Post by Johnny Reb on Dec 7, 2009 14:12:59 GMT -5
The arena – another marvel of modern architecture, with its flat broad front proudly displaying the letters “UNLV,” and a low domed roof – looks like nothing so much as a warehouse that’s been given a facelift. Just after noon, the place is already crowded as Johnny Reb walks in through the front doors, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Something about the crowd, though, seems inherently wrong.
Milling around are all manner of people dressed in strange uniforms, with black pants and shirts in muted shades of burgundy, mustard-yellow, or deep blue; all with the same puzzling lopsided triangle insignia on the left breast. Uneasily, Johnny threads his way through the multitude, nearly crashing into what he first mistakes for a biker, until he looks up and sees a high forehead marked with a double line of ridges running from the bridge of his nose to his hairline. Thick eyebrows pull together in a frown as the beast of a man says something unintelligible in a language that might’ve been Germanic in origin, though his meaning is clear; Reb steps aside to let the man pass, shaking his head and wondering if someone slipped something into his morning coffee.
Unfortunately, the motley assortment of odd-looking people doesn’t let up. The deeper he gets into the arena, the stranger things get. A pair of women with short, straight hair and pointed ears raise eyebrows at him as he passes by, looking him over as if he’s completely out of place. He gives them a tentative smile; both ignore him and continue on their way. Johnny turns to watch them leave, admiring the view from behind, when he is approached by a short, balding man. The man is dressed in one of the uniforms Reb had observed earlier, his shirt blue, and he waves something at him that looks like an oversized iPhone, which emits a series of beeps.
Trekker: You’re out of uniform.
Johnny frowns at the accusatory tone in the man’s voice.
Johnny: Excuse me?
Trekker: Your Starfleet uniform. I’ll have to tell your commanding officer. What ship do you serve on?
Johnny: Uhhh… ship?
With a growing sense of horror, Reb begins to realize what he’s stumbled into.
Trekker: You know, like the Enterprise. Or the Constitution, the Excelsior…
Johnny: Oh. No, I think there’s been a mistake. I thought this was the University of Nevada arena.
Trekker: It is. The Cox Pavillion.
Reb fails to be reassured by the assertion as he looks around, taking note of booths and tables lining the walls and arranged in orderly rows throughout the vast space.
Johnny: Well, clearly, I am in the wrong place. This is one of them… convention things, ain’t it?
Sensing Reb’s mounting discomfort, the uniformed geek smiles wickedly and takes Johnny by the arm, propelling him yet further into the nerd haven.
Trekker: It’s only the biggest Star Trek convention in this quadrant. Come on, we’ll get you looking a little more appropriate.
He pauses, looking at Reb appraisingly.
Trekker: Yeah… you’d make a great Romulan…
Johnny: But… I don’t wanna be a Romulan… I gotta wrestle tonight.
The man nods sagely and continues dragging Johnny along with him, his grip surprisingly strong.
Trekker: A Klingon, then. You’re a little fair for it, but I think you can pull it off.
Johnny: But –
Trekker: Shhh. See that Bajoran over there?
He points to a slender woman dressed in a Starfleet uniform, with just-noticeable ridges running the length of her nose. She smiles invitingly when she sees Johnny looking; he can’t help but return a roguish wink.
Trekker: She’s been eyeballing you since you walked in here. Play your cards right, and…
The nerd grins, leaving the thought unfinished. Johnny glances uncertainly at the woman again, and shrugs.
Johnny: Well, I guess it’s like they say. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Right?
Johnny Reb checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror a final time. Hardly recognizable under what feels like half a ton of prosthetics, he looks very much the part of a fair-haired, light-skinned Klingon. His garb is simple: enough black faux leather to stock an erotica store specializing in bondage gear, knee-high boots, and a wide bandolier across his chest. In addition, he wears a disruptor in a holster on one hip and a D’k Tahg in a sheath on the opposite thigh.
Johnny: Are you real sure about this, Phil?
Phil – the Starfleet officer – looks Johnny over and nods in satisfaction.
Starfleet Officer Phil: You look great, Johnny. You’re really a professional wrestler?
Johnny: Yep. Wouldn’t know it to look at me now, though.
Starfleet Officer Phil: Oh, you’d be surprised. We get all kinds around here. You should go to the ring dressed like that. It’d be hilarious.
Reb gazes at Phil oddly, not sure if the suggestion is serious or not.
Johnny: Uh… not this time. I’ve got too much at stake right now.
Starfleet Officer Phil: Like what?
Johnny: Well, I’m one half of the soon-to-be tag team champions of the WCF, but tonight my partner and I have a huge main event match. See, both the guys we’re going up against… the last time we met them in the ring, individually, they beat us. An’ ol’ Slickie T really seems to have it out for me.
Starfleet Officer Phil: Why? What’d you do to him?
Johnny: Y’know, I’m not sure at this point. See, ultimately, we’re on the same side in the bigger overall conflict. I ain’t tryin’ to be the guy’s best friend or nothin’, but it’s pretty clear that forces beyond our control are puttin’ us in direct conflict so we can’t mess with their plans.
Phil nods in understanding.
Starfleet Officer Phil: It’s just like the whole Khitomer incident, when the Romulans tried to break up the peace negotiations between the Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets.
Reb appears to ponder that for a moment, but it makes absolutely no sense to him.
Johnny: Yeah…right. Anyway, you’re sure this is gonna get me laid?
Phil laughs softly.
Starfleet Officer Phil: You never know. But chicks dig bad boys – it’s universal. And they don’t come any badder than Klingons.
Johnny straightens his clothes and walks toward the bathroom door, turning to regard Phil one more time.
Johnny: Well, wish me luck!
Starfleet Officer Phil: Qapla’!
Milling around are all manner of people dressed in strange uniforms, with black pants and shirts in muted shades of burgundy, mustard-yellow, or deep blue; all with the same puzzling lopsided triangle insignia on the left breast. Uneasily, Johnny threads his way through the multitude, nearly crashing into what he first mistakes for a biker, until he looks up and sees a high forehead marked with a double line of ridges running from the bridge of his nose to his hairline. Thick eyebrows pull together in a frown as the beast of a man says something unintelligible in a language that might’ve been Germanic in origin, though his meaning is clear; Reb steps aside to let the man pass, shaking his head and wondering if someone slipped something into his morning coffee.
Unfortunately, the motley assortment of odd-looking people doesn’t let up. The deeper he gets into the arena, the stranger things get. A pair of women with short, straight hair and pointed ears raise eyebrows at him as he passes by, looking him over as if he’s completely out of place. He gives them a tentative smile; both ignore him and continue on their way. Johnny turns to watch them leave, admiring the view from behind, when he is approached by a short, balding man. The man is dressed in one of the uniforms Reb had observed earlier, his shirt blue, and he waves something at him that looks like an oversized iPhone, which emits a series of beeps.
Trekker: You’re out of uniform.
Johnny frowns at the accusatory tone in the man’s voice.
Johnny: Excuse me?
Trekker: Your Starfleet uniform. I’ll have to tell your commanding officer. What ship do you serve on?
Johnny: Uhhh… ship?
With a growing sense of horror, Reb begins to realize what he’s stumbled into.
Trekker: You know, like the Enterprise. Or the Constitution, the Excelsior…
Johnny: Oh. No, I think there’s been a mistake. I thought this was the University of Nevada arena.
Trekker: It is. The Cox Pavillion.
Reb fails to be reassured by the assertion as he looks around, taking note of booths and tables lining the walls and arranged in orderly rows throughout the vast space.
Johnny: Well, clearly, I am in the wrong place. This is one of them… convention things, ain’t it?
Sensing Reb’s mounting discomfort, the uniformed geek smiles wickedly and takes Johnny by the arm, propelling him yet further into the nerd haven.
Trekker: It’s only the biggest Star Trek convention in this quadrant. Come on, we’ll get you looking a little more appropriate.
He pauses, looking at Reb appraisingly.
Trekker: Yeah… you’d make a great Romulan…
Johnny: But… I don’t wanna be a Romulan… I gotta wrestle tonight.
The man nods sagely and continues dragging Johnny along with him, his grip surprisingly strong.
Trekker: A Klingon, then. You’re a little fair for it, but I think you can pull it off.
Johnny: But –
Trekker: Shhh. See that Bajoran over there?
He points to a slender woman dressed in a Starfleet uniform, with just-noticeable ridges running the length of her nose. She smiles invitingly when she sees Johnny looking; he can’t help but return a roguish wink.
Trekker: She’s been eyeballing you since you walked in here. Play your cards right, and…
The nerd grins, leaving the thought unfinished. Johnny glances uncertainly at the woman again, and shrugs.
Johnny: Well, I guess it’s like they say. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Right?
**Twenty Minutes Later**
Johnny Reb checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror a final time. Hardly recognizable under what feels like half a ton of prosthetics, he looks very much the part of a fair-haired, light-skinned Klingon. His garb is simple: enough black faux leather to stock an erotica store specializing in bondage gear, knee-high boots, and a wide bandolier across his chest. In addition, he wears a disruptor in a holster on one hip and a D’k Tahg in a sheath on the opposite thigh.
Johnny: Are you real sure about this, Phil?
Phil – the Starfleet officer – looks Johnny over and nods in satisfaction.
Starfleet Officer Phil: You look great, Johnny. You’re really a professional wrestler?
Johnny: Yep. Wouldn’t know it to look at me now, though.
Starfleet Officer Phil: Oh, you’d be surprised. We get all kinds around here. You should go to the ring dressed like that. It’d be hilarious.
Reb gazes at Phil oddly, not sure if the suggestion is serious or not.
Johnny: Uh… not this time. I’ve got too much at stake right now.
Starfleet Officer Phil: Like what?
Johnny: Well, I’m one half of the soon-to-be tag team champions of the WCF, but tonight my partner and I have a huge main event match. See, both the guys we’re going up against… the last time we met them in the ring, individually, they beat us. An’ ol’ Slickie T really seems to have it out for me.
Starfleet Officer Phil: Why? What’d you do to him?
Johnny: Y’know, I’m not sure at this point. See, ultimately, we’re on the same side in the bigger overall conflict. I ain’t tryin’ to be the guy’s best friend or nothin’, but it’s pretty clear that forces beyond our control are puttin’ us in direct conflict so we can’t mess with their plans.
Phil nods in understanding.
Starfleet Officer Phil: It’s just like the whole Khitomer incident, when the Romulans tried to break up the peace negotiations between the Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets.
Reb appears to ponder that for a moment, but it makes absolutely no sense to him.
Johnny: Yeah…right. Anyway, you’re sure this is gonna get me laid?
Phil laughs softly.
Starfleet Officer Phil: You never know. But chicks dig bad boys – it’s universal. And they don’t come any badder than Klingons.
Johnny straightens his clothes and walks toward the bathroom door, turning to regard Phil one more time.
Johnny: Well, wish me luck!
Starfleet Officer Phil: Qapla’!
