Subject: Whack The Weasel (long story. death of Wesley)
Date: Wed, 29 Sep 1993
Lines: 597
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WARNING! WARNING!
This story is a parody of Star Trek The Next Generation, in particular the long awaited DEATH of Weasely, er, Wesley Crusher. I have taken certain liberties with some of the other characters. If you don’t like people making fun of your sacred cows, don’t read this story. If you are offended by nasty words, don’t read this story (this story contains four instances of the word “penis”, one of the word “fuck”, two of the word “breasts”, and one “dick”).
This story also contains two deaths (Weasely, er, Wesley being one of them), one attempted killing, lots of people slapping Weasely, er Wesley, and a vicious character assassination of Deanna Troi.
Consider yourself warned.
(Come on, it’s not as bad as I make it sound. I’m just trying to pique your interest. ;) )
***************************************************************
Whack The Weasel
(or “Star Trek, The Degeneration”)
Draft #1.0
Sept. 20, 1993 – Sept. 27, 1993
(c) 1993, Richard Ward
(rrward@netcom.com)
(With apologies to Gene Roddenberry)
(With thanks to Kathy D. for her input and bloodthirsty editing)
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 46969.2,” Captain Jean Luc Picard
spoke into the hidden wall microphone. “The mission to map the
Chanard Gas Nebula is proceeding without incident. Nothing of
interest has occurred in weeks. The crew seems to have adjusted to
the monotony, but if something doesn’t happen soon I’m going to
lose my mind. This must be the least exciting mission I have ever
been on.”
Captain Picard stood and walked across his Ready Room to the
food slot. “Tea, Earl Grey, hot.” he told the machine. In seconds
his cup of tea appeared. He gingerly brought the cup of steaming
liquid to his lips, carefully took a small sip, but immediately
spit it out with abhorrent disgust.
“This is revolting!” he barked at the food dispenser. For it
had not given him a cup of hot tea, but instead a cup of hot brown
liquid that was almost, but not entirely unlike tea.
“Computer!” Picard called out. “What is wrong with this
damned food slot!?”
“The food dispensing software seems to have been corrupted,”
the computer replied.
“Why the hell wasn’t anyone notified of this?” he snarled.
“Current operating system version does not include automatic
reporting of software problems, security breaches, missing crew
members, shipboard fires, unscheduled shuttle launches,
unauthorized use of ships resources, phaser fire, knife fights,
graffiti scrawling, turbo lift failures, hull breaches, or alien
boarding parties. These items will be addressed in the next major
upgrade. Please contact your nearest authorized ScumSoft vendor
for upgrade information,” the computer informed him coldly.
“What are you programmed to automatically report?”
“Spelling errors, pet feeding times, and clogged toilets.”
Disgusted, Picard walked back to his desk tossing the glass
cup of hot filth into the food slot. He slumped in his chair and
glared at the shattered glass scattered across the floor.
“The only problem we’ve encountered,” he continued, “regards
our young Ensign Weasely, er, Wesley Crusher. His behavior of late
has been less than exemplary. Counselor Troi assures me that it is
nothing more than late adolescence, and will soon pass. I am not
so sure. There are times when I question the wisdom of
accelerating his education. Maybe we should have left him his
childhood. Picard out.”
Jean Luc Picard (voted “Best Buns in Star Fleet” three years
running by the “Star Fleet Female Officers Association”) picked up
his book, volume seventeen of the acclaimed series “The Seven- hundred and Seventy-seven Sons of James Tiberius Kirk” and returned
to his favorite pastime, reading scandalous things about dead
people.
On the Bridge an aura of catatonia hung like a funeral pall in
the air. Bored with their video games, Unnamed or quietly
inspected their fingernails. One Ensign slumped at his station
with his right index finger shoved up his nose to the third
knuckle.
Commander William Riker sat in his command chair staring into
the monotonous reddish brown that was the Chanard Nebula. Looking
merely bored, he was, in fact asleep. Deanna Troi had taught him
this trick when they were lovers. Unknown to him, she had often
done this when they made love.
Lt. Worf was the only bridge officer that looked even
reasonably alert as he had been spending most of his watch using
the tactical station to spy on the private lives of the crew.
Humans may be weak and fragile, he thought to himself, but they
sure are creative when it comes to sex. He was amazed at the
capricious exchange of mates, both overt and covert, that occurred
in the human population of the ship. He had learned long ago that
some humans were such sluts that they would have sex with members
of almost any species. This practice had come to be known as
“Kirking”, a term Worf did not use, as it mocked a former officer,
and a dead one at that.
In Engineering things were far from dull and boring. The
tension hung so thickly in the air that it impaired the activities
of smaller crew members. The only person oblivious to the tension
was the cause himself, Ensign Wesley Crusher.
Wesley sat at a terminal in a far corner of the main
Engineering section, staring intently at a grainy image on the
display. His sweaty hands nervously worked the controls, trying to
clear up the picture. Using filters and computerized object
reconstruction algorithms the young Ensign was able to get a
reasonable level of clarity. On the screen blue humanoid figures
engaged in various bizarre sexual practices, most illegal in the
greater part of the galaxy. If it was one thing Wesley liked it
was Andorian Porn.
The Engineering staff did their best to pretend Wesley did not
exist. While they did not like the sweaty little pervert, none
were willing to take his actions up with Lt. Commander La Forge,
lest The Weasel find out. Some forms of revenge were better
avoided. Everyone remembered the late Ensign Gomez’ shower.
In Lt. Commander Geordi La Forge’s office, said Lt. Commander
was in heated discussion with the chief of the Astronomical
Sciences Unit.
“Why is Long Wave Sensor Array Thirteen offline?” asked Lt.
Commander Ivan “Bozo” Bozonovitch, his face showing both his
Russian ancestry and his current state of annoyance. “It was
reserved for our use this morning and it has not been available for
at least an hour.”
“What are you talking about?” Geordi asked incredulously.
“That array shows on my board as being online. As a matter of
fact, I show it to be active!”
“Well we sure as hell aren’t using it!” fumed Bozonovitch.
“Someone is. I am definitely reading a power load to that
array, as well as a high level of data bandwidth going to its
processor unit.” Geordi snapped. “Who would be using a reserved
senor array without proper authorization?”
“The Weasel!” they spat in unison.
“Look, I’ll get that little shit off of that array and have it
back on line for you in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Bozonovitch said hanging up.
Geordi walked slowly out of his office, looking for Ensign
Crusher. He quickly spotted the annoying runt in the far corner.
His visor told him all he needed to know. Weasel’s, er, Wesley’s
blood pressure was up a bit, he was hot and sweaty, and blood flow
to certain parts of his body were just a tad high for doing
technical w
running by the “Star Fleet Female Officers Association”) picked up
his book, volume seventeen of the acclaimed series “The Seven-
hundred and Seventy-seven Sons of James Tiberius Kirk” and returned
to his favorite pastime, reading scandalous things about dead
people.
On the Bridge an aura of catatonia hung like a funeral pall in
the air. Bored with their video games, Unnamed or quietly
inspected their fingernails. One Ensign slumped at his station
with his right index finger shoved up his nose to the third
knuckle.
Commander William Riker sat in his command chair staring into
the monotonous reddish brown that was the Chanard Nebula. Looking
merely bored, he was, in fact asleep. Deanna Troi had taught him
this trick when they were lovers. Unknown to him, she had often
done this when they made love.
Lt. Worf was the only bridge officer that looked even
reasonably alert as he had been spending most of his watch using
the tactical station to spy on the private lives of the crew.
Humans may be weak and fragile, he thought to himself, but they
sure are creative when it comes to sex. He was amazed at the
capricious exchange of mates, both overt and covert, that occurred
in the human population of the ship. He had learned long ago that
some humans were such sluts that they would have sex with members
of almost any species. This practice had come to be known as
“Kirking”, a term Worf did not use, as it mocked a former officer,
and a dead one at that.
In Engineering things were far from dull and boring. The
tension hung so thickly in the air that it impaired the activities
of smaller crew members. The only person oblivious to the tension
was the cause himself, Ensign Wesley Crusher.
Wesley sat at a terminal in a far corner of the main
Engineering section, staring intently at a grainy image on the
display. His sweaty hands nervously worked the controls, trying to
clear up the picture. Using filters and computerized object
reconstruction algorithms the young Ensign was able to get a
reasonable level of clarity. On the screen blue humanoid figures
engaged in various bizarre sexual practices, most illegal in the
greater part of the galaxy. If it was one thing Wesley liked it
was Andorian Porn.
The Engineering staff did their best to pretend Wesley did not
exist. While they did not like the sweaty little pervert, none
were willing to take his actions up with Lt. Commander La Forge,
lest The Weasel find out. Some forms of revenge were better
avoided. Everyone remembered the late Ensign Gomez’ shower.
In Lt. Commander Geordi La Forge’s office, said Lt. Commander
was in heated discussion with the chief of the Astronomical
Sciences Unit.
“Why is Long Wave Sensor Array Thirteen offline?” asked Lt.
Commander Ivan “Bozo” Bozonovitch, his face showing both his
Russian ancestry and his current state of annoyance. “It was
reserved for our use this morning and it has not been available for
at least an hour.”
“What are you talking about?” Geordi asked incredulously.
“That array shows on my board as being online. As a matter of
fact, I show it to be active!”
“Well we sure as hell aren’t using it!” fumed Bozonovitch.
“Someone is. I am definitely reading a power load to that
array, as well as a high level of data bandwidth going to its
processor unit.” Geordi snapped. “Who would be using a reserved
senor array without proper authorization?”
“The Weasel!” they spat in unison.
“Look, I’ll get that little shit off of that array and have it
back on line for you in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Bozonovitch said hanging up.
Geordi walked slowly out of his office, looking for Ensign
Crusher. He quickly spotted the annoying runt in the far corner.
His visor told him all he needed to know. Weasel’s, er, Wesley’s
blood pressure was up a bit, he was hot and sweaty, and blood flow
to certain parts of his body were just a tad high for doing
technical w
running by the “Star Fleet Female Officers Association”) picked up
his book, volume seventeen of the acclaimed series “The Seven-
hundred and Seventy-seven Sons of James Tiberius Kirk” and returned
to his favorite pastime, reading scandalous things about dead
people.
On the Bridge an aura of catatonia hung like a funeral pall in
the air. Bored with their video games, Unnamed or quietly
inspected their fingernails. One Ensign slumped at his station
with his right index finger shoved up his nose to the third
knuckle.
Commander William Riker sat in his command chair staring into
the monotonous reddish brown that was the Chanard Nebula. Looking
merely bored, he was, in fact asleep. Deanna Troi had taught him
this trick when they were lovers. Unknown to him, she had often
done this when they made love.
Lt. Worf was the only bridge officer that looked even
reasonably alert as he had been spending most of his watch using
the tactical station to spy on the private lives of the crew.
Humans may be weak and fragile, he thought to himself, but they
sure are creative when it comes to sex. He was amazed at the
capricious exchange of mates, both overt and covert, that occurred
in the human population of the ship. He had learned long ago that
some humans were such sluts that they would have sex with members
of almost any species. This practice had come to be known as
“Kirking”, a term Worf did not use, as it mocked a former officer,
and a dead one at that.
In Engineering things were far from dull and boring. The
tension hung so thickly in the air that it impaired the activities
of smaller crew members. The only person oblivious to the tension
was the cause himself, Ensign Wesley Crusher.
Wesley sat at a terminal in a far corner of the main
Engineering section, staring intently at a grainy image on the
display. His sweaty hands nervously worked the controls, trying to
clear up the picture. Using filters and computerized object
reconstruction algorithms the young Ensign was able to get a
reasonable level of clarity. On the screen blue humanoid figures
engaged in various bizarre sexual practices, most illegal in the
greater part of the galaxy. If it was one thing Wesley liked it
was Andorian Porn.
The Engineering staff did their best to pretend Wesley did not
exist. While they did not like the sweaty little pervert, none
were willing to take his actions up with Lt. Commander La Forge,
lest The Weasel find out. Some forms of revenge were better
avoided. Everyone remembered the late Ensign Gomez’ shower.
In Lt. Commander Geordi La Forge’s office, said Lt. Commander
was in heated discussion with the chief of the Astronomical
Sciences Unit.
“Why is Long Wave Sensor Array Thirteen offline?” asked Lt.
Commander Ivan “Bozo” Bozonovitch, his face showing both his
Russian ancestry and his current state of annoyance. “It was
reserved for our use this morning and it has not been available for
at least an hour.”
“What are you talking about?” Geordi asked incredulously.
“That array shows on my board as being online. As a matter of
fact, I show it to be active!”
“Well we sure as hell aren’t using it!” fumed Bozonovitch.
“Someone is. I am definitely reading a power load to that
array, as well as a high level of data bandwidth going to its
processor unit.” Geordi snapped. “Who would be using a reserved
senor array without proper authorization?”
“The Weasel!” they spat in unison.
“Look, I’ll get that little shit off of that array and have it
back on line for you in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Bozonovitch said hanging up.
Geordi walked slowly out of his office, looking for Ensign
Crusher. He quickly spotted the annoying runt in the far corner.
His visor told him all he needed to know. Weasel’s, er, Wesley’s
blood pressure was up a bit, he was hot and sweaty, and blood flow
to certain parts of his body were just a tad high for doing
technical w
running by the “Star Fleet Female Officers Association”) picked up
his book, volume seventeen of the acclaimed series “The Seven-
hundred and Seventy-seven Sons of James Tiberius Kirk” and returned
to his favorite pastime, reading scandalous things about dead
people.
On the Bridge an aura of catatonia hung like a funeral pall in
the air. Bored with their video games, Unnamed or quietly
inspected their fingernails. One Ensign slumped at his station
with his right index finger shoved up his nose to the third
knuckle.
Commander William Riker sat in his command chair staring into
the monotonous reddish brown that was the Chanard Nebula. Looking
merely bored, he was, in fact asleep. Deanna Troi had taught him
this trick when they were lovers. Unknown to him, she had often
done this when they made love.
Lt. Worf was the only bridge officer that looked even
reasonably alert as he had been spending most of his watch using
the tactical station to spy on the private lives of the crew.
Humans may be weak and fragile, he thought to himself, but they
sure are creative when it comes to sex. He was amazed at the
capricious exchange of mates, both overt and covert, that occurred
in the human population of the ship. He had learned long ago that
some humans were such sluts that they would have sex with members
of almost any species. This practice had come to be known as
“Kirking”, a term Worf did not use, as it mocked a former officer,
and a dead one at that.
In Engineering things were far from dull and boring. The
tension hung so thickly in the air that it impaired the activities
of smaller crew members. The only person oblivious to the tension
was the cause himself, Ensign Wesley Crusher.
Wesley sat at a terminal in a far corner of the main
Engineering section, staring intently at a grainy image on the
display. His sweaty hands nervously worked the controls, trying to
clear up the picture. Using filters and computerized object
reconstruction algorithms the young Ensign was able to get a
reasonable level of clarity. On the screen blue humanoid figures
engaged in various bizarre sexual practices, most illegal in the
greater part of the galaxy. If it was one thing Wesley liked it
was Andorian Porn.
The Engineering staff did their best to pretend Wesley did not
exist. While they did not like the sweaty little pervert, none
were willing to take his actions up with Lt. Commander La Forge,
lest The Weasel find out. Some forms of revenge were better
avoided. Everyone remembered the late Ensign Gomez’ shower.
In Lt. Commander Geordi La Forge’s office, said Lt. Commander
was in heated discussion with the chief of the Astronomical
Sciences Unit.
“Why is Long Wave Sensor Array Thirteen offline?” asked Lt.
Commander Ivan “Bozo” Bozonovitch, his face showing both his
Russian ancestry and his current state of annoyance. “It was
reserved for our use this morning and it has not been available for
at least an hour.”
“What are you talking about?” Geordi asked incredulously.
“That array shows on my board as being online. As a matter of
fact, I show it to be active!”
“Well we sure as hell aren’t using it!” fumed Bozonovitch.
“Someone is. I am definitely reading a power load to that
array, as well as a high level of data bandwidth going to its
processor unit.” Geordi snapped. “Who would be using a reserved
senor array without proper authorization?”
“The Weasel!” they spat in unison.
“Look, I’ll get that little shit off of that array and have it
back on line for you in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Bozonovitch said hanging up.
Geordi walked slowly out of his office, looking for Ensign
Crusher. He quickly spotted the annoying runt in the far corner.
His visor told him all he needed to know. Weasel’s, er, Wesley’s
blood pressure was up a bit, he was hot and sweaty, and blood flow
to certain parts of his body were just a tad high for doing
technical w
running by the “Star Fleet Female Officers Association”) picked up
his book, volume seventeen of the acclaimed series “The Seven-
hundred and Seventy-seven Sons of James Tiberius Kirk” and returned
to his favorite pastime, reading scandalous things about dead
people.
On the Bridge an aura of catatonia hung like a funeral pall in
the air. Bored with their video games, Unnamed or quietly
inspected their fingernails. One Ensign slumped at his station
with his right index finger shoved up his nose to the third
knuckle.
Commander William Riker sat in his command chair staring into
the monotonous reddish brown that was the Chanard Nebula. Looking
merely bored, he was, in fact asleep. Deanna Troi had taught him
this trick when they were lovers. Unknown to him, she had often
done this when they made love.
Lt. Worf was the only bridge officer that looked even
reasonably alert as he had been spending most of his watch using
the tactical station to spy on the private lives of the crew.
Humans may be weak and fragile, he thought to himself, but they
sure are creative when it comes to sex. He was amazed at the
capricious exchange of mates, both overt and covert, that occurred
in the human population of the ship. He had learned long ago that
some humans were such sluts that they would have sex with members
of almost any species. This practice had come to be known as
“Kirking”, a term Worf did not use, as it mocked a former officer,
and a dead one at that.
In Engineering things were far from dull and boring. The
tension hung so thickly in the air that it impaired the activities
of smaller crew members. The only person oblivious to the tension
was the cause himself, Ensign Wesley Crusher.
Wesley sat at a terminal in a far corner of the main
Engineering section, staring intently at a grainy image on the
display. His sweaty hands nervously worked the controls, trying to
clear up the picture. Using filters and computerized object
reconstruction algorithms the young Ensign was able to get a
reasonable level of clarity. On the screen blue humanoid figures
engaged in various bizarre sexual practices, most illegal in the
greater part of the galaxy. If it was one thing Wesley liked it
was Andorian Porn.
The Engineering staff did their best to pretend Wesley did not
exist. While they did not like the sweaty little pervert, none
were willing to take his actions up with Lt. Commander La Forge,
lest The Weasel find out. Some forms of revenge were better
avoided. Everyone remembered the late Ensign Gomez’ shower.
In Lt. Commander Geordi La Forge’s office, said Lt. Commander
was in heated discussion with the chief of the Astronomical
Sciences Unit.
“Why is Long Wave Sensor Array Thirteen offline?” asked Lt.
Commander Ivan “Bozo” Bozonovitch, his face showing both his
Russian ancestry and his current state of annoyance. “It was
reserved for our use this morning and it has not been available for
at least an hour.”
“What are you talking about?” Geordi asked incredulously.
“That array shows on my board as being online. As a matter of
fact, I show it to be active!”
“Well we sure as hell aren’t using it!” fumed Bozonovitch.
“Someone is. I am definitely reading a power load to that
array, as well as a high level of data bandwidth going to its
processor unit.” Geordi snapped. “Who would be using a reserved
senor array without proper authorization?”
“The Weasel!” they spat in unison.
“Look, I’ll get that little shit off of that array and have it
back on line for you in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Bozonovitch said hanging up.
Geordi walked slowly out of his office, looking for Ensign
Crusher. He quickly spotted the annoying runt in the far corner.
His visor told him all he needed to know. Weasel’s, er, Wesley’s
blood pressure was up a bit, he was hot and sweaty, and blood flow
to certain parts of his body were just a tad high for doing
technical w
running by the “Star Fleet Female Officers Association”) picked up
his book, volume seventeen of the acclaimed series “The Seven-
hundred and Seventy-seven Sons of James Tiberius Kirk” and returned
to his favorite pastime, reading scandalous things about dead
people.
On the Bridge an aura of catatonia hung like a funeral pall in
the air. Bored with their video games, Unnamed or quietly
inspected their fingernails. One Ensign slumped at his station
with his right index finger shoved up his nose to the third
knuckle.
Commander William Riker sat in his command chair staring into
the monotonous reddish brown that was the Chanard Nebula. Looking
merely bored, he was, in fact asleep. Deanna Troi had taught him
this trick when they were lovers. Unknown to him, she had often
done this when they made love.
Lt. Worf was the only bridge officer that looked even
reasonably alert as he had been spending most of his watch using
the tactical station to spy on the private lives of the crew.
Humans may be weak and fragile, he thought to himself, but they
sure are creative when it comes to sex. He was amazed at the
capricious exchange of mates, both overt and covert, that occurred
in the human population of the ship. He had learned long ago that
some humans were such sluts that they would have sex with members
of almost any species. This practice had come to be known as
“Kirking”, a term Worf did not use, as it mocked a former officer,
and a dead one at that.
In Engineering things were far from dull and boring. The
tension hung so thickly in the air that it impaired the activities
of smaller crew members. The only person oblivious to the tension
was the cause himself, Ensign Wesley Crusher.
Wesley sat at a terminal in a far corner of the main
Engineering section, staring intently at a grainy image on the
display. His sweaty hands nervously worked the controls, trying to
clear up the picture. Using filters and computerized object
reconstruction algorithms the young Ensign was able to get a
reasonable level of clarity. On the screen blue humanoid figures
engaged in various bizarre sexual practices, most illegal in the
greater part of the galaxy. If it was one thing Wesley liked it
was Andorian Porn.
The Engineering staff did their best to pretend Wesley did not
exist. While they did not like the sweaty little pervert, none
were willing to take his actions up with Lt. Commander La Forge,
lest The Weasel find out. Some forms of revenge were better
avoided. Everyone remembered the late Ensign Gomez’ shower.
In Lt. Commander Geordi La Forge’s office, said Lt. Commander
was in heated discussion with the chief of the Astronomical
Sciences Unit.
“Why is Long Wave Sensor Array Thirteen offline?” asked Lt.
Commander Ivan “Bozo” Bozonovitch, his face showing both his
Russian ancestry and his current state of annoyance. “It was
reserved for our use this morning and it has not been available for
at least an hour.”
“What are you talking about?” Geordi asked incredulously.
“That array shows on my board as being online. As a matter of
fact, I show it to be active!”
“Well we sure as hell aren’t using it!” fumed Bozonovitch.
“Someone is. I am definitely reading a power load to that
array, as well as a high level of data bandwidth going to its
processor unit.” Geordi snapped. “Who would be using a reserved
senor array without proper authorization?”
“The Weasel!” they spat in unison.
“Look, I’ll get that little shit off of that array and have it
back on line for you in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Bozonovitch said hanging up.
Geordi walked slowly out of his office, looking for Ensign
Crusher.
