DRG Must Die! Part Two


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Episode 14 — DRG Must Die! Part Two

[Bob:
     "Okay!  We're here at SkyDome in Toronto, along with *fifty*
*thousand* fans to watch the season finale of Star Trek: Door
Repair Guy.  And it's such a nice evening they're opening the
roof!  It started moving about ten minutes ago . . . "
     Crazy shot as ENG camera moves around from Bob to the roof. 
It's partway closed (yes, yes, or partway open) and beyond is a
lovely red-tinged sunset sky into which the CN Tower obtrudes.
     ". . . but you know I don't think it has moved at all in the
last couple of minutes.  In fact it appe . . . av . . . uck.  I
ca . . ."  
     By now he's completely drowned out by the capacity crowd's
growling chant of "D-R-G!  D-R-G!  D-R-G!"  He keeps talking into
his handheld mike as suddenly behind him all the fans in that
section rise out of their seats with their arms above their heads
and sit down again.]


Two minutes ago on Star Trek: Door Repair Guy:


     Riker turns to the tactical officer.
     "Fire."


And now the exciting conclusion:


     *mbeep mbeep mbeep*
     "Photon torpedo launch initiator off line, sir."
     "Try backup."
     *mbeep mbeep mbeep*
     "Same story."
     "Damn that Door Repair Guy!  He must have disconnected more
than the door lockout.  Hm, maybe if I reroute the command
channel through atmospheric control.  Try that."
     Computer console view of the tactical officer.  He touches
the console at a number of places where there aren't any keys,
then leans forward and says in a very high voice:
     *mbeep mbeep mbeep*
     He sits back.
     "Still no good, sir."
     "Damn!  So much for the self-sacrificing heroic gesture. 
We'll have to outthink them."
     "I'm confident we can manage that, Commander."


[Commercial: Roberto Alomar for McCain's Fruit Punch.]


     A corridor in the Enterprise.  A panel has been pulled off
the wall and is smoking and throwing off sparks.  In the middle
of the corridor lies Door Repair Guy, also smoking and throwing
off sparks.
     Superimposed ghost image effect as Door Repair Guy sits up
and out of his own body, stands, and has a look at himself.
     "Uh oh."
     He walks along the corridor.  He sees the heel of a white
sandalled foot disappear around a corner.  He follows it.  The
side corridor is empty except for the tip of a white wing which
disappears around the far corner.
     "Not a good sign!"
     He dashes down the side corridor and comes around the far
corner, stopping suddenly.  Ahead of him stretches a hallway
lined with white, waving drapery.  A strong white glow emanates
from the hallway's far end, within which he can just make out the
walking form of a winged biped.
     "Oh great, the light at the end of the tunnel!"
     A large yellow dog pads up to him, wagging its tail.
     "Oh swell, the travelling companion!"
     Together Door Repair Guy and the dog proceed down the
curtained hallway.  They come to an ascending staircase.
     "Hm.  This is a good sign, everything considered."
     He climbs it.  The dog lies down at the bottom step.  ("So I
can break my neck when they kick me out," thinks DRG as he stomps
upward.)
     At the head of the stairs is a landing, and beyond that a
set of wrought-iron gates.
     "The Pearly Gates!"
     Seated on a stool with his chin in his hand and his elbow on
his desk is an old bearded fellow in flowing white robes.
     "So, like, you'd be Saint Peter?"
     "I am."
     "So, you gonna let me in?"
     "I cannot."
     "Huh?  Why not?"
     "The computer's down."  Peter indicates the terminal next to
his elbow.  "You'll have to come back another time."
     "Gee.  That's too bad.  Well.  Bye!"
     "Wait!"
     Door Repair Guy climbs back up the eight steps he's already
travelled.
     "Do you know anything about computers?"
     "Ah . . . no."
     "Wait!"
     DRG climbs up again.
     "How are you with hinges?"
     "Not bad, I guess.  I didn't bring any tools."
     "Can't you have a look at it?"
     "Well . . . okay."
     He hunches down and eyeballs one of the lower hinges, then
peers up at the other.  He does the same for the other pair.  He
walks inside and stands between the two gates, swinging them
forward and back with his two hands.  Peter stands outside,
following each part of the examination with a worried look.
     "They're a bit stiff.  Do you have any WD40?"
     "We have unguent."
     "That'll do."
     Peter brings some unguent and Door Repair Guy smears it on
the hinges, then stands between the gates and swings them to and
fro as before.  Peter stands outside, watching and listening
attentively.
     "That's much smoother."
     "I'll say."  He gives both gates a good push and they come
together with a satisfying click between him and Saint Peter.
     "Well.  Until next time, I guess."
     Peter waves, smiling, until he realizes he's on the outside
and Door Repair Guy's inside.
     "Ha!  Joke's on you!  Now you have to grant me a wish."
     "I do not!  You made that up!"
     "Maybe I did, and maybe I didn't.  I don't see that it
changes the situation."
     "Grrrrr.  I've got friends on the inside, you know."
     Door Repair Guy stands there with his hands on the bars,
looking a little nervous now.
     "Grant me a wish anyway."
     "An archangel could come along at any moment, you know."
     "Well, then, he'd see what a fool you are, wouldn't he?"
     "O-o-o-h!  All right.  What's your wish?"
     "Hero of the day."
     "All right, but I choose the day."
     "I choose the day."
     "All right!  Granted!  Open up!"
     DRG opens up.
     "Now scram!"
     DRG's already halfway down the stairs.
     "But you trip on the dog."
     Crash!  Yelp!  Bark bark!
     

[Commercial:
     Canadian Airlines, the one with the autographed airplane. 
When the jet comes in over the roof of the hanger, life-sized on
the Jumbotron, everyone goes:
     "Wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!!!!!"]


     Back in the corridor in the Enterprise.  Door Repair Guy
sits up, swaying.
     "Whoa!  This near-death experience stuff is hard on the
system.  I'm hungry!"
     He uses his door maintenance override to enter a nearby room
and returns again with a quart of vanilla yogurt.  He strolls
along the corridor, gulping big spoonfuls of it, when who should
he meet walking the cat, well, holding it by the tail, but Armus.
     "RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!  AT LAST, A HUMAN!!!!!!!!!!!!"
     DRG jackrabbits.
     "RRRR!!!  YOU CANNOT ESCAPE ME!!!!"
     DRG hightails it round a corner and into a side-corridor. 
He runs up to a turbolift door and waits.
     "Come on.  Come on.  Come on."
     Then he notices the red light on the control panel.
     "Car out of service."
     He dashes for a nearby door just as Armus rounds the corner.
     "RRRRRR!!!!  REVENGGGE ISSS MINE!!!!  RRRRR!!!"
     The door begins to close behind DRG but Armus gets an oily
limb through it and forces it open.
     DRG hits a key on his Borg keyboard implant: ESC.
     *Fzzt*
     "Not Fragile!"
     Armus advances.
     "I WILL SQUEEZE THE LIFE OUT OF YOUR INSSSIGNIFICANT HUMAN
FORM!"
     DRG throws chairs, tables, computer consoles and anything
else he can at the advancing creature.  At last he is cornered
with only one option remaining.  He throws the vanilla yogurt.
     "AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!  I'M MELLLLLTTTING!!!
     Armus melts.  Spot drops to the floor and begins to lap up
the yogurt.
     "Oh, that's gross."


     "Captain, I'm picking up an object in orbit near the
Enterprise.  It's about two metres in length and constructed
primarily of metallic alloy and silicon-based compounds."
     "Could it be some kind of torpedo casing?  On screen."
     "Holy mackerel!  It's Data!"
     "Lock on and beam him aboard!"
     Transporter effect as Data is transported onto the floor of
the yacht.
     Geordi leans down and touches Data's shoulder, but pulls his
hand quickly back.
     "Wow!  That's cold!"
     Frost is now forming all over Data.  Nevertheless he manages
to say:
     "C-c-c-aptain, L-l-l-ore an-n-n-d Armus h-h-h-ave c-c-ontrol
of the sh-ship an-n-nd are p-p-p-planning to at-t-t-ack the g-g-
g-g-g-"
     "The gaggle!  Plot an intercept course!  If we have to,
we'll ram them!"
     "Aye, Captain."


     The bridge.  Lore is doing a sort of two-step around the ops
and helm chairs, inputting commands and singing an original
composition about photon torpedoes.  On the main viewscreen is an
image of the completed lifeboat gaggle afloat against the curve
of the planet below.  He's building up to the grand finale:
     "And . . . now . . . they're . . . armed!"
     Behind his back we see a Borg personal transporter effect.
     He turns and sees Door Repair Guy.
     "So-o-o-o-o, come to see the big light show?"
     "A-a-a-w, you mean I missed the dance number?"
     "You're pretty smart, you measly goody-two-shoes human.  Are
you going to lecture me on how wrong it is to be so bad?  You
humans make me sick with your moral humbug."
     "I really wanted to see that dance number."
     Lore gives him a look.  "You're as odd as that lubricated
cat-lover."
     "Well, you're no John Travolta."
     "What do you mean I'm no John Travolta?"  He accesses
furiously with an annoyed look on his face.  He finds the file
and his face breaks into a smile.
     "Oh, you mean, this?"
     He points with both index fingers, spreads his feet, lays
one hand against his hip and extends his other arm above his
head, indicating the ceiling.  As quick as lightning Door Repair
Guy draws a ball-peen hammer from his belt and precision-throws
it, bouncing it off Lore's off-switch.  Lore looks stricken,
teeters, and falls, stiff as a board in the posture of John
Travolta on the cover of "Saturday Night Fever".
     Riker, Ursula and the tactical officer burst out of the
turbolift, phasers firing.
     "Hey!"
     Door Repair Guy dives and eats rug.
     Picard comes on the viewscreen, saying: "Surrender at once
or face immediately destruction."
     Riker tugs his uniform and smiles, "We surrender."
     
     
[Commercial:
     "New in July: the Klingon Network.
          Join Krong and Bupokh for `Klingon Flyfishin''.
          `Yep, that's a big one.']


     The Enterprise in orbit.  Shuttlecraft can be seen moving
between the diminishing gaggle and the saucer section, towing
lifeboats back toward several dozen spacesuited figures on the
saucer surface who are carefully fitting the vessels back into
their berths.
     Troi and Doctor Crusher walk along a corridor full of busy
cleanup crews.  They both have their hair in braids, and look a
bit like they've just come back from camping out.  Dweenie and
Clarabelle come skipping along past them, their hair also done up
in braids.
     Dweenie: "Thank you for doing our hair."
     Clarabelle: "We look very elegant."
     Troi, laughing: "So you do."
     Deanna and Beverly continue on their way, followed by Worf
and Alexander.
     "Father, are you going to keep your hair like that?"
     Worf shakes his head No, the dreadlocks flying.
     Picard and Riker walk by.  Picard is saying:
     "Of course the court martial will have to proceed; however,
in light of recent events, I cannot see any possible alternative
to acquittal, for you and for . . . what is his name?"
     "It slips my mind.  But I'm sure he'll be glad to hear the
news, whoever he is."
     Geordi and Data come along next, Data holding up a tricorder
and obviously pursuing some reading.  He stops and peers down a
crowded side-corridor, and exclaims when he finds what he has
been looking for.
     "Here, Spot.  Poor pussycat.  Your fur is a mess, is it not? 
What an unhappy cat."
     Data holds the grimy feline at arms' length.
     "My only problem now is to decide how best to clean my cat. 
Have you any suggestions, Geordi?"
     Geordi frowns and looks at the cat from a number of angles.
     "Spot remover?"
     "MREOW!"
     The oily tail disappears around the corner.


[Commercial: 
     That catfood commercial where the cats accelerate into
orbiting electrons.]


     The bridge.  Picard is in the command chair, with Riker and
Troi on either hand.  Worf is at tactical, Data at ops.
     "Bridge to Engineering.  Status report, Mr La Forge."
     *La Forge here, Captain.  All systems back on line.  We've
run a level one diagnostic.  There's nothing wrong with this ship
beyond a few stuck doors*
     "Would you like to stop off at a gaseous moon to top up the
deuterium tanks?"
     *Not necessary, Captain.  As long as the wormhole gets us
within fifteen thousand light-years of the Federation we'll make
it to starbase on present reserves.  Besides, too much of that
homebrew and we could develop knock and ping*
     "We can't have that.  Stand by to go to warp.  Picard out. 
Mr Worf, are all the lifeboats stowed and escape hatches
secured?"
     "Yes, Captain.  However, it will be some time before the
lifeboats are totally reprovisioned.  The milk chocolate bars
proved particularly popular."
     Troi screws up her face and makes a fist at him.
     "Mr Data, have you been able to complete your review of the
wormhole records?"
     "Yes, Captain.  When viewed at a rate of ten nanoseconds per
second the records reveal an elaborate system of directional
indicators."
     "Can you put that on screen?"
     "Affirmative."
     On the viewscreen the planet Petrus is replaced by a stop-
action replay of the wormhole passage.  As a digital time index
counts away in the corner the twisting light-filled wormhole
creeps forward step by step.
     "We are watching the wormhole record of the Borg/Saucer
confederation.  In eighty nanoseconds recorded time, or eight
seconds viewing time, the Borgoprise will exit the wormhole. 
Please observe the upper right-hand corner of the screen."
     The wormhole advances segment by segment, veering and
turning slightly.  As we watch, a large green arrow with the
words LAST EXIT appears and passes by.  Moments later there is a
brilliant flash and the blackness of intergalactic space replaces
the wormhole.
     "It's really quite straightforward, isn't it?"
     "Yes, Captain.  I have programmed the navigational controls
to react to directions of this sort and to take the first off-
ramp that promises to lead to Federation space."
     "Helm, take us into the wormhole, warp two."
     The Enterprise elasticizes and disappears in a burst of
light.
     "Coming up on the wormhole now, Captain.  Three, two, one,
entering wormhole now."
     Special effects as wormhole blossoms.  The blue and orange
entrance gives way to a twisting light-filled tunnel like some
sort of cosmic rabbit warren.  As the tunnel walls zoom by,
lights curve along with the Enterprise.  Other travellers? 
Space-time phenomena?  Angels?  Intergalactic chipmunks?
     Data reports:
     "We are now passing numerous off-ramp indicators.  It is
reasonable to assume that we have entered some galaxy."
     Riker and Picard exchange glances.
     "But which one?"
     Suddenly the viewscreen whites out.  As the light fades,
stars come into view, not just two dozen, but millions and
millions.
     "Full stop.  Where are we, Mr Data?"
     "Navigational sensors reporting now.  We are within
Federation space, three point two six light-years from the Ceci
N'est Pas Une Pipe Nebula.  Starbase 106 is eight hours two point
three five minutes away at warp five."
     "Helm, lay in a course for Starbase 106.  Warp . . . eight. 
Engage."


[Commercial:
     "Coming in July: the Klingon Network.
          Laugh with the zany Kruge family in `At Home with the
Klingons'.
          `Sweetheart, I'm home!'
          Headbutt to the bridge of the nose.
          `You did not take out the garbage!'
          Yes it's family violence on `At Home With the
Klingons'.]


     The planet Rhadamanthos III looms red and jasper against the
starry sash of the Milky Way.  [SkyDome crowd: "Oooo".]  As we
watch, the blue sparkling space-city called Starbase 106 rolls
into the shot.  [SkyDome crowd: "Aaaah".]  The starbase's mighty
space doors rotate into view.  The camera moves in on space-dock
approach vector.  Slowly the space doors move toward the centre
of the screen, opening as we approach.  We pass through. 
Starships are docked at intervals within the interior volume of
the cavernous `roundhouse'.  We see Indomitable, a sister of the
famous Excelsior; Fortinbras, one of the comparatively rare
Elsinor class; Argo, unmistakeable with large intelligent eyes
painted on the upper forward face of its saucer; and, as we come
around, the Enterprise, NCC-1701-D.  We move up to the
Enterprise, approaching the forward edge of the saucer section. 
Now we're close enough to make out individual people through the
windows.  Hey, they're having a party in Ten Forward!
     Indeed they are.  Captain Picard stands with a flute of
champagne in one hand.  He is entertaining a small attentive
group with a story he has been saving up for an occasion just
like this.
     "So the Admiral said, `Do you think that time travellers
will make another attempt to secure the Tox Uthat?'  Well, what
could I say, she'd virtually tied my hands.  I put the
shuttlecraft on autopilot, turned, and said, `Frankly, Admiral,
I'd consider that a Vorgon conclusion'".
     When he has finished laughing and his eyes have uncrinkled
he notices there is no one there except a rather sceptical-
looking Guinan.
     "Guinan.  I haven't seen you for a while.  Where have you
been keeping yourself?"
     "Right here.  Serving drinks.  You can't imagine how popular
Canadian beer is among the Borg."
     "Really?"
     They move toward the windows.
     "The last time we spoke you were considering retirement."
     "Yes, I suppose I was.  That seems quite a while ago now."
     Picard gazes out the window at the nearby shape of the
docked Fortinbras.
     "So?"
     "I beg your pardon?"
     "Are you going to retire?"
     "Oh, good gracious, no."
     "So why then and not now?"
     "Well, look at all we've learned.  We find that the galaxy
is bound together by wormhole superhighways.  We've learned that
the Borg can settle down and go to work for a living.  And,
perhaps most importantly, we've discovered that no matter how far
we travel we can never be sure that chipmunks haven't got there
ahead of us."
     Worf and Doctor Selar stroll by, deep in personal
conversation.
     "One simply does not know what new wonder will be added
next."
     "Hm.  I guess there have been a few changes."
     She looks over in the direction of the bar where Riker is
holding court.  He's saying:
     "Frankly, Admiral, I'd consider that a Vorgon conclusion."
     Peals of laughter.  Riker stands there smiling and stroking
his beard.  
     Picard: "Guinan, do you know, I've been thinking about the
events of the last weeks, and I wonder if there isn't a lesson in
here somewhere if we only look."
     "Oh yes, and what might that be?"
     "Well, as I stand here, observing Commander Riker score
social points with my joke, I am experiencing a certain degree of
discomfort and, I must confess, jealousy.  I really wish I had
his ability to control circumstances with humour.  But, in the
light of recent events I'm forced to admit that it is simply
unreasonable to expect to be able to have control at all times. 
I was planning to take early retirement purely because I was
infuriated at the fact that I hadn't been told some petty
bureaucratic secret.  Imagine giving up all this -- the entire
cosmos, if you will -- because of a tiny thing like that."
     "So . . . you're going to be a little less controlled in
future, is that what you mean?"
     "Yes, precisely.  At the end of Shakespeare's comedies there
is usually a dance, and even the Duke joins in."
     "Well, Duke, what are you proposing?"
     Picard thinks about what he's saying for a moment, and then
raises his voice:
     "Remove the tables!  Computer, Russian music!"
     The crowd forms a wide, curious circle, and as the
balalaikas strike up, Picard begins a spirited Cossack dance. 
Soon everyone has linked arms and is joining in.  Word quickly
spreads and curiosity seekers start to crowd into the bar. 
Guinan can be seen craning and counting heads.
     "Hey, we're exceeding fire regulations!"
     She grabs Worf as he bobs and kicks past.
     "What is it, Guinan?"
     "Worf, we need extra security on the door!"
     "Very well.  I'll send up three extras.  Worf to Security."
     Guinan slumps into one of the abandoned chairs pushed up
against the windows, amazed once again at the power of
suggestion, and finds herself seated across the table from
Counsellor Troi and a large chocolate sundae.
     "Is that your first?"
     "Third."
     "Better get out there," indicating the dance floor.
     She puts her chin in her hand.
     "No partner."
     "Ah."
     Guinan looks around the room and spots Riker and Security
Guard Ursula dancing by, clearly building up to a big date.  Over
to one side of the room Doctor Selar is running her fingers
through Worf's hair and whispering in his ear.  Or is that what
she's doing?  They seem to be of one mind about it, whatever it
is.  And now Picard is escorting Doctor Crusher out onto the
dance floor.
     "It does seem to be a pairs' finals.  Oh well, all's fair in
. . . ."
     "Don't even say it."
     "Well.  There's always that door repair guy."
     "Please!"
     "Where is that little rascal, anyway?"
     "Transferred.  Some technical problem at the starbase."


     Space.  The camera pans across the starfield and arrives at
the outer surface of the Starbase 106.  We see the huge space
doors, which have somehow managed to become stuck halfway open. 
A tiny figure in space suit and magnetic boots trudges across the
metal surface of the space station toward them, lugging a toolbox
and a twenty pound sledgehammer.  Low-level muttering and
swearing can be heard on the communications channels.
     [Music soars.  Credits.]
     

[Bob:
     Wipes away tear.
     "Oh, jeez, I always get emotional at endings like that. 
What a great show.  I'll remember this for . . ."
     The SkyDome crowd roars.
     "Oh!  There's more!"
     On the Jumbotron screen is a huge Cardassian head peering
down disdainfully at the assembled.  From the Ralph Lauren shirt
and Vuarnets it can be only one man: the Executive Producer!
     "Puny humans, did you imagine that my works were yet
complete?  To date you have netted my company $90 billion clear
profit.  But it is not enough!  Sales of Door Repair Guy action
figures have been sluggish.  Today, I announce the release of the
next four figures: the Antipodean, Saint Peter, the Green Party
fundraiser, and the lascivious Darryl.  But they won't ship until
current inventories are depleted!  Furthermore, the soundtrack
album is now out, featuring the music of Level 42, the Average
White Band, the Doobie Brothers, and many more.  Available at all
Sam's outlets!  And look!  Collector cards too numerous to count! 
So get out there!  What else.  Oh yes, the program has been
renewed.  Executive Producer out."
     Looting and rioting on Yonge Street.]

--
Written by Douglas A. McLeod (ai919@freenet.carleton.ca)
--

Episode 14 — DRG Must Die! Part Two

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