Captain’s Log, Stardate, oh wait, that’s Pajama Boy stuff.
It’s not unusual for Quark’s to have a busy Happy Hour on a Friday. Station personnel like to get an early start on their weekend there, and then there are many traders hanging over for a weekender before upshipping for other parts of the quadrant. Even Cisco puts in an occasional appearance there. This time, however, it was unusually crowded, and I had some difficulty finding a spot at the bar. The clientele were also atypical for the place; and oddly dressed assortment that looked like something out of a historical reenactment or a play. Most of them were wearing powdered white wigs or tricorne hats with cockades stuck in them.
Quark showed up with a pint of Guinness and a shot of Tribble Sweat for me, said by way of greeting, “so, what do you think?” He glanced around indicating the unusual aspects of the crowd.
“Boisterous bunch,” I said.
“Yeah, but do you know who they are?”
“Nope,” I said, then took a long pull from my Guinness. “A few look oddly familiar. Must be rejects from a play or something.”
“No. Nothing like that. They’re called ‘Patriots’.”
‘Patriots?”
“Yeah, you know, as in the American Revolution. Over there is John Taylor of Caroline. That tall drink of water with the red hair is Thomas Jefferson. Monroe, Madison, and even George Washington are here. And the guy that the Doctor is chatting with is some Rhode Islander name of Stephen Hopkins. He really likes his rum, by the way.”
“So, they are actors in a play or reenactment.”
“Nope. The real McCoy.” Quark noticed that last caught my interest, so he decided to elaborate. “They’re on break from the Heavenly duties,” Quark explained.
“Heavenly duties,” I asked.
“Yeah, you know, like a gallant warrior may go on vacation from Sto-vo-kor.”
“Not like that was something that would happen. Sto-vo-kor was the place all warriors aspired to ascend to in the afterlife.
“So, are you trying to say these are a bunch of dead humans come back to life?”
“Something like that. They are, as I said, taking a break from their Heavenly duties. There are 72 of them from Virginia alone. Plus some others from around the original 13 states.”
Of course, that explained why it was so crowded. “Okay, Quark, so why are they here and not in Heaven, where it sounds like they belong.”
“Well, apparently they are celebrating some event that took place. Apparently, back on Earth, some nut-bag got capped and when said nut-job arrived at the Pearly Gates demanding his 72 virgins for crashing planes into buildings, he was then informed that no one had said anything about his getting virgins, but that there would be a long line of Virginians waiting for him.”
I put two and two together and realized that Quark was referring to the recent raid that took out Osama bin Laden. This also explained the run on “I Love SEAL Team 6” t-shirts out on the promenade.
“And so now they are all here, taking, as you say, a break from their Heavenly duties.”
“Yep. Heaven for them, Hell for the nut-bag.”
“Quark! Rum!” That was Stephen Hopkins bellowing. Quark wandered off to fetch him some more rum.
I saw the Doctor signal for me to come join them, and figured, what the hey, this could be interesting. The Humans’ Heaven is supposed to be something like Sto-vo-kor. I wandered over to join them, signaling Quark to bring me another round.
“Ah, Kahuna, may I present John Hopkins of Rhode Island.”
“Mr. Hopkins,” I said.
“Ah, so you’re the Kahuna I’ve been hearing about. Have some rum,” he said, and then shouted out, “Quark! More rum!” He lifted up his tankard and trained it, slamming the now empty tankard on the bar for emphasis. “Come to join our little party?”
“Just having a few rounds before heading over to Tunok’s for steaks,” I said. “So, what brings you to Quark’s?” I asked.
“Break time. Roasting that dirtbag is thirsty work, you know,” Hopkins said.
Quark came up with more rum for Hopkins and the Doctor, a second round of Guinness and Tribble Sweat for me. Hopkins glared at Quark, “aren’t you going to bring the Kahuna some rum as well?”
“Right, I’ll have it here in a moment,” responded Quark as he scurried away.
“Interesting little hobgoblin you got running this place,” Hopkins said, then he lifted his tankard of rum. ‘A toast! To Seal Team 6! Thank you for providing us with an eternity of entertainment.” He then took a long drag from his tankard, and as I glanced around I saw that all of his compatriots were doing likewise, as well as the station personnel and traders. Not to be left out, I lifted up my pint of Guinness, drained it in salutation, then drank my shot of Tribble Sweat, and slammed the empty shot glass on the bar. Everyone in the bar imitated me and slammed their empty tankards, glasses, and flagons on the bars and tables around the place. The thundering sound reverberated throughout the place and Quark put his hands over his ears. No doubt it deafened him for a moment.
“So, if you are all done here taking a break, does that mean the dirtbag is also getting a break?” I asked.
“Hell, no!” Hopkins retorted. “Patton is busily slapping him around and kicking him in the butt. Chesty Puller and Pappy Boyington are waiting for their turns at him as well. Then there’s Generals Sherman and Grant, although Grant was a President once, wasn’t he. After my time.”
Quark showed up with more rum, and I slugged a good dose of it down. Not bad stuff. Doesn’t kick like Tribble Sweat, but very satisfying. Just like the knowledge that the dirtbag is getting what he deserves for all eternity. Very satisfying.
Kahuna out.
