.] But I *can*
check for ... Food dispenser, give me an orange. Bwa-ha-ha-ha- ...
"One Cup Flour, 1/4 Cup Salt, ..."
Written and Produced by: Matthew Ender
Directed by: Patrick McDoohan
Lifeblood by: Vampyres 'R' Us
Produced with assistance by: a small, furry creature from
the Crab Nebula
Guest stars: Edwin A. Abbott as the evil Play-Doh
DeForest Kelly as Bones the Really Old Doctor
[on the bridge]
Kabeta: Captain's Log, Stardate 102073.5. We are continuing to
explore a very small, previously unknown satellite galaxy,
which we have yclept the Itty Bitty Magellianic Cloud.
[Pauses.] Yclept?
yaz-pistachio: What's the problem?
Kabeta: I can't keep from using the word 'yclept' in the ship's log.
It's archaic, practically obsolete, yet I've managed to
fit it in every log since 102065.3.
yaz: It must be the continuing residual effects of the Silmaril
experiment. The-- [We hear a sound from overhead. It sounds
like 'whick-wump-THUD-"check!"'. The "check!" part sounds quite
gleeful. Immediately, however, is another, more imposing sound,
not from overhead, and with far too many commas. It sounds like
VYAAAGHTHAGGTAPSH!!! No, not really. It sounds like
VYRAHGGTHAFGKOPCH!!!] What was _that_?
Booming voice, coming from everywhere, and yet from nowhere (tricky, that)
I am Play-Doh, the great and powerful, master of form! Turn on
your viewscreen, and ... no, above you. What, you don't have
vertical viewscreens? [A huge green-yellow shape oozes/falls to
starboard] There. Look upon Me and feel the categorical imperative
of despair. [Pauses] Categorical imperative?
[On the viewscreen, traced out in large quantities of what appears to be
play-dough, we see the snowflake curve, the Mandlebrot set, and then some
even crinklier shapes, but you expected that. After the boring stuff, the
play-dough thins and spreads, engulfing the ship. Clearly visible in letters
of bright orange play-dough are the words 'I am Play-Doh / Flour and Jell-O /
You're in for 'O / Bunch 'o' Hell. Oh!']
yaz [muttering]: Lousy poet.
Play-Doh: I HEARD THAT! And I have only shown you a fraction of my power.
Now, how would you like to die?
Kabeta: What about Ensign Toady? [To the helm] Take us out of here, Jolt
factor 7. [The ship rams the Play-Doh being, and bounces back to
the center.] Jolt Factor 8? [The ship bounces around on the inside
of the Play-Doh, disorienting everyone.]
Play-Doh: (laughing) Sorry, that is not an option. Anyone for lunch?
[As he speaks, Ensign Mauveshirt turns into Kool-Aid Playdough,
and has to be gathered into a mixing bowl and taken to sickbay.]
Kabeta: Apparently, we're dealing with an *evil* intelligent
mass of playdough.
Play-Doh: You are not dealing with a full deck.
Kabeta: That's playing, Play-Doh.
Play-Doh: (screaming with Play-Doh rage) Shut Up! [Ensign
Tangerineshirt turns into fired Baker's Play-Doh, and is
now a statue.]
Kabeta: (sighs) Fire Crouton Torpedoes.
[They have no effect. None. Weeeeeeeell, one of the letters in 'Bunch'
blackens a bit, but Play-Doh covers it up with more of his body. So nothing
really noticable happens. Not even the ever-alert Captain Kabeta could
have noticed it, so _you_ (the audience) certainly didn't see anything.
At all. Stop looking at me like that! It's not lying. We're just...
omitting a few unimportant details. It's ... all right. ALL RIGHT.
Play-Doh is greviously wounded, but shakes it off like an old overcoat, no
wait, he _shrugs_ it ... oh, never mind.]
Kabeta (sotto voce, to herself): Somehow, I had a _feeling_ that wouldn't
work.
Play-Doh: Your useless weapons are puny. I am Play- wait a second.
(mumbles) Ah. Your Puny Weapons Are Useless! I am Play-Doh,
the Great. Play-Doh, the Awesome. Play-Doh, the Nihilistic.
[Pauses.] Nihilistic?
Kabeta [struck by inspiration]: Of course. Lieutenant Kleber, broadcast
the standard surrender message in all belief systems.
Kleber: Sure thing, sir. [Does it.]
yaz: Belief systems?
Play-Doh: Play-Doh, the Post-Modern Femi--aack! Marx! and Spencer!
Socratic process of Erisian Fundamental Telecasters for "Bob"
running Zen from purple sacred chao--ARAAAAGAH!
[Play-Doh is starting to curl up into a little ball, causing the wall around
the ship to break.]
Kabeta: Get us out of here, maximum Jolt Factor.
[The ship jumps through the hole in the Play-Doh, and is free. The Itty Bitty
Magellianic Cloud and Play-Doh fade into the distance. The bridge crew
breathes easy once again. Then the odd noise is heard again, overhead and
off to one side. Whick-wump-THUD-"check!" Whick-wump-THUD-"check!"]
* * * * * * * * * * *
This is not your father's Oldsmobile. This is your father's Newsmobile.
Your father is a roving reporter for the planet Cygnus Alpha. Was. Now
that he's been eaten by cannibals, there's a great story for an enterprising
young person like you. And we'll even sell you his used car. Runs fine!
* * * * * * * * * * *
Kabeta [voice-over]: Captain's Log supplemental. The philosophical
maneuvering has apparently worked, and we are now docked at Starbase
8086 at the edge of the Milky Way. We are repairing the damage
incurred from bouncing around inside the Play-Doh, and the crew
is taking some badly needed R and R at the local discos. I know
that they are comtemplating the same questions as I. How long will
Doh remain out of commission due to excessive higher-level thinking?
When he recovers, will he track us down? If he does, can we stand
to such a silly thing? And when will they play Saturday Night Fever?
[Scene: A shopping arcade at Starbase 8086, at an antique store.]
Commander Scribonia: How much for just the planet?
Shopowner [This guy is way old. His voice cracks and shakes with age, but
his personality remains sharp and dominant]: Fifty credits.
Scribonia: Fifty?
Shopowner: The Solar System model isn't that great after you take out Earth.
Perhaps you'd like to look at something cheaper. I've got old
style syringes, pharmaceuticals, 2320 model scanner, and ...
Scribonia: Wait a minute. What's your name?
Shopowner: Bones. Bones McCoy. I was the chief medic under Kirk... those
were the days... before all your nasty new-fangled technology...
Back then, I -
Scribonia: How is it you're still around?
Bones: Cyrogenics. The only post-Enterprise techonology I ever liked. But
I couldn't stand the _Salad_ ships, and every one called me a
crotchety old man, so I settled down on this Starbase and opened
an antique shop. Say -- how about one of these monolith paperweights?
Scribonia: How much?
Bones: Fifteen credits. But for you, fourteen ninety-five.
Scribonia: Fourteen ninety-five for a lousy paperweight?
Bones: Not just an ordinary paperweight -- a *monolith* paperweight.
[Egging her on, he pulls out a small obelisk] Fourteen ninety-five
is next to nothing for a genuine ancient artifact. Just look at
that writing. Cryptic, isn't it.
Scribonia: Looks like Jez mistook it for a scratching post. For fifteen
credits, I'll want the story behind it.
Bones: Merely fourteen ninety-five! And it ... sure ... the story.
[Looks up, as if composing the answer] As you know, Earth is my
home planet, and certainly has the most interesting history of any
human planet in the galaxy. [His legs have apparently shrunk a bit;
the doctor loses a bit of height and his pants get a little baggy.
There is a quiet, high, whistling sound in the background.]
Take the province of Gaaa-aaa-choo! For many generations, the
shamans, medicine men, doctors, and medical officers of
Gaaa-aaa-choo! had tried to discover how to restore life to a dead
body. We tried everything. Reverse vacuum lifepumps, designed after
the Florinese prototype were constructed. People made burial garments
with hundreds of live potted plants woven in, so that the life in
the plants would seep into the body. They covered their bodies with
bone marrow, at one point considered the most lively substance of the
human body. Finally, over three thousand years ago, my namesake,
Bones McCoy CXXVI, killed himself to be the first test of a great
new invention in life restoration theory. It didn't work. His son,
Bones McCoy CXXV, followed in his father's footsteps, but also
eventually failed. Finally, _his_ son, Bones McCoy CXXIV, succeeded
in the quest. When he opened his eyes, before even picking the
thousands of live caterpillars out of his clothes, the people of
Gaaa-aaa-choo! sneezed as one, declaring him king until the Time
of the Coming of The Great White Handkerchief. And his first
proclamation as king was that the tale of his exploits should be
inscribed upon 100 pillars of stone, and distributed to the 100
cities of Gaaa-aaa-choo! Most of them have been lost over the
millennia, lost over lunch, lost over very deep crevices, or
mistaken for scratching posts by the powerful Black Knight. This
is one of the few remaining Bonesian pillars, and the only one
you are likely to see in your lifetime. Certainly the only one
you will be able to buy for a mere fourteen ninety-five. [His
legs has been steadily shrinking throughout this narrative, and
are about 10 centimeters long. His pants pool as his feet, which
rest in now-oversized shoes.]
Scribonia: Ah ... Your legs ... I say, your legs are ... [she gestures
helplessly.]
Bones: Is that all you have to say? Why not "Oh! the good doctor lost
his legs! Now where did I put my tweezers?"
Scribonia: But I mere- I was say- ... [Stops, unsure of what to say.]
Bones [complex manuever warning. Bones claps one hand to his nose and mouth,
the other arms wraps around his head. His face strains, and his legs
reinflate cartoon-like. When finished, he grabs a pair of four-foot
hypodermic needles filled with green liquid from the wall, and tosses
one to Scribonia] You shall die for that impertinence, at the hands
of Bones the Duck!
Scribonia: Duck?
Bones: Why yes, you already fancy me a quack; why not a duck as
well? While we fence, I'll make you a poem in Old Middle Waterfowl.
A 'Thatthingytherubberchickendireallyliked', I think.
Scribonia: A _what_?
Bones: The thatthingytherubberchickendireallyliked is a form devised by
my great-grandfather Bones McCoy IV, and enjoyed by an entire planet.
Two limericks interleaved with two haikus, followed by a clerihew.
I will self-referentially compose in two languages whilst I fight you,
and at the end of the last line -- give you 200cc of deadly organic
toxin. En garde! [He moves to guard, and then viciously attacks
with the hypodermic. Scribonia responds with practiced ease, even
through the unfamiliar form of the hypodermic. The needle battle
is on, and it continues, riposte and counter-riposte, parry and cut
in blindingly quick succession, throughout the following:]
I hereby vow life
Blood feud on Scribonia - her
Sharp wit and needle
Quaack qaa qua qaak qwah qwah qweh quack
[Now that I've declared my animosity]
Kaaa Quih Quo Qui Qua Quaaa-aack
[To the razor-tongued Commander Scribonia]
Qua qua waa quack quaa-aaa
[I shall speak of my deeds]
Quah qua wa wa ka-waa
[In poem, partly English]
Quaa aa quaack quaack qua quack-wa quaack.
[As I bravely defeat her in this, the duel at Starbase 8086
'tween the aged Bones McCoy and Commander Scribonia of the
_Heisenberg_ over an insult delivered in reference to shoe
size.]
[EDITOR'S NOTE: While not as dense as Old Liturgical Kittic,
Old Middle Waterfowl is similarly rich with inflections.]
Quaa quaa-awk aa wak
[This haiku has little to do]
Kaa-aaw kawh-ah-wak waa-aak
[With the other verses of this poem.]
Kaw aak wa-aau qaauq
[It's just that it's a palindrome.]
Bones wrought in Waterfowl two verses,
Vowed Scribble's destruction with curses,
Her talent shall not save
Her from danger most grave
I'll spear through the neck, like old P-aah!
Scribonia [faltering for a moment, surprised]: That doesn't rhyme!
[But apparently, the misrhyme was not intended. Letting out a great sigh,
Bones has slipped to the ground, the hypodermic has slipped out of his
grasp, Kleber has slipped out of the fountain where he had slipped to hide
himself, slipped in a shot with his phaser set to stun, and slipped in
the next line.]
Kleber: That was a bit close.
Scribonia: Nice shot.
Kleber: Thanks. [Remembers how he climbed out of the fountain] And I'm
not even carrying my gills with me. [A slight grin twists his mouth]
[After a moment's pause, Scribonia groans, and Kleber's smile widens a bit.]
Scribonia: I think I will pick up that stele. The story was a load of
dingo's kidneys, but the poem was excellent. Easily worth
the fifteen credits.
Kleber: Better leave twenty-five. He's going to have a nasty headache
when he wakes up, and I've the strange feeling this happened
before, and recently. [Scribonia runs her debit card through the
machine, and Kleber examines the obelisk.] Odd, this. Four
different languages, one on each face. Most likely, this is
like the Rosetta stone, different translations of the same text.
Scribonia: Hmm. Can you read them?
Kleber: Well ... no, not this one. [Turns the stele ninety degrees] And
this one looks like something has been using it as a scratching post.
Scribonia: That's what I thought.
Kleber: Not a language I recognize, at any rate. [Turns the stele again]
[and again] A-ha! T'k'p'ch't'cl!
Scribonia: T'k'p'ch't'cl? Is that the language of the insect people of
Karendi III?
Kleber: No, that's T'k'p'ch'p'cl. but close. T'k'p'ch't'cl is their
ancient and religious tongue. A dead language -- well,
_mostly dead_.
Scribonia: Mostly dead?
Kleber: _Yes_. You see, _mostly_ dead is not the same as _all-the-way_ dead.
When a language is _all-the-way_ dead, there's only one thing to do.
Scribonia: [blanching suddenly] Never mind.
Kleber: [sighs] All right, all right. [He examines the printing closely.]
It's a short prose piece, seems to describe a voyage, of ... of the
starship HMS Froje-that-really-hoopy-frood. Hum-de-dum:
... when the great Froje was king over all the lands of Karibu,
he whose praises were sung by choruses of thousands of slightly-
off-key-peasants, he whose rule stretched from the bitter, frozen
wastes of the Northern Tundras to the bitter, frozen wastes of the
Southern Tundras, and passed through a couple really nice vacation
spots on the way, he whose praises include the ineffable poem
"Where, where in the hell is Froje?" of the great Karibui poet
Oscularini, and G'oooo-ah's world-class work "Froje, man, what
a great guy," the Froje of the great line of Fr--
Scribonia: Would you get to the point?
Kleber: Right. da, da da, lessee, ah. ... who carved the great single
mountain known as 'The Nose of the Karibu' into his image that
it may be remembered for all time, and in case it wasn't, proceeded
to repeat this work on the major continent, yes, *that* Froje,
well, anyway, what was I going to... oh yes. We went out in a
spaceship, the HMS Froje-that-really-hoopy-frood, and were
attacked by Play-Doh.
Scribonia: What? That's it?
Kleber: (shrugs) I said it was short.
* * * * * * * * * * *
[The camera shows a busy ship's corridor, leading out of a bridge.
People split to the right and left to make way for the Energizer bunny.
He approaches the bridge. Then a courageous security guard drops into
a battle crouch, whipping out his phaser, set to 'Medium Well' and zaps
the bunny. Circuits fried, the Energizer bunny wobbles a moment before
falling on its face.]
The Energizer bunny. He just keeps going and going and going ...
unless shot with Sirius Cybernetics Phaser. Friendliest phasers in the
Known Universe.
[Through the voice-over, the security guard tries to replace his phaser
to its holster, but fails, because the phaser wants to thank him for
'allowing me to blast your enemies to tiny bits, with the knowledge of
a job well done. Slay and enjoy!' annoyingly happy in the background.]
* * * * * * * * * * *
[The scene is 10-Forward. Captain Kabeta, Lt. Cdr. Furd the Nurd are
slouching about, looking mightily hip. Kabeta has those deadblack
sunglasses that look great worn with anything but regulation uniforms,
Furd the Nurd is sporting a cool new hair-do. Nearby, Matt is practicing
his mental powers: he focuses on a warm, flat mug of root beer, and it
becomes frosty and carbonated. Tiring of this game, and running out of
root beer, he joins Jez for a saucer of milk. The turbolift doors, and
Scribonia and Kleber enter.]
Scribonia (approaching Kabeta): We've been looking for you. What's it
that brings you here? You're usually on
bridge this time of day.
Kabeta: Actually, it was that strange 'whick-wump-THUD-"check!"'-like noise.
I find it hard to believe you hadn't noticed it, it's been going on
subliminally throughout the episode. [Really. Look _real_ close at
the little dots on the screen.] [We hear, about above the bar,
'whick-wump-THUD-"check!"'] Hff. *sigh* What's to report?
Scribonia: Well, while we were on the 8086, Lt. Kleber and I ...
we ... found, yeah that's it, we _found_ this uh- stele here.
Mssr. Kleber said it mentioned the Play-Doh being.
[Kabeta takes the stele.]
Kabeta: Incredible!
Scribonia: Can you read it?
Kabeta: That's not the point. Just think. There are no official records
of the Play-Doh in all of Federation history. We escape from him,
run all the way to a random Starbase, [her voice is picking up tones
suggestive of the reccuring fear that all major Crouton characters
have, a sort of paranoia about the entire universe being a highly
improbable play put on for the benefit of some hyper-intelligent
beings.] you go down for a quick shopping trip, and _you_find,_by_
_pure_chance,_since_you_couldn't_read_it_yet,_a_stele_referring_
_to_Play-Doh?
Scribonia: Well, actually...
Kabeta: Yes?
Scribonia: We bought it from Bones McCoy, the old chief medical officer from
the _Enterprise_, who had settled down and set up an antique
shop there.
Kabeta: Hmm... Yes, that would do it. Old Enterprise officers, especially
the top echelon, are reputed to warp probability fields in the
vicinity. [She turns the stele slowly in her hands, looking at
each face. She stops at the face whose alphabet Kleber didn't know.]
Ah! Now _that_ is one language I thought I'd never see again.
Even Older Vulcano-preservric! [whick-wump-THUD-"check!"]
Kleber: Even Older what?
Kabeta: Vulcano-preservric. It hasn't been used for nearly 500 years, but
for a long time it was the major business language of the Galaxy.
Vulcano-preservric fell out of favor when the vulcano-presers
declared their race had achieved enlightenment and henceforth
would produce no other product than edible playdough. [She frowns
suddenly, considering the possible implications.] No. No, it
couldn't. That would be silly.
[A door opens in one side of Ten Forward, out of the middle of the wall.
A man dressed in a referee uniform runs in, looking quite scared. He
dashes to the turbolift, but sees that it would not come in time. The
referee looks around, panicked. Matt strolls to a nearby wall, opens
a second non-door, and ushers the ref through. The ref runs out, and
seconds later, a cricket team rushes in, spies the door and rushes out
through it. The last fellow in the cricket team was hit with the ball,
apparently, as he wobbles a bit and uses a bat as a sort of cane. He
closes the entrance door behind him as he passes, but forgets the exit
door. Matt sniffs at the door, which had no right to exist, blinks,
looks about, and walks through, closing it behind him. The _Heisenberg_
team, familiar with the laws of probability, the theory of indeterminicy,
and knowing that Matt is bound to survive wherever he was just thrown,
are nonplussed.]
Kabeta: As I was saying, Even Older Vulcano-preservic was well-liked by
businessmen who thought they could shout down their competition.
You see, the language was, by law, only allowed to be taught in
crowded discoteques. The text here is a particularly fine
example of an acrostic poem.
Kleber: An acrostic poem? [whick-wump-THUD-"check!"]
Kabeta: Yes--a poem in which each line starts with a successive letter of
whatever alphabet the poem is written in. Thus, an English
acrostic would have twenty-six lines, from A to Z, a Pilmonian
actostic would run from f'tang to Biscuitbarrel, an Ottik'k'k'
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