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[NOTE: When you see this tiny
tribble: 
you can click on it for an
explanation of an inside joke, or a note from the authors. Or perhaps a zesty
chicken recipie. You just never know.]
Q was bored.
That, in fact, was an understatement. It got incredibly boring being omnipotent sometimes. Q had all the power in the entire space-time continuum, and he had all the Spam anyone could ever hope to eat. But of course the real problem was not having all that Spam. Q, for all his phenomenal, cosmic powers, couldn't think of anything to do. Sometimes being omnipotent sucked.
"This is pathetic. How in the space-time continuum can someone like me be bored? Life hasn't been this dull since the War of Jenkin's Ear finished. I guess I'll do what I always do when I'm bored; I'll go pay a visit to mon capitaine," said Q to himself. Even omnipotent beings sometimes talk to themselves.
Q changed out of his little glowing ball of light form into the tedious human one that so annoyed Picard.
"Q?" Suddenly, Trelane floated up in his little ball of light form. "Can I come along with you? Pleeeeeze?"
"No! You're still grounded after that little fiasco where you almost destroyed the entire space-time continuum. Remember?"
"Aw, that's no fun!"
"Stay here and practice your harpsichord. And then you can get my socks out of the dryer. And be sure to fold them properly this time!"
"Yes, sir," said a disgruntled Trelane.
"Kids these days," Q said, sighing with disgust. In a flash of light, he disappeared...
...and reappeared on the bridge of the Enterprise-D. Apparently no one noticed he was there...yet. He walked over to the captain's chair where an oblivious Picard sat staring at the screen ahead.
Silently, Q stepped up behind him and made bunny ears behind Picard's bald head. Picard didn't notice until Riker said, "Captain! Behind you!"
Picard looked over his shoulder and flinched in dismay at Q's arrogant, smiling face. "Q!"
"Bonjour, mon capitaine. Long time no see. I hope you don't mind that I decided to drop in for a little visit. I thought we could have some of that awful tea you like and chat about old times."
"Q, I am not amused," Picard snapped.
"Picard, you're never amused. A Ferengi in a clown suit tap-dancing in a field of tribbles wouldn't amuse you."
"Get off my bridge!" he roared.
"Tsk, tsk, Picard! That's no way to talk to an omnipotent being. I'm quite disappointed in you. I thought you had more class than that. Maybe it's just the British accent. Come to think of it, Picard, if you're supposed to be French, why in the multiverse do you have a British accent? Here, I'll fix it for you." Q snapped his fingers, and a beret appeared on Picard's shiny head.
"Q! Ah want you to stopah this re-deeculose nonsense raht
now, you seely omnee-potent being, you!" said Picard in a horribly thick French
accent. Everyone on the bridge turned around to stare at him. "Be geetting back to
work, all of yoo! Or I shall taunt you a second time!"
Everyone quickly turned back to their consoles.
"Picard, you spoilsport," said Q laconically, snapping his fingers. Suddenly the beret disappeared from Picard's chrome-domed head. "Pity about the beret, though. You really do need something on your head." Q snapped his fingers again. A huge Mexican sombrero appeared on Picard's head, as well as a fake mustache. A mariachi band appeared behind Worf. The leader had an iguana perched on his shoulder.
"Q! Will you please get rid of this?!"
"Temper, temper, Picard. You don't like the sombrero? The iguana is offended. Hmm...how about the punk look? I heard that it's making a comeback." Suddenly, Picard was sporting a neon green Mohawk. "Hmm, that's not you either. Oh, I know! How about an Afro? It's all the rage on Risa this year." Picard now looked like he was a fugitive from Saturday Night Fever.
"Q!" Picard said dangerously.
"Oh well, that's much too seventies, don't you think? We'll have to discuss this later."
Q heard Worf growling angrily behind him. "What? How did you get off of your leash? Bad dog!" A stick materialized in Q's hand. "Go fetch, boy!" he called as he tossed the stick into the turbolift. Entirely against his will, Worf bounded after it on all fours. He retrieved it and squatted in front of the unwelcome visitor, the stick clenched tightly in his grimy teeth. "Good boy," Q said approvingly, patting Worf on the head.
"Q, I don't have time for this!" Picard yelled.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I have all the time in the entire space-time continuum. I'll have to drop by later. It's been interesting, as usual. Ta-ta."
Before Q soundlessly disappeared in a flash of light, he implanted a burning desire for hair in Picard's mind...
Somewhere deep in the bowels of space, the U.S.S. Pegasus-B,
NCC-1588, was flying off to its next mission on the planet Jackson V. The first
officer, Commander Bob Lloyd Webber, was lounging in his quarters. Lloyd Webber was
looking aimlessly out his portal at the stars when he spotted something highly unusual.
There appeared to be a small boy standing in the void outside in front of an old-fashioned
clothes dryer, folding socks into neat little piles. Bob shook his head and headed
straight to sickbay for a check-up.
No one on Deep Space Nine's Promenade noticed that Q had
mysteriously appeared out of thin air. Perhaps if he had appeared out of thick air
he would have gotten more attention, since no one ever appears out of thick air. Q
decided to remedy the situation. To get everyone's attention, he snapped his fingers. And
then the llamas arrived. Suddenly, a horde of agitated, wooly, South American beasts began to
stampede through the Bajoran kiosks. Q sat back and grinned as he watched dozens of people
running for their lives in fear of the humming, spitting threat. The Camelid invaders
flattened everything in their path.
Captain Sisko was hanging around on the Promenade. "Sisko to security! We have a llama emergency outside Quark's! I need a security team down here immediately!"
"A what emergency, sir?" came a stunned voice.
"A llama emergency, Lieutenant! Don't ask questions! Just get down here immediately!"
Q once again snapped his omnipotent fingers and the wave of llamas turned towards Captain Sisko. Sisko stared in disbelief as the expactorating herd charged ever closer. He violently slapped his comm badge with a bewildered look on his face. "Where is that security team?" The transmission broke off with a startled scream.
Q smiled smugly from the corner.
Security arrived quickly, but not quickly enough to keep Captain Sisko from getting trampled and spat upon.
"That should teach him not to hit me," Q muttered, smirking. He picked a piece of stray llama fur off his uniform.
Q followed the llamas into Quark's, where they had taken over the bar. A few llamas were spinning around on the Dabo tables, much to the dismay of the startled Dabo girls. Quark was desperately trying to shoo the animals out of the holosuites, but to no avail. Screaming customers who were using some of the more exotic programs raced out of the holosuites. Several llamas were behind the bar contentedly lapping up illegal Romulan Ale from Quark's private stock.
Then Odo arrived to spoil Q's fun. "Please remain calm.
Llamas are herbivores. Just file out of the bar in an orderly, single-file line. Do not
slip in the spit. That's it, come on." Odo's arms blurred as they reformed into a
huge lasso. The llarge llasso whirled rapidly around, catching the llamas entirely by
surprise. The llamas hummed in alarm as they became ensnared in the llasso. Odo reshaped
one hand to sllap his commbadge. "Odo to Transporter Room..." He quickly counted
noses. "Forty-two...creatures to beam directly to the brig."
Q frowned and disappeared in a flash of light.
Meanwhile, back in 1972, on the planet Earth, Ringo Starr was taking his clothes out of the dryer in his basement. "Egad! I lost another sock! I wonder where they all go?" Q, who had chosen not to take a physical form, watched on from the corner. For hundreds of years he had been confiscating socks from thousands of unsuspecting life forms. He now had quite a collection, which he stored on the planet Jackson V.
Ringo scratched his head. Q always enjoyed seeing the puzzled looks on his victims' faces when they discovered the departure of their beloved footwear. Ringo shrugged his shoulders. "Oh well, I guess it's just one of those cosmic mysteries." He resumed folding his bell-bottoms. Q dropped off the socks on Jackson V on the way to his next destination.
"Spock...estimated time...of arrival...in the...Armadillo
Nebula."
"Forty-two point nine minutes, captain."
"Thank...you...Mister Spock," Kirk said.
Kirk was thirsty after making such a long-winded speech, so as soon as his shift on the bridge was over, he and Spock went to the mess hall for a drink.
When they reached the dining area, food was splattered on the walls, chairs were tipped over, and crewmen were madly shouting in glee as they tossed assorted edibles at one another. "Spock," Kirk said, ducking a cream pie, "this place...is a mess!"
"Yes, it is, Captain. What is your point?"
Kirk looked at the Vulcan blankly for a moment. "No...I mean...it really is...a mess!" he said, wiping a piece of Spam from his cheek.
"Of course it is a mess, Captain. It is a mess hall."
"That's...not what I meant." Kirk quickly swerved to avoid a flying bowl of okra. "And it seems like...the only one who's...getting food thrown at them...is me!"
"Fascinating."
Suddenly, there was a flash of blinding light. The food fight halted as everyone turned to gaze at the intruder. "Spock, you would think a rock in an empty room was fascinating."
"Have we met?" Spock inquired, raising a curious eyebrow.
"No, but Trelane has told me all about you."
"Trelane? The...Squire of...Gothos?"
"Yes, that is the pedantic little title he's given himself, isn't it?" Q surveyed the disaster area. "This certainly is a mess!"
"Yes...we've...been through that...already," Kirk said.
Q's stared intently at Kirk's head. "Is that a tribble on your head?"
"No...that's my...toupee."
The crew members gasped and mumbled among themselves.
"The captain wears a toupee? I never would have guessed," one said.
"I did see the price tag sticking out the other day."
Q studied Kirk's hair for a moment. "Well, at least you wear a toupee. I still haven't convinced Picard that he needs one."
"Who?"
But Q was gone.
Picard paced nervously back and forth in his quarters. Q's voice still echoed through his head. You really do need something on your head. The funny thing is, being bald had never really bothered him before. Oh sure, sometimes he looked enviously at Riker's head and face full of hair; but this was different. Q's voice reverberated over and over through his mind. Picard could not stop thinking about covering up his head. It was obsessive.
Picard decided to take a walk through the corridors to clear his mind. He had no sooner stepped out of his quarters when he ran into Mr. Mott.
"Pardon me, Mr. Mot," apologized Picard.
"Oh, hello, Captain. I haven't seen you in a while. Time for a trim yet, sir?" the blue man said cheerily.
"No! Dismissed!" Picard hurried off down the hallway.
He paused outside the day care center. The children were clustered in a circle around the teacher, who was reading an old Earth tale to the children. "...Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!" the teacher read loudly.
Picard winced and continued on his walk. He saw Deanna Troi ahead of him in the corridor near engineering. It's no fair that she has all that hair! She could share it once in a while. She has enough hair to cover a six-foot tribble! Maybe if I borrow some she won't notice.
He snuck up behind her and draped some of her cascading black hair over his own shiny bald head.
"Captain! What are you doing?!" she said, whirling around to face him.
"I'm sorry, Counselor. I don't know what came over me."
"Would you like to schedule an appointment to see me, Captain?"
"Uh...no, Counselor. It's quite all right. Excuse me." Picard rushed away from her. Deanna stood in the corridor, a baffled expression on her lovely face.
Meanwhile, the U.S.S. Pegasus-B was in orbit around the planet Jackson V. First officer Bob Lloyd Webber had assembled an away team to beam down to the previously-unexplored planet's surface.
"Energize," said Lloyd Webber, still trying to forget the odd sight outside his porthole.
They dematerialized from the transporter room and shimmered into existence on the planet below.
Bob nearly fainted.
"Report, Number One," came Captain Sally Letterman's voice from his communicator.
"Uh, Captain? We're waist-deep in socks!"
"Can you repeat that, Commander?"
"I said we're waist deep in socks, sir. Knee-socks, argyles, bobby socks, et cetera. I've never seen so many socks in one place before, sir."
"Are you serious, Commander?" came the captain's perturbed voice.
"Yes sir! Do you really think I could imagine something like this?"
"Lieutenant Commander Gingritch, are you getting tricorder readings from the alleged socks?"
"Yes, sir. They appear to perfectly normal socks. From the rate of decomposition on this pile, I estimate that some of them are over three hundred years old. They come from many areas of the galaxy. There are Klingon socks, Andorian socks, Romulan socks, Vulcan socks, Cardassian socks, Bajoran socks, Terran socks--"
"I get the idea, Lieutenant!"
"You'd be surprised how many species have come up with the concept of socks, captain. It's really quite amazing."
"I'm sure it is, Lieutenant. Any theories on how all these socks got here?"
"Negative, captain."
Lloyd Webber picked up an argyle sock from one of the mounds of footwear. "Hey! I recognize this sock! I lost one just like it ten years ago!"
"How can you remember?" asked a curious Lenny Gingritch.
"I never forget a sock, Mr. Gingritch. This one, for
instance, I got from my Aunt Gertrude for my seventeenth birthday. I lost it on an away
mission on the planet Xibble Gort Dip Dip XII when an
alien monster grabbed my foot. Too bad I was wearing that red shirt. The captain escaped
without a scratch."
"Don't cry over lost footwear, Number One," said an annoyed Captain Letterman.
Upon further examination, Lloyd Webber exclaimed, "Wow! This is my sock!"
"I don't care! I'm sending down a science team to further investigate this sock anomaly. Letterman out."
Lloyd Webber was delighted to discover many of his dearly departed socks in a nearby pile. The transporter chief was quite startled when Bob rematerialized with an armload of assorted socks.
"Have you been in for counseling lately, Bob?" asked
Transporter Chief Fillmore.
"Don't worry about me, Nigel. I've never been better," he said, lovingly rubbing a sock against his cheek. He confidently strode out of the transporter room toward his quarters.
"Fillmore to Counselor V'Larek. Would you please go check on Commander Lloyd Webber?"
A self-conscious Picard strolled into Ten-Forward. He tried to remain inconspicuous as he approached the bar. Guinan was wiping off the counter with a grey rag.
"Hi, Captain. What can I do for you?" Guinan asked serenely.
"Uh...Guinan? Can I ask a favor?"
"Sure, anything."
"Um...may I borrow one of your hats?"
"My hats?" Guinan looked at him strangely.
"Yes...I want to cover my head," Picard said in a hushed voice.
"Why? You look fine the way you are."
"Well, the other day I thought I noticed Worf checking out his teeth in the reflection on the back of my head."
"Ooh, that's nasty."
"And on the last away mission I blinded an ensign with the glare from my head. He nearly got eaten by that giant slime creature."
"We definitely have to do something about that. Hang on just a moment." Guinan held up an elegant finger and disappeared into the back room.
She returned shortly with a large red hat that looked like a flying saucer.
"Thank you, Guinan. You're a lifesaver!"
"Any time," she said, still wondering what was wrong with him. Picard happily put on the ridiculous hat and swaggered out of Ten-Forward. Guinan shook her head and returned to work.
Q was also busy, but unlike Guinan, no one was benefiting from his efforts. Q materialized at an unoccupied table in Quark's, at some later point in the space-time continuum. He snapped his fingers under the table and a drink with a pink paper umbrella appeared in his left hand.
"SPOOOOORRRRRRK! SPORK! WHERE
ARE YOU?!" the Grand Nagus shrieked from the doorway.
Quark didn't look up from the pile of latinum he was counting.
"I think the Grand Nagus is calling for you, brother," Rom said, anxiously glancing at the fuming Nagus heading toward them.
"Don't be ridiculous, Rom, you small-lobed moron! The Grand Nagus knows my name!" Quark snapped.
"Spork!" screeched the Grand Nagus, coming up furiously behind him. "Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you!" Zek shouted, grabbing Quark's oversized earlobe and twisting it.
"OW!" Quark whined, dropping to his knees in pain. "Help! Rom! Make him stop!"
"I couldn't do that, brother! He is the Grand Nagus after all." Rom quickly started inching backwards to get away from Zek's fury.
"You'll live a lot long longer if you help me, you latinum-leeching lunatic!" Quark yelled, arms flailing toward his brother.
"But we have to be nice to him, brother. He is going senile."
"Call me senile, will you?" the Grand Nagus screeched, seizing Rom's lobe as well. "This will teach you, Ram!"
"Now see what you've done?!" Quark yelled as he and his brother writhed in agony. The Grand Nagus dragged them out of the bar by the ears. Their screams echoed down the corridor.
"Hmm," Q pondered. "I didn't even have to do anything that time." This day was getting better and better. With a snap of his omnipotent fingers, he disappeared...
...and then reappeared somewhere in the Delta Quadrant.
Nearby on the bridge of the U.S.S. Voyager, the crew was shocked by Janeway's latest order.
"What did you say Captain?" Ensign Kim asked incredulously.
"You heard me, Ensign. We're going to help that poor life form."
"But Captain, it just ate Ensign Chavez!"
"It must be starving!" Janeway whined.
"But sir..."
"Don't but me, Lieutenant! And I thought I told you never to call me sir!" Janeway rose from her seat. "B'Elanna, can you come up with an alternative snack for that creature other than ensigns?"
"I'll do my best, Captain. Perhaps if I divert power from the phasers and into the trans-dimentional warp array and cut power to the flux point generators on decks seven through nine, and if we can lower the temperature on deck twelve to precisely forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and if the planet Vulcan is in Virgo, then I might be able to vent the plasma stream past the warp signature into the creature's antennae. That is, if I can lower life support on deck three, section five and flood the Jeffries Tubes with pure nitrogen gas and shut down all the odd-numbered holodecks."
"Sounds simple enough. Proceed."
"One more thing, Captain. If I can release the wallabies in the science labs, give the emergency holographic medical officer a large florescent green Easter bonnet, and program all the replicators to produce nothing but tofu for the next thirty-eight point seven seven four hours, I may be able to retrieve Ensign Chavez using the transporter."
"By all means go ahead, B'Elanna."
"I should tell you, though, Captain, I'm not sure if I can divert the plasma flow from engineering through the mess hall to the aft warp nacelle. The neutrino storm outside is interfering with the ship-to-nacelle communications relay, and the fumes from Neelix's cooking are wreaking havoc with the phase inducers."
"All right, B'Elanna! Just do it!"
The engineer's face took on a slightly offended cast as her fingers flew over the board. Suddenly, in a loud stream of light, Ensign Chavez materialized on the transporter pad. Her shuttle had been destroyed, but she had escaped relatively unscathed. She wiped the alien slime off her red shirt and stuck her tongue out in disgust.
How am I ever going to wash this stuff out of my hair? she wondered.
"Icky!" She grimaced.
"We've got her, Captain!" B'Elanna said triumphantly.
"I bet that poor alien is so hungry now," Janeway said with a sigh. "Let's see if your feeding mechanism works, B'Elanna."
"Just a second, Captain, I have to reinitialize the warp coil crystal matrix--"
"Save it for your next paper, Lieutenant!"
"Yes, Captain," she said meekly.
Q had been sitting on top of the bridge in the vacuum of space the entire time. He stifled a yawn. "This is just a bunch of technobabble. I'll have to come back and stir things up later. Right now, I'm overdue for a visit to good old Jean-Luc." Q stretched, yawned, and snapped himself into oblivion.
Jean-Luc Picard strode onto the bridge, his uniform neatly pressed as always, his shoes as shiny as his scalp, and...Data's cat, Spot, perched precariously on his head. If Data had been capable of emotion, he would have been thoroughly shocked.
"Captain? Why is Spot on top of your head?" he inquired.
"Oh, is she? I hadn't noticed," Picard said nonchalantly.
Data looked quite puzzled. "May I ask, Captain, how you could neglect to notice a small furry mammal on your head?"
Spot was none too happy with her resting place to begin with, and upon seeing her owner she made a mad attempt to exit from her tall, shiny perch. She clawed and screeched in a panic before flinging herself from Picard's head to Data's lap. Picard's head was now covered with long red scratchess.
"If you'll excuse me, Number One, I'll be in sick bay," he said, trying to ignore the trickle of blood running down his forehead.
"By all means, Captain," Riker said amiably, gesturing toward the turbolift.
"Jean-Luc! What happened?" Beverly Crusher gasped in surprise as the Captain entered sickbay a few moments later.
"I don't want to talk about it, Beverly," he grumbled.
Naturally, Q chose precisely this moment to appear from where he had been watching on invisibly. Tears of mirth rolled down his cheeks as he shook with laughter. "Mon capitaine, you are the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life! And when you're immortal, that's a long time!"
"I don't find this amusing, Q," Jean-Luc said, sitting down on a diagnostic bed. Beverly scanned him with a medical tricorder and began to heal the scratches with a small tube-shaped instrument.
"I would tell you that you never find anything funny, but we've been through that already," Q said, wiping the tears from his face. "I can't leave you alone for a couple of hours without you hurting yourself. Tsk, tsk. What's an omnipotent being to do? Ah, well, you don't deserve this, but I brought you back a gift." He produced a wad of fake hair and dropped it on Picard's scarred head. "This is the infamous Captain Kirk's toupee. Enjoy."
Picard wanted to snatch the toupee from his head, but if felt oddly reassuring. "Why, thank you, Q. You shouldn't have."
"Anything for my favorite Captain," Q said, patting Picard's head condescendingly.
"Spock...have you...seen my...toupee? It's...missing."
"Negative, Captain. Have you searched your quarters? That would be the logical place to look."
"I need it to...meet Admiral Newton...today. He has to help
us...negotiate...with the...Krusean Spatulites. I
turned the ship...upside down...but I can't...find it...anywhere."
"Captain, the ship's sensor logs do not indicate you inverting the ship. Saying that is highly illogical."
"That's...not what I meant."
"Fascinating. Have you tried engineering?"
"Well...no."
"Let us go there now."
They took the turbolift to engineering and exited through the red doors. Montgomery Scott had his back to them at a nearby console. He had apparently donned his dress uniform for the arrival of Admiral Newton, because his knobby little knees were sticking out beneath his awful plaid kilt. There were several engineers huddled together in a corner, whispering amongst themselves and casting fearful glances at the chief engineer.
"SCOTTY! Take off...that kilt! You're...scaring people!"
"But Captain, it's so comfortable. And it gets awfully hot doon here near me bairns."
"I...don't care! It's...ugly! It's...enough to...make me lose...my lunch...and my hair. That...reminds me. You...haven't seen a toupee...around here...have you?"
"Sorry, Captain. I have nae seen it. But I did find this leftover tribble by the warp conduit. Lucky for us no one fed it!"
"Oh! That'll do! Thank...you!" Kirk snatched the wad of fuzz from Scotty's hand and plopped it on his head. The tribble cooed happily. "Now...if I can...just find...my socks."
The sign in the window of Garak's shop read "Spectacular Sock Sale: Today Only!" The llama wool left over from the stampede had been woven into socks by skilled Bajoran craftsmen and was now for sale exclusively at Garak's. Q stood in front of the shop, hardly believing his good fortune. He swaggered into the store.
"Good day, sir," Garak said in a friendly manner. He and Doctor Bashir were standing at the till, carrying on a conversation about last night's brawl at Quark's.
As they continued talking, Q inspected the merchandise and eagerly scooped up all the socks from the bin. Smiling in ecstasy, he carried the socks over to the counter and dumped them in front of the Cardassian tailor. "I'll take these. Will five bars of latinum for the lot be enough?"
"Er...I suppose so," Garak said in bewilderment, surveying the mountain of footwear.
"What do you want all those socks for?" Bashir couldn't help but ask.
"I have lots of nieces and nephews I don't like and it's almost time for Christmas."
"Really? Isn't that sort of mean?"
"They live on an ice planet. They'll be thrilled. And if you believe that, I've got some oceanfront property on Vulcan to sell you. By the way, the hologram on Voyager has more personality than you, Mr. Boring-doctor-with-a-wussy-British-accent... And with a name like Siddig El Fadil, or Alexander whatever, you're not even British, and neither is Picard! What is it with you humans?!"
"Excuse me?" a perplexed Bashir asked.
"Never mind." Q produced five bars of latinum from his pocket and gave them to Garak. The Cardassian stuffed the socks into a large gray bag and handed it to Q.
"Thank you for shopping at Garak's. Please stop by again. Have a nice day." As Q left the store, he heard Garak saying to Bashir, "That sounds so stupid!"
"It's good for customer relations. All the merchants on Earth say 'have a nice day.' By the way, who was that man? I've never seen anyone who liked socks so much!"
"I have no idea, but I hope he shops here again next week when I have my girdle sale."
Mr. Mott was so startled to see Q appear in his barbershop that he shaved a huge streak in the back of O’Brien’s head.
"Hey!" O’Brien said, putting a hand to the new bald spot.
"Sorry, Chief. Who are you, sir?" he asked Q.
"What? You don’t know who I am? You must be only person on this ill-constructed ship who doesn’t know me. I, my dear Smurf, am Q."
O’Brien groaned.
"Smurf?"
"Earth joke. Never mind. I have a little job for you." Q snapped his fingers, and a Kazon warrior appeared in the chair next to O’Brien.
"O’Brien to Captain Picard. Q just arrived in Mr. Mott’s shop. And he’s brought a friend with really bad hair."
Q patted the twisted mass of hair on the Kazon’s head. "See what you can do with this, please. I just can’t stand to look at it any longer."
Mr. Mott grimaced. "Where did you find him?" he asked. "I’ve never seen such awful tangles before! Oh, dear, and he hasn’t been using conditioner, either. Look at all these split ends."
"Actually, I picked him up in the Delta Quadrant, but that’s not important right now. We’ve got to save this man’s hair!"
"I’ll try my best, sir," Mott said valiantly, pulling out his scissors. "Hmm...maybe a crew cut..." He began clipping away at the Kazon’s hair.
"My work here is done," Q said, dusting off his hands in satisfaction. "Now, then...who to harass next?" He blinked out of existence just as a security team rushed into the barbershop.
"Where’s Q?" asked Worf.
"Q who?" Mott asked.
"Wasn’t that an episode title?" asked an ensign.
"Huh?" Mott said.
"Never mind."
Worf took the Kazon roughly by the shoulder. "Where’s Q?"
"I have no idea. But tell this blue buffoon to get his scissors away from my head!"
"Come with us," Worf said.
"But I haven’t finished the haircut!" Mott complained.
Worf wordlessly dragged the irritated Kazon warrior toward the brig.
"But I haven’t done anything wrong!"
"We always stick strange, ugly aliens in the brig," said Worf.
"Then why aren’t you in the brig?"
Worf knocked the Kazon unconscious with a phaser blast. "I needed that," he growled.
Meanwhile, back in the Delta Quadrant, things were running smoothly after the incident with the giant space alien concluded. The crew was now enjoying some long overdue down time. Paris and Chavez, for instance, were reaping the benefits of the holodeck. Ensign Chavez, with the help of a little Head and Shoulders, had succeeded in getting the alien slime out of her hair. It had left her scalp a little dry, though.
"So," Paris was saying, "you just aim the stick at the little white ball and..." He hit the cue ball at the eight ball, which promptly sailed into the left corner pocket. "It's as easy as that," he concluded.
"Okay. Let's see..." Ensign Chavez applied some chalk to the end of her cue and bent down to aim. She effortlessly sank three balls into their respective pockets.
"I thought you said you'd never played pool before!" Paris protested.
"I lied. You now owe me ten bars of latinum."
"Are you kidding? I could buy myself a shuttlecraft and a summer home on Risa for that much!"
"Stop whining. I won fair and square. And just to prove I'm a good sport, I'll buy you a drink. Garcon!" She snapped her fingers in the air.
Q, wearing a neatly pressed black and white uniform, walked over, carrying a tray of Romulan Ale above his head. "Oui, Madame?"
"Two Aldebaran whiskeys, please."
Click. Click. Click.
The sound was definitely starting to get on Letterman's nerves.
Click. Click. Click-click.
"Commander Lloyd Webber?" Captain Letterman queried politely. "Are you sure that you can't do that when you're off duty?"
Bob put down his knitting needles. "What do you mean, sir?"
"You're knitting while on bridge duty, Commander! If you were a woman, I'd ask if you were pregnant."
"But it gets so tedious up here sometimes, Captain," Lloyd Webber protested. "Knitting keeps the hands busy while freeing the mind. Besides, I could use a new pair of socks."
Letterman turned to Lieutenant Commander Gingritch. "Mr. Gingritch, are you aware of any Starfleet regulations that deal with knitting on duty?"
"No, Captain."
"Then I'll just have to create some regulations. Bob, put those socks away right this instant!"
"But..."
"That's an order, Commander!"
Bob sulked for the rest of his shift.
Picard's shiny head still smarted from the now infamous Spot incident. He stood by as the transporter chief beamed up the new Starfleet ensigns from Starbase 17. Fresh out of the Academy, their faces glowed with pride as they materialized in the flagship of Starfleet.
"Welcome to the Enterprise," Picard said formally, wishing his dress uniform didn't actually look like a dress.
"Pleasure to be aboard, sir," one handsome young ensign, wearing an ominously red shirt piped up. "I think I speak on behalf of all of us when I say what an honor it is to serve under you."
"Wait a minute!" one ensign protested. "You don't speak on behalf of all of us! I don't want to serve under a bald guy in a dress!"
"Mr. Worf," Picard said quietly. "See to it that that...outspoken young man gets chosen to inspect the warp nacelles...by hand."
"Yes, sir," Worf said with a knowing smile.
Turning to the new arrivals, Picard said, "You will all be issued new uniforms and communicators. And you must report to Mr. Mott immediately to have your heads shaved."
"What?" bellowed the stunned ensigns. "Sir," they mumbled as a last minute addition.
Data turned to Picard with a quizzical look upon his face. "Captain, it is against Starfleet regulations to order crew members to alter their appearance unless they are in direct violation of Starfleet dress codes."
"Shhh! Don't tell them that!"
"But, Captain..."
"Dismissed, Mr. Data!"
"Dismissed...Scotty!" Kirk...ordered.
Scotty grumbled and marched off down the hallway to remove his offensive kilt. Shaking his head, Kirk went to the transporter room to greet Admiral Newton.
A column of glittering dust motes slowly took the form of Admiral...Q?
"You...again! Where's...Admiral Newton?" Kirk asked in consternation.
"He got caught in a traffic jam. It's back-to-back starships from here to Betelgeuse. You're stuck with me instead."
"But...what...do you know...about Starfleet...policies? Or the...Krusean...Spatulites?"
"My dear Captain Kirk, I am a Q. I'm omniscient. Of course I know Starfleet policies! And some of my best friends are Krusean Spatulites. They're a nice group of people, but their purple scales just clash horribly with the orange hair! But I'm not here to gossip. Where's Spock?"
"Er...on the…bridge. Why?"
"Thank you." Q disappeared in a flash of light much brighter than anything the transporter could ever produce.
Neelix swatted at another ant that had dared to crawl near his Aurigan truffle pudding. "You'd think on a starship they'd have better pest control! I'll have to talk to Mr. Vulcan about it."
"Actually, sir, my name is not Mr. Vulcan. It is Spock."
The Talaxian whirled around to find Q and Spock standing in his kitchen. "Who are you?"
"I just told you. That question is highly illogical."
"Neelix, Spock. Spock, Neelix. And I'm Q. Now that we're acquainted, let's take a little trip together," Q said, raising a hand to snap his fingers.
"But I have a soufflé in the oven!" Neelix objected.
Q snapped his fingers testily. "There! Now it's done! Let's get on with it!"
The two corporeal aliens soon found themselves seated in plush
grey chairs in front of an audience composed of tackily-dressed twentieth century humans.
An obnoxious announcer's voice blared, "Today on The Q Show, aliens who have body
parts stolen and the mimes that love them."
Instantly, two humans in black and white striped clothes appeared. The two silent, pasty-faced humans rode imaginary bicycles onto the stage and blew kisses at the two stunned aliens.
"No, no, no!" Neelix protested. "I barely know you! And I'm already attached! Oh, Kes will go into conniptions if she finds out about this!"
"Fascinating."
Q was seated behind the host's desk, dressed in a fine black suit. "And now, the top ten reasons why Spock's ears are pointed." The band played a low drum roll. "Number ten...convenient letter openers! Number nine...instant Peter Pan costume for Halloween! Number eight...great reception on his Walkman! Number seven...he got them caught in the electric nose hair picker!"
"I do not even care to speculate on how illogical this is," Spock said.
"Do you mind? I'm trying to do a show here. Number six...wind resistance! Number five...it's a cheap make-up job for Paramount!"
"Excuse me, but where are we?" Neelix asked.
"The Ed Sullivan Theater in New
York. Earth. Late twentieth century. Now shut up and let me finish this! Number
four...it's great for the Q-tip industry! My personal favorite. Number three...he likes
making life difficult for earmuff salesmen! Number two...nice place to store loose change!
And, the number one reason Spock has pointy ears...to make Kirk look cuter!"
"That was highly illogical," Spock whispered to Neelix.
"Is that all you can say?" Neelix said. "You're like a talking doll that only says, 'illogical.'"
"Well, it is illogical. Do you not agree?"
"Yes, but you're being redundant. And you keep repeating yourself. And you say the same thing over and over and over and over."
"Like you're doing! We're trying to make a T.V. show here! Do you mind?!" Q turned around. "And we'll return to The Q Show after a word from our sponsors."
It was a relatively quiet day in Ten-Forward. Guinan was wiping off the counter, and a few tired crewmembers were slouched at tables. Lieutenant Barclay was nursing a drink at a corner table, trying to relax after a particularly stressful day on duty. It was a perfectly normal day in all respects. But nothing could stay normal for long with Q on the loose.
The omnipotent being and his two new alien companions appeared at a corner table. Q looked around at his surroundings. Commander Riker and his band were playing some jazz music in one corner of the room. Q rolled his eyes at them and strolled over to the ensemble. "You call this entertainment?! I've seen more excitement at fungus races."
"Q! Haven't you caused enough trouble? Poor Captain Picard is pulling his hair out over your antics, and for him that's no small trick!"
"There's no such thing as enough trouble, Number Twelve. Hmm...let's see. This should liven up this dump."
The inevitable snap of the fingers filled Ten-Forward with...The King. It was Elvis, in the flesh and polyester, surrounded by screaming women with beehives, bellbottoms and horn-rimmed glasses. Occasionally one would shriek and swoon, hitting the floor with an audible thump. One flopped onto Barclay's table, nearly spilling his piña colada. Between the blaring twangs of "Heartbreak Hotel," Elvis' lyrical singing, the yelps of the fainting women, and the ensuing thuds, Ten Forward had become quite a rather noisy place.
"I knew Elvis wasn't dead!" exclaimed one ensign with a freshly-shaven head.
Riker surveyed the disaster area, then tapped his communicator. "Riker to Picard."
"What is it, Number One?" Picard said testily. "I was right in the middle of doing my...hair."
"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Q is in Ten Forward."
"Again? I'll come see to Q...personally. Picard out."
Riker took a look around at the damage. He tried to yell above the din for everyone to remain calm, but it was a losing battle. He kept getting fainted upon by the Elvis groupies. So-called security personnel sat idly by, trying to avoid his gaze and stay out of the matter altogether.
What disappointed Riker the most was Guinan's lack of concern. She glided up beside him and clasped her hands. "Oh, this is just wonderful! I haven't heard Elvis since he disappeared in '77!" She then joined in the racket and proceeded to scream and swoon.
Just then, Picard came in, sporting what appeared to be spray-on hair. Wide-eyed, he approached Riker, who had long since given up trying to be heard above the din. "WHERE'S Q?" he shouted.
Riker glanced tiredly over at the bandstand. "HE'S THE ONE PLAYING THE MARACAS!" he screamed back.
Picard groaned, but the disgusted sound was drowned out by a particularly loud round of screams as the women reacted to Elvis' pelvic gyrations.
The captain forcibly pushed his way through the curtain of bee-hived beauties towards the letter responsible for this ruckus. "Q!" Picard roared above the pandemonium.
"Very good, mon capitaine! You've learned one twenty-sixth of the Roman alphabet! Keep it up and you'll be at the top of your class." Q gave an obnoxious sneer and clapped lightly. He then held up his maracas. "Would you like to play?"
"I'm more the Ressikan flute type, myself,
but...Q! Cut that out! I want you to get rid of that leisure-suited lummox and all these
hysterical women right now!"
Surprisingly cooperative, Q snapped his fingers. Elvis and his followers immediately disappeared...only to be replaced by a horde of suicidal lemmings. The small, self-destructive rodents, still believing that they were in the fjords of Norway, rushed headlong toward the coldest liquid in the room to drown themselves...Lieutenant Barclay's drink. The already paranoid crew member fainted as the wave of lemmings swept over him, spilling his drink and knocking over the table.
Meanwhile, Spock and Neelix, who were still tagging along with Q, watched on from a corner booth. "Fascinating," remarked Spock. "Apparently lemmings are attracted to piña coladas."
"What's a piña colada?" asked a confused Neelix. "And for that matter, what's a lemming?"
"Lemming?" stated a curious Data, who was quietly observing the
whole incident out of harm's way. It was a compelling demonstration of different types of
human behavior. "The lemming, a member of the family Muridae. Average length: five
inches. Originally from Earth, large populations have been transported to the planets
Lutefisk and Domaranak IV..."
"Q! Get rid of these rodents this instant!"
"Party pooper," Q muttered, snapping his omnipotent fingers. The lemming mob disappeared from on top of the unconscious Lieutenant Barclay and from his drink. "Oh well, this place was starting to bore me anyway." Q snapped his fingers once again and vanished. Neelix and Spock also vanished, cutting off Data in the midst of his lemming monologue.
Later that day, Lieutenant Barclay fidgeted nervously, perched on the couch in Counselor Troi's office. He had his arms wrapped around himself. "They're everywhere," he mumbled.
"Why do you think you feel like lemmings are attacking you? Could it be something from childhood, or do the lemmings represent something?"
"They don't represent anything! They're yucky little furry rodents! And they drank my piña colada!" Barclay wailed.
Troi rolled her eyes. It was going to be a long session.
