AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, we're back again with more silly parodies. Sick of it yet? Too bad! There's new shows that we actually watch, and that means there's new ways for us to work our crews into familiar situations. We want to apologize in advance, though, because we got a little LOST in this one.

Author: Anthony Butler, Alan Decker, Brad Dusen, Brendan Shust
Copyright: 2010

Star Traks: The Original Series in…

LOST


Travis Dillon knelt down, lowering his flaming torch to get a closer look at his nemesis. The same thing he’d done day after day now without being any closer to an answer.

“There’s got to be a way to open this,” he said, looking over at the small group of trusted confidants he had gathered. “What do we have that we could use?”

“Sticks, debris, rocks, and all the sand you could want,” Jaroch replied tiredly.

“I was looking for something more along the lines of explosives.”

“Right. Because so many of us like to pack dynamite in our toiletries bags,” Emily Sullivan said. “This is a jungle island in the middle of nowhere. I don’t think anyone was nice enough to leave anything like that conveniently laying around.”

“It was worth a shot,” Dillon said. “Hatch. How do we get into the hatch? Hatch. Hatch. Hatch. Hatchety hatch hatch hatchety…”

“SHUT UP!!!” Jaroch bellowed.

A loud roar suddenly echoed through the jungle.

“What was that?” Dillon demanded, looking around frantically.

The sound became clearer.

“Wait. Was that…”

“Scott,” Sullivan said. “He’s trying to fish…in the dark. It’s evidently not going well. Not that he was getting anywhere during the day either.”

“Ah. I guess that makes more sense then.”

“More sense than what?” Jaroch asked, instantly regretting it.

“I thought maybe the island monster stubbed its…smoke.”

Jaroch moved to strangle Dillon, but was stopped by the calming arm of Patricia Hawkins. Okay, it was more of a forceful grab, but the result was the same.

“Um…Travis,” Hawkins said, stepping in front of Jaroch. “No offense, but shouldn’t Captain Rydell be handling this?”

“He’s off at his luau tonight,” Dillon groused, returning to his study of the closed hatch.

“Where we should be,” Sullivan said. “He’s having roast boar and pineapple and rice and cake and beer and chips and…”

“Huh?” Dillon said, looking up from the hatch again. “Where did he get all of that food?”

“He was in the jungle yesterday and found this big door and…”

The hatch suddenly swung open and Captain Alex Rydell’s head popped up. “So this is where this goes!” he exclaimed. “Hey, guys!” His eyes locked on Dillon’s torch. “Very nice! That will look perfect next to the roasting pit!” He snatched the torch from Dillon’s hand. “Thanks, Number One!” And with that, he ducked back inside, slamming the hatch behind him.

“So…luau?” Sullivan said.

“Yeah,” Hawkins said as she and Jaroch followed Sullivan back toward the camp.

Dillon sighed and looked at the mocking metal door below him. “Hatch hatch hatch hatchety…”

“I wish I had a hatchet,” Jaroch muttered.


Star Traks: The Vexed Generation in…

Enterprise


“Captain, an Andorian warship is approaching,” Lt. Commander Vansen said from tactical. “Do you want me to polarize the hull plating or just let them blow us to smithereens?”

Baxter sat in the middle of the enterprise bridge, transfixed on the screen. “The viewscreen is so small.”

“Forget the hull plating,” Commander Chris Richards said from the engineering station. “Put up the shields!”

“It’s one hundred years before Kirk’s time,” Vansen shot back. “They haven’t invented shields yet.”

“Not like we have anything to worry about,” Baxter said. “The Andorians are our friends.”

“Not yet they aren’t,” Lieutenant Peterman said from the communications console. “At this point, they’re a hostile, warlike race.”

“So nothing has changed,” Baxter giggled.

“Oh, something’s changed, alright,” Peterman replied. “Our wedding won’t happen for another three hundred years. So you can forget getting in my pants tonight!”

“Damn!” Baxter cringed. “I hate the past.”

“Shouldn’t we hail that ship?” Vansen asked. “Or are we going to sit here with our thumbs up our asses?”

“Good point,” Baxter said. “Open frequencies.”

An Andorian woman appeared on the screen in chainmail uniform. “Rixtaraxsstat! Zhnatahtah axxsaz sharttttathh! J’hana!”

“What’s she saying?” Baxter asked Peterman.

“I don’t know. The universal translator is having a hard time deciphering the language.”

“This time period sucks,” Baxter muttered.

“They’re opening fire,” Vansen said.

The Enterprise shook as the Andorian vessel fired on it.

“Return fire!” Baxter cried.

“Photon torpedoes haven’t been invented yet,” Vansen said with a smirk. “And our phasers can’t cut through tin foil. Any other great ideas, Captain?”

“Helm, get us out of here!” Baxter ordered.

The person at helm turned around in his chair. “I would love to, sir, but I am afraid doing that would require me to recite dramatic dialogue, and maybe even have a facial expression, and I’m incapable of that.”

Baxter sunk his face in his hands. “This time period really sucks.”


Star Traks: Silverado in…

Futurama


“Good news everybody!” Professor Tunney announced, creeping into the Planet Express briefing room, “You’ll be delivering a package to Matria Prime, a planet where men are killed on sight!”

“Why is that good news?” Stafford asked.

“Where do I start!” mumbled Wowryk, shaking her head.

“What are we delivering?” Dr. T’Parief asked.

“Shut up ye ugly crab!” snapped Jeffery, chucking a glass in T’Parief’s direction.

T’Parief studied his script for a moment.

“‘Runs away shouting: Whoop, whoop, whoop’?” he read aloud, then looked up, “I don’t get it.”

“I thought he was a lizard?” Trish asked.

“So what are we delivering, anyway?” Stafford wanted to know.

“A jumbo shipment of bras,” Tunney said, “They’re in high demand on all-female worlds.”

“Ah don’t get it either,” Jeffery grumbled, “Why don’t the bloody Matrians just replicate the damned things.”

“That would ruin the story,” T’Parief explained.

There was a buzz as Sylvia’s face appeared on the nearby viewscreen.

“OK people, is there a reason why I’ve been painted this horrible neon green?”

“That’s the way they colour things in the year 3000,” Jeffery said, “They also replaced the warp core with this really cool dark- matter thing.”

“Dark matter?” Yanick asked, “I though that was a wood stove!”

“All right people, enough chit chat, let’s go!” Stafford ordered.

“Hold it right there!” Wowryk snapped, “You can’t give the orders, you’re not the Captain!”

“Since when?”

“The script calls for a FEMALE captain,” Wowryk said, “I nominate me.”

“What about Yanick, or Fifebee?” Jeffery asked.

“Yanick’s too blond sorry honey and Fifebee’s playing the part of the robot,” Wowryk explained.

Fifebee chugged a beer then lit a cigarette.

“Ahem,” she cleared her throat, referring to the script, “Bite my holographic ass.”

“Does anybody remember when our jobs made sense?” Stafford sighed.

Jeffery blinked in surprise.

“No.”


Star Traks: Banshee in….

American Idol


The ringing in Captain Jad Vorezze’s ears had finally subsided by the time Lt. Cmdr. Vince DiSanto had finished his performance. He lowered his hands from his ears and attempted to regain his composure before adjusting his plain black T shirt and speaking in an unconvincing British accent. “Commander, that performance was absolutely dreadful.”

Vince looked hurt as his face quickly contorted into a pathetic pout. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard Cardassian voles that gave better vocal performances.” The captain snapped. “And, I might add, just because Cher sounds like a man, does not mean one of her songs should be performed by a man.”

“Hey now.” Commander Tagel Axik said sweetly from the captain’s side at the judge’s booth as she adjusted one of her massive dangly earrings. “I thought Vince’s performance had a lot of heart. You really put some soul into the song.”

“Well thank you.” Vince grinned, then turned to the final judge. “What’s your opinion.”

Assistant Captain Velorn indignantly huffed as he sat at the end of the judge’s bench with his arms crossed. “Judging this is most illogical, we are only guest appearing in this situation for a few more paragraphs.”

“And even if this were real,” Captain Vorezze resumed, “You winning the idol competition would represent a failure in the system.”

Vince had finally become fed up with the ruthless criticism. “Hey, I’d like you see YOU get your ass up on here and sing!”

Jad leaned back and smiled. “I don’t have to, I’m the judge. Now on to the next contestant!”

Vince sneered and trudged off the stage. As he left, Commander Charlotte Burns pranced on, clad in fishnet stockings and a black leotard with gold nipple tassels attached almost identical to a similar costume worn by Madonna in the 1980’s.

Captain Vorezze stared at his first officer in horror as she stretched to begin her dance number. Swiftly raising his hand, he interrupted her. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to stop already.”


Star Traks: The Next Vexed Thing in…

LOST


Captain David Conway stood up and looked behind him. He was staring at total darkness.

“Where the hell am I?” he asked, but nobody responded.

“Great,” he muttered, hands on hips. “Everyone else gets to go on great adventures. Did you see that posse? It was great! And what do I get? Standing in the freaking dark. Did I mention I haven’t found a grain of coffee on this f**king island? I swear, it’s enough to drive a guy…!”

Suddenly Conway heard the strums of spooky, off-key, film-noir, music mixed with the sound of a blender on high melting in a fireplace.

“What the hell was th–?” he asked, turning, as suddenly a giant word came spinning slowly toward him in the darkness.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Conway screamed and ran.


L O S T


Star Traks: Silverado in…

Family Guy


“Honey, I’m home!” Simon Jeffrey announced, pushing open the door and stepping inside, “Is dinner ready?”

“Dinner?” Wowryk whined, “I’ve spent the entire day cleaning the house, driving the kids around and picking up the dog from the vet, and you expect me to have dinner ready?”

“Well, yeah,” Simon said, “Cuz, y’know, that’s what women are supposed to do,”

“Hello, Father,” little Luke said, looking up at Jeffery, “I see you’ve returned to this wretched woman’s domestic fortress. And by your own free will yet. How foolish,”

“Oh my God!” Wowryk said, putting her hands to her mouth, “The baby?”

Jeffery started.

“Baby?” he whispered.

“My baby is speaking in tongues!” Wowryk cried, “He’s possessed! Call Father Joe, call the Bishop! For the love of God get the Pope on the line!”

“Forget the baby!” Jeffery said, grabbing Wowryk by the arm and hauling her towards the bedroom, “If we’re married with children, that means I can FINALLY get some action!”


Star Traks: Waystation in…


Tina Jones looked around hesitantly as she stepped out of the elevator in to the gleaming offices of Crane, Poole, & Schmidt.

“May I help you, ma’am?” the receptionist at the desk asked.

“No need, Loni. I’ll take this one,” a man in a dark suit said as he slid up to Jones, looking her up and down in a way that gave Jones the sneaking suspicion that she was being mentally undressed. And judging by the slight smile on the man’s face, he hadn’t stopped at just undressing her.

“Alan Shore,” he said. “And what, may I ask, brings a woman as lovely as you into our particular den of inequity?”

“I…I had an appointment to see Paul Lewiston.”

“A pity.”

“Mister Shore!” a gruff voice called out, clearly irritated.

“And here he is now,” Shore said, stepping back as the source of the voice, a distinguished-looking grey-haired man approached from down the corridor. Before he could make it to Jones, though, he was intercepted by another, decidedly-larger individual.

“Paul! There you are,” he said, spinning Lewiston around. “I need your help.”

“What is it, Denny?” Lewiston asked tiredly.

“Give me your tie.”

“My…tie?”

“This one makes my cheeks look too red. Can’t have too red of cheeks in front of a jury. They think you’re a drunk.”

“I have a client, Denny.”

The larger man looked over at Jones. “Denny Crane,” he said.

“Oh my god!” Jones exclaimed.

“See, Paul. I’ve got a reputation. Give me the tie. Denny Crane.”

“Captain Kirk!” Jones cried.

“Denny Crane!” Crane insisted.

“Captain Kirk!” Jones repeated. “And you…you’re Odo! This is amazing!”

“Miss, I assure you…” Lewiston began.

“I’ve read all about you. Both of you. It’s such an honor to meet both of you. I can’t believe this is happening!”

“Well…since you brought it up,” Alan Shore said, his face so close that he was practically whispering in her ear. “I was Daniel Jackson.”

“Huh?”

“Daniel Jackson.”

“I’ve never…”

“Stargate?”

“Um…”

“The movie. Not the TV show.”

“Oh WOW! Captain Kirk!” Jones exclaimed, rushing away from Shore.

“Oh come on!” Shore cried.

His friend looked over and winked. “Denny Crane.”


Star Traks: The Vexed Generation in…

King of Queens


“Honey, I’m home!” Andy Baxter announced as he stepped into the kitchen of his modest Queens home, clad in his IPS deliveryman’s uniform.

Kelly Peterman walked in, hands on hips. “You’re half an hour late. Our dinner’s gotten cold.”

“No!” Baxter screamed, clutching his face and falling to his knees. He stared out at the TV audience and gasped. “But fat guys love food!”

“Well get your fat butt moving and call for some takeout, sweetie,” Peterman said, lovingly slapping Baxter on the back of the head.

“Hey, cut the fat jokes,” Baxter grimaced, rising to his feet, as Harlan Baxter stumbled out of the basement.

“Why am I living in the basement, boy?” he grumbled, shoving a cigar in his mouth. “Frrhmmmfrm way a man frunmmm live.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be my dad living in the basement?” Peterman asked.

“Yeah,” Baxter said, scratching his head. “But your dad isn’t good for cheap laughs.”


Star Traks: The Traks Files in…

LOST


“…and that’s all the island is,” Starfleet Intel Agent Samantha Dallas said with a roll of her eyes.

The gathering of scraggly, disheveled and rather smelly castaways stared back at her in stunned shock.

“That’s it?” the one known as Jack exclaimed. “We’ve been here for two months struggling to find food. Shelter. A clue. Meanwhile we’ve been beat up, shot at, blown up… People have died! But you! You show up and figure everything out in a day and a half!”

“She’s annoying like that,” Agent Batyn muttered.

“It wasn’t that hard,” Dallas said. “If you people had actually tried investigating instead of whatever the hell else you were doing?”

“Surviving?” the older bald man called Locke said, his eyes practically bulging.

“Whatever,” Dallas said. “Now if you’d tried investigating, you would have noticed that… Hey. Why’d you all pull out your guns?”


Star Traks: Banshee in….

Desperate Housewives


The sun was shining as always as Dr. Elizabeth Lang slowly made her way across the cozy street of Wisteria Lane to the house of her mysterious new neighbor. Nervously, she rang the doorbell and waited until her reclusive neighbor opened the door.

“Yes?” Commander Charlotte Burns asked, barely peeking out from inside.

“Hi Charlotte,” Liz said sweetly, “It’s Doctor Lang, from across the street.”

“Yes, I’m acquainted.” Charlotte said coldly.

“Ummm…” Liz stuttered for a moment as she attempted to find the words to brooch what she determined was likely a touchy subject. “Some of the other neighbors and I were wondering, well… why is it that you have a man locked in your basement?”

Charlotte blinked yet still did not appear overly fazed. “I didn’t realize I required a permit to keep a man locked up in my basement.”

“Well no but…” Dr. Lang bowed her head back in slight embarrassment.

“But what?” Charlotte snapped. “I find it hard to believe that you and the other neighbors have nothing better to do than to sit around wondering why I keep men locked up in my basement?”

“Yes, yes, we know,” Liz was becoming flustered, “but, well, you know, it is a little weird.”

“No weirder than you walking around talking to that damned hamster on your shoulder.” Charlotte cocked her head indignantly.

Liz flinched. “Right… right…” Her face was beginning to turn beet red with embarrassment. “I suppose I should just be going then.”

Charlotte nodded. “Yes, you should.” She then promptly slammed the door.

Liz quickly scurried off of the porch as sounds of whipping and screaming became audible from inside Charlotte’s house.


Star Traks: Silverado and The Vexed Generation in…

Trading Space(ship)s


“Hello and welcome to Trading Spaces,” Mirk said, flashing a winning smile at the camera, “Vonna, why don’t you introduce our audience to our fantastic guests for this session?”

“Vhy of course, Murk,” Vonna said, “Ve haff vith us today from ze U.S.S. Silverado: Simon Jeffery, Trish Yanick, Noel Wowryk und T’Parief. From ze U.S.S. Explorer ve haff Andy Baxter, Kelly Peterman, J’hana and Chris Richards,”

“Thanks, Vonna!” Mirk grinned, “So, for the next week our contestants are going to…trade spaces! Each crew will have the amazing oppurtunity to fix up and redesign the ships!”

“We SO got the better end of this deal,” Jeffery whispered to T’Parief.


Day 1


“Chris, can you help me with something here?” Baxter called, staring at confusion at an open panel in the Captain’s Dining Room.

“I’m a little busy down here,” Richards sighed over the comm, “We’re trying to bang the dents out the door frames in T’Parief’s quarters,”

“You sure know how to use a hammer, Chris,” Sylvia cut in, her voice low and silky,”

“This is starting to get creepy!” Richards said, sounding worried.

“Chris,” Baxter said, “Are replicators supposed to have kitchen utensils in them?”


“How about the arena?” Yanick asked, “We could re- upholster?”

“Or maybe we could replace all the missing latinum fixtures in the bathrooms,” Wowryk suggested.

“Ye do what ye want,” Jeffery said, leaning back in the Explorer’s command chair and hitting the ‘Laurentian Massage’ button, “Ooooohhh yeah ..”


Day 2


“OK, people!” Mirk said happily, “Our interior designed has some ideas for this conference room that he’s just DYING to share with you!”

“Yes, well listen up kiddies,” Yeoman Biggs said, nose uplifted, “This room right now? It just screams ‘kill me’. Now, first I want to move this wall out about 2 feet. Then we need to get rid of this Starfleet grey and put in some relaxing Earth tones.”

“You can’t move the wall out 2 feet!” Richards exclaimed, “That’s the outer hull of the ship!”

“Look, honey,” Biggs said, “Leave the design to me. You just make it happen,”

“Oh Chris,” Sylvia called, “I think my deuterium injectors are out of alignment again. I need your ‘magic touch’,”

“I can’t work like this,” Richards shook his head.


“T’Parief! Spit that out!”

“MMFFPPHH?”

“Spit him out!”! Yanick ordered, stomping her foot.

Abashed, T’Parief opened his mouth. Counselor Peterman’s hedgehog jumped out and scurried across the deck.

“You don’t eat pets!” Yanick snapped.

“He looked so tasty,” T’Parief shrugged.

“Just help me move this couch!”


Day 7


“Und now,” Vonna said, “Is time for our two teams to view their new homes!”


Yanick looked around.

“It doesn’t really look different to me,” she shrugged. T’Parief was running his hands over the door frames. He sighed.

“I had finally made enough of an indent that hitting these was no longer painful,” he shook his head, “Now I must start again.

“What happened to the conference room?” Wowryk asked, “It looks like a cave in there. Somebody replaced all the chairs with these funny cushions,” she held out a grey pillow shaped almost like a rock,”

“Simon,” Sylvia said, sounding very pleased, “I picked up a bunch of new maintenance techniques that you simply MUST learn!”


Baxter looked around.

“They didn’t do anything!” he complained.

“What do you expect?” Richards shrugged, “We kept her in pretty good shape anyway,”

“What a ripoff,” Baxter grumbled. He sat in his seat, noticing that the lumbar adjustment was out of whack.

“And SOMEBODY’s been sitting in my chair!”


Star Traks: Boldly Gone…in…


“There you are,” Tovar said as he stepped out onto the balcony, cigar in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other.

“Where else would I be?” Reginald Bain asked without looking back at the newcomer.

“That is true. We do seem to come out here a lot.”

“Every week. It’s becoming a bloody cliche.”

“Well, there’s something to be said for consistency,” Tovar said sitting down in the chair next to Bain.

“Bollocks. Consistency dulls the brain, lad. Look at me. Always on the move and sharp as a tit.”

“Tack.”

“Whatever.”

The two sat in silence.

“I believe I have a problem,” Tovar said finally.

“Another one?” Bain said. “First it was the night terrors, then the clowns, then the speaking gibberish. What is it now?”

“I’m hearing voices in my head.”

“You’re Yynsian. That’s supposed to happen.”

“Ah.”

Their comradery was broken as a wide-eyed man burst out onto the balcony. “You’ve got to help me!” he exclaimed.

“What the devil!” Bain cried, leaping up from his chair. “Who let you out here?”

“They’re after me!”

“As well they should me. You’re trespassing.”

“Who is after you and why?” Tovar asked soothingly.

“The police. They know I did it.”

“Did what?”

“Killed my wife.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” the man said, rushing up to Bain. “You’re the best lawyer in the city. You can get me off.”

Bain suddenly hauled back and hit the man with a solid right cross. He staggered backwards, toppled over the balcony railing, and plummeted to the street below.

“What was that?” Tovar asked in horror.

“Serving justice, if you ask me.”

“But…you can’t…”

The older man just winked. “Reggie Bain.”


The Star Traks: Silverado Hazardous Team in…

C.S.I.


“Hmmm,” David Stern said thoughtfully, eyeing the crime scene in front of him, “It looks to me like the killer beat the victim with a stick until he was unconscious, sodomized him with it, sliced off his arms and hung him from this tree. What do you think, Marsden?”

Silence.

“Marsden?” Stern asked, looking around. He finally located Marsden, who had run to the nearest dumpster and was vomiting profusely.

“C’mon, guy,” Stern said, annoyed, “If you’re going to work crime scenes, you’re supposed to have a strong stomach. I’m pretty sure that was in the contract!”

“Can we at least take the stick out?” Simmons asked, turning slightly green.

“We can’t disturb the evidence,” Stern reminded him.

“Aren’t we missing a few people?” Rengs Aris asked, “Like Kreklor and Darg?”

“This is 20th century Earth,” Simmons said, “No aliens, remember?”

“But I’m Bajoran!” Rengs objected.

“Naw, you just got your nose caught in a mechanical rice-picker,”

“A WHAT?”

“Soo,” Marsen said weakly as he returned, digging into his pockets for a pack of gum, “I guess we have to solve this crime now, huh?”

“You bet, buddy,” Aris said, pulling a pair of rubber gloves on with a loud ‘SNAP’.

“Oh, I missed something,” Stern commented as the body slowing rotated in the breeze, revealing an open chest cavity, “Looks like’s he’s been gutted, too!”

“URK!” Marsden gulped, running back to the dumpster.

“Well screw this!” Simmons snapped, turning to leave, “I never want to meet the sick bastard that did this and I sure as hell don’t want to get on his bad side by throwing him in jail!”


Star Traks: The Vexed Generation in…

LOST


“God damn it, why am I the fat one again?” Baxter cried, sitting on a tattered airplane seat on the beach.

“I think you’re cute in an oversized t-shirt,” Janice Browning said, holding her newborn baby against her shoulder and rocking him. “And your hair is really cool.”

Baxter stared at himself in the reflection of a discarded airplane hull. “Christ. It’s huge.”

“When are we going to get off this bloody island,” Richards said, walking up to Baxter and Browning, carrying a guitar. “And who wants to hear me new song?”

“Why are you talking like that?” Browning asked.

“Because I used to be in a rock band, love,” Richards said. “Don’t you remember me hit song?”

“No. Stop talking like that. It’s irritating.”

Baxter laughed. “Haha….hooooooooooooo…WOW!” He gaped as Kelly Peterman walked up in tight fitting courderoys with cute little flaps on the back and a tight tank top, looking muscular and sweaty.

“Can somebody help me skin a wild boar I just caught with my teeth?”

“I’ll help, freckles,” Dave Conway said, jogging up, looking rugged and handsome.

“WHAT THE F**K!” Baxter snapped, standing up and stomping his foot angrily, kicking up sand. “Why are you the rugged, handsome one?”

“Hey everyone, gather around,” Alvin Ficker announced, jogging up to the group. “Some big black cloud thing is attacking people at random, right after they flash back to important moments from their past.”

“Damn it!” Baxter snapped again. “You’re rugged and handsome too.”

Peterman bit her lip. “Hold that thought, Andy. I need to join the posse.”

“Me too,” Conway said eagerly. “Hold up there, Freckles!”

“Stop calling me that!” Peterman replied as she and Conway raced to follow Ficker.

Baxter stared at his feet a few moments while Richards observed.

“Don’t feel bad, buddy,” Richards said. “We don’t always get to play the heroes.”

“Hi there,” Chaka’kan pouted, walking up, looking gloomy.

“What’s your problem?”

“The only woman who ever mattered to me was killed in last week’s episode,” Chaka said.

“Was she a major character?”

Chaka shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care. Excuse me…”

“Crikey,” Richards said.

“Stop talking like that!”


Star Traks: Waystation in…

Desperate Housewives


“Cut!” Lisa Beck shouted.

“You can’t cut,” Amedon Nelson replied, rushing over to her. “They haven’t even started yet.”

“Perfect timing then,” Beck said as she stormed out of her kitchen headed for Wisteria Lane.

Tina Jones spotted them from across the street and approached, confusion evident on her face. “Are we done already?” she asked.

“You’re damn right we are. Did you read the script?”

“Not yet,” Jones said sheepishly. “I’ve got three or four kids in there. Maybe five. I keep losing count. I was only outside to get away from the noise.”

Down the street, Stephanie Hodges stepped out onto her front porch, saw her friends, and joined the group. “The bathtub’s great, but that man in the house has got to go.”

“He’s your husband,” Nelson said.

“I didn’t ask for a husband.”

Beck snorted.

“What was that for?” Nelson asked.

“The show’s called ‘Desperate Housewives,’ right?”

“Yeah.”

“Steph’s the only housewife here.”

“That’s not true,” Nelson protested.

“Read the script. I’m a single mom, Tina works, and your husband is dead.”

“Dead! I didn’t sign on for a dead husband.”

“And I’m not real big on being called desperate.”

“Hang on. We can fix this,” Nelson said. “Why don’t we switch roles? You don’t want the husband, so I’ll take him.”

“It’s Lazlo,” Hodges said.

Nelson grimaced. “I’ll…still take it,” she said hesitantly.

“I’ll take your part,” Jones said to Beck.

“No way. One kid is more than enough,” Beck replied.

“You could see about getting the sex-pot part from Diantha,” Nelson offered.

“I can assure you that I will NOT be wearing that!” Diantha’s voice suddenly boomed from somewhere in the vicinity of the wardrobe department.

“I’m suddenly starting to get the title,” Beck muttered. “I’m incredibly desperate to get the hell out of here.”


Star Traks: Silverado in…

Married with Children


“Paaaari!” Yanick called, walking quickly from the second level of her home. She took quick, tiny steps that gave her the appearance of having something uncomfortable crammed up her backside.

“What?” T’Parief asked, sprawled out on the couch.

“The toilet upstairs is overflowing again! Fix it!”

T’Parief thought for a moment.

“I could, Trish,” he said, “But if I leave it than at least you look good compared to something around here,”

DING!

“Hey, Bundys,” Jeffery announced happily as he let himself in, Noel following him.

“You’re in a good mood,” Trish observed.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jeffery grinned, “Another sit-com where I’m married to Wowryk! And you know what marriage means!”

“A complete and total lack of good sex?” T’Parief asked.

“Hey Pari,” Yanick said, crossing her arms, “Just because you’re about as useful in bed as a sack of cold fish guts doesn’t mean that everybody’s like that,”

“Mmmmm,” Pari sighed, “Fish guts “ He reached into a bag beside the sofa and stuffed a fistful of slimy, slippery organs into his mouth.

“Actually,” Noel said coolly, “Jeffery is dynamo in bed. At least I assume he would be, if he could ever actually perform “

“WOOOOOO!” somebody whooped.

“Who was that?” Noel asked.

“Studio audience,” Yanick explained, “They came with the house,”

“Is this all we do for this stupid show?” Yanick complained, “Stand around insulting each other??”

T’Parief tucked one claw into his waistband and belched loudly, the scent of fish guts filling the air.

“Not quiet,” Jeffery observed.

“Hey mom, hey dad,”

Everybody turned to look at the youth who had come up from the basement. He was green and looked reptilian, with a row of long but soft spikes running down the center of his haid.

“Who are you?” Wowryk asked.

“Robbie,” the youth said, “From Dinosaurs. Somebody just seemed to think I’d make a good son for this guy,”

He clapped his hands on T’Parief’s shoulders.

“Go feed your girlfriend,” T’Parief grunted, “And stop bothering me,”

“WOOOOO! Feed her good!”

“That is not what I meant!” T’Parief snapped, “You are taking that comment into a sexual context that it was not intended for!”

“Honey,” Yanick put her hands on her hips, “This is the Bundy house. Everything has sexual context. Speaking of which “ She smiled and eased her head back, putting the emphasis on her chest. Her trashy dress glared under the house lights and her over-applied makeup sparkled like broken glass. She moved slowly towards T’Parief.

“I feel sick,” Jeffery gulped, heading for the door. Wowryk followed him.

“Please,” T’Parief backed into one corner of the couch, “No. No!”

Yanick pounced on him.

“NOOOOOOO!!!!”


Star Traks: Banshee in…

LOST


The pristine beauty of this tropical wilderness was endless, yet somehow interrupted by the frantic pace by which Commander Charlotte Burns approached Captain Jad Vorezze, who lay sunning himself on the beach. “Captain!” She cried frantically, “Captain! We have a problem.”

“Can’t talk, tanning.” Jad mumbled to himself as he stared up at the blazing noontime sun.

“There’s no time! Commander Smith is trapped in some mysterious underground complex, Lieutenant Carn is being chased around by an awful jungle creature and the entire engineering department is on the brink of insanity!”

“Mmm, but it’s so warm and tropical right here.” Jad said as he sipped his pina colada.

“Yes, but you’re the captain, you have to-“ Charlotte abruptly stopped when she looked at Jad’s drink. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Jad gestured to the left. “At the bar.”

“What bar?” Charlotte spun around only to see a rather sturdy looking structure made of bamboo shafts and dried palm leaves sitting up the beach a few meters away. “Now wait a second. Where the hell did that come from?”

Jad shrugged. “I built it last week.”

“You mean to tell me we were out there struggling for our lives while you were building a bar on the beach!?” Charlotte stamped her foot in anger.

“I also trained a monkey to be the bartender.” Jad smiled.

As if by command, a small chimpanzee wearing a monkey- sized tuxedo popped up behind the bar and began polishing glasses made of dried coconut shells.

Charlotte huffed. “That’s not what kind of deserted island this is supposed to be!”

Jad shrugged. “Life is what you make of it, Commander. Go get yourself a drink and relax, the monkey makes an excellent Long Island iced tea.”


Star Traks: The Vexed Generation in…

C.S.I.


“What have we got?” Andy Baxter barked as he led his team under the yellow crime scene tape toward the non-descript suburban house, one of hundreds in this cookie-cutter neighborhood. Normally a neighborhood like this would be dark at this hour with all of its residents snuggled securely in their beds. Not tonight, though. Especially not with an army of police officers and spotlights surrounding this particular address.

“Double homicide,” the lead detective on the scene said. “The victims are on the porch.”

“What about them?” Baxter asked, gesturing toward the group of people being interviewed by uniformed officers.

“Dinner guests. There were eight people inside all together.”

“And then there were six,” Baxter said grimly. “All right. Let’s get to it.” He brushed past the detective toward the porch with Janice Browning, J’hana, and Ariel Tilleran following close behind. He knelt down and took a good look at the corpses. “This shouldn’t he here,” he said finally.

“You mean somebody moved the bodies?” Browning asked.

“No. Look at this place. We’re in GenericTown, U.S.A. How are we supposed to show that this is a crime particular to our city when we don’t have a single recognizable landmark out here? Where’s a casino, or the Empire State Building, or a beach? We have to show how ‘Miami’ this particular crime is or how…”

“Wait. We’re in Miami?” Browning said.

“It was just an example.”

“So where are we then?”

“Des Moines.”

“Ah.”

“Can we finish surveying the carnage?” J’hana demanded.

“You like this part too much,” Tilleran said distastefully.

“It is my second favorite part of the job.”

Baxter refocused his attention on the bodies at hand. “Two males. Approximately late-twenties, early-thirties. No outward signs of…”

PLOP.

A large slab of pepperoni landed on the forehead of the closest victim, splattering grease across his frozen features and sending an accompanying bit of melted cheese oozing toward the ground.

“Moh. Owwry,” Browning mumbled through a mouthful of pizza. Another pepperoni was precipitously close to falling off the slice in her hand while the remainder of the pie sat waiting in her open metal case.

“So much for the integrity of the crime scene,” Tilleran said.

“This is a waste of time,” J’hana snapped, rising to her full height. “We have six suspects available for interrogation. One of them must be the perpetrator. I will find out who it is.” J’hana covered the ground between the corpses and the suspects in a burst of speed and locked onto the first, a rather rattled-looking elderly woman, smacking the woman’s walker aside before setting upon her with a barrage of chops, kicks, and punches.

“Her favorite part of the job?” Baxter asked.

“Yes,” Tilleran said. “I don’t know why she’s bothering, though. He did it.” She pointed at another twenty-something male standing a few feet away from J’hana’s interrogation session. “He’d lied to the two victims about an investment deal, which resulted in him stealing several thousand dollars of their money. They were close to discovering the truth, so he poisoned their beers.”

“But you can’t do that,” Baxter protested. “Where’s the gathering of the evidence? The tests at the lab? The scientific jargon? The cool last-minute reveal?”

“Mind reading is faster,” Tilleran said before heading over to the detective on the scene to announce her findings.

“Wow. I really thought this job was going to be a lot more challenging,” Browning said. She picked up a slice from her case and shoved it in his direction. “Pizza?”

Baxter glared at her for a moment, then snatched the slice out of her hand and shoved about half of it into his mouth.

“Now isn’t that better?”

Baxter shook his head and stalked off toward their van, grabbing another slice as he went.


Star Traks: Silverado in…

Stargate: SG-1


Captain Stafford clutched his stomach as he was vomited out of the Stargate onto Octulon Prime. T’Parief sprawled out on the ground while Yanick reached out to the dial-home device for support.

“You know,” Jall groaned, “this may be faster than warp drive,” he climbed unsteadily to his feet, “but I’ll take a comfy starship over that funhouse ride any day!”

“So we need to look around, see if we find anything interesting or threatening, huh?” Jeffery asked.

“Or anything of scientific interest,” T’Parief reminded him.

“Too bad Fifebee couldn’t come on this one,” Stafford said.

“Yeah, well,” Jeffery shrugged, “the twentieth century frowns on holograms,”

“And yet lizards are OK?”

Jeffery shrugged.

“I guess your attitude reminded them of somebody else who played that part,” he said.

“Let’s take a look around,” Stafford suggested, leading the group up a path,”

“Look,” Yanick said after several moments of walking, “People!”

A small group of primitive-looking people had turned away from their labour planting a field to look at the group of strangers.

“Um, OK,” Stafford said, scratching his head, “Uh, hi folks. I’m Captain Christopher Stafford. I represent the United Federation-“

Jeffery elbowed Stafford hard in the side.

“Er, the Unites States of America,” Stafford finished.

“Sa, diq norga seq ja?” one of the people said.

“Bet you wish we had a Universal Translator about now,” Jall smirked.

“You people could have waited for me,” T’Parief grunted, coming around the last corner in the path, his fangs glinting in the sunlight.

As one, the villagers screamed.

“Jenani! Jenani!”

“I don’t need a Universal Translator to know that’s not a good word!” Staffod said, stepping backward.

“Honestly,” Yanick tried to calm the frightened people, “He’s really not that bad, once you get to know him!”

She ducked, barely avoiding a thrown rock. Another hit T’Parief in the side of the head, drawing blood.

“That’s not going to hurt him!” Stafford tried to warn the people, “It’s just going to make him angry!”

“Retreat!” Jeffery suggested as makeshift spears joined the rocks.

“Stafford to Silverado!” Stafford tapped his chest where his comm-badge should have been, “One to beam up!”

Nothing happened.

“No ship, dumbass!” Jall snapped, leading the retreat.

“RUN!”

They bee-lined back to the Stargate, a growing swarm of angry primitives following them.

“Look out!” Yanick shouted. One of the villagers has lit his spear on fire before throwing it, sending a flaming dart of light at the team.

“Shields up!” Stafford cried.

“THERE’S NO BLOODY SHIP!” Jeffery shouted.

“WELL THERE F**KING SHOULD BE!” Stafford shouted back.

“Does anybody remember the code to get home?” Jall asked, staring at the dozens of symbols on the dial-home device.

“I’ve got it written down somewhere,” Yanick started searching her pockets.

“Next time,” Stafford growled, “We’re bringing Silverado with us!”


Star Traks: Waystation in…

Battlestar Galactica


“Wait. We can’t do this,” Captain Lisa Beck said, looking around the CIC of the Galactica. “We already parodied this show in a regular story.”

“Yes,” Commander Walker Morales replied. “We did parody it. But this isn’t a parody. Now we’re in the show.”

“We’re…in…the show?” Beck said, the horror on her face growing with each word. “No. No way. Hell no. No way in hell. No to the Cylons and the death and the devastation and the fighting and the arguing and the gray walls and the black outfits.”

“Oh but the black brings out your eyes,” Lieutenant Commander Craig Porter remarked with a smirk.

A piece of the ceiling suddenly broke loose and plummeted to the deck, crushing him instantly.

“What the hell was that?” Beck screamed.

“He told a joke,” Morales whispered. “You must never ever tell a joke. Or laugh. And for Great Bird’s sake don’t smile.” He looked around at the CIC crew. “You hear me? No one smiles. If there’s so much as a smirk, I will hear about it…most likely because someone will be scraping your intestines up off the floor.”

“Now, Captain…,” he said, turning back to Beck.

But she wasn’t there. In her places was an odd ragged undulating rift leading to a blank whiteness.

“Where did she go?” Morales asked dumbfounded.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, sir,” one of the Galactica crew replied. “It was like she just ripped a hole in reality itself to get out of here.”

“Oh come on. It’s not that bleak,” Morales said.

“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

“Exactly.”

“Permission to flee screaming into the rift, sir.”

“Okay fine.” Morales looked around for a moment as everyone in the CIC raced into the welcoming white. It wouldn’t be so bad. They had a ship. An important mission. Impossible odds. Crappy technology.

“Wait for me!” Morales said, leaping into the tear.


Star Traks: Boldly Gone…in…

LOST


“What were those bloody numbers again?” Bain asked, squinting at the green-on-black Tandy TS-180 screen as the giant odometer above him clicked closer to zero and alarms wailed.

“Hold on,” Tovar said. “I’ll go get my notepad.”

“Bloody numbers,” Bain growled.

“Here you go,” Tovar said, handing the pad to Bain, who quickly typed the numbers into the computer, resetting the counter to 108 minutes.

Bain pivoted in his chair and turned toward Tovar. “Well, there you go. We saved the world again.”

“Yes. And will do so again in roughly one hundred and seven minutes.”

“Maddening, isn’t it, chum?”

“Yes,” Tovar said. “However, nothing to be done about it. Want to put another of those old albums on again? I was growing quite fond of Crosby, Stills and Nash.”

“I suppose,” Bain said thoughtfully, as a sound that could only be described as his inner ear draining suddenly filled his head. “What the deuce?”

Just like that, Bain suddenly found himself flashing back to a moment when he was standing in line at the airport, bent over the counter.

“I’m sorry sir, we just can’t get you on that flight,” the attendant, a cheery Australian man said.

“But I’ve got to get on that flight!” Bain snapped. “I’m supposed to be in L.A. in the morning! I’m going to be in a worldwide cricket tournament! I can’t be late!”

“Well there’s just nothing I can do,” the man said.

“Frag it,” Bain said. “This is maddening.”

He stared at her thoughtfully a moment and leaned in, whispering. “Listen…” he looked at his nametag. “Bruce…surely we can come to some sort of arrangement!”

“SIR,” Bruce said sharply, pushing Bain back a bit. “I am going to have to ask you to leave!”

“GIVE ME THAT BLOODY TICKET!” Bain growled, wrapping both hands around Bruce’s neck and throttling him, climbing nimbly over the counter and shoving Bruce’s head into his computer screen until it cracked and crackled.

Bain looked at the attendant next to Bruce with murder in his eyes. “Well, Crocodile Dundee, what’s say we make a deal?”

SHWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWOOOMP…

Bain looked up at Tovar, once again in the tiny room with the ticking clock and the computer. “Did you hear that sound?”

“What sound?” Tovar asked.

“Sounded like a croquet mallet being shoved in the exhaust pipe of a ‘78 Aston Martin.”

“No, I didn’t hear anything.”

“Darned peculiar. I was thinking back to a time before we got stuck on this bloody island, inside this bloody infuriating hatch with the Starland Vocal Band albums and the ticking planetary destruction clock…”

“Was it a pleasant memory?”

Bain thought again of shoving Bruce’s head into the computer screen. “Very.”

“That’s nice.”

Bain stood up. “It also gave me an idea.” He turned around and stormed off down the hallway.

“Where are you going?” Tovar asked, jogging after him.

“To get some blasted answers!”

Bain headed down what looked like a lengthy sewage tube, and reached up, yanking down a section of piping. He started banging on the walls as he walked.

“What are you looking for?” Tovar asked, narrowing his eyes quizzically.

“A hollow spot, my boy.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see…” Bain said, as suddenly the pipe made a hollow gong sound on the curved metal wall. “There! That’s it!”

He reared back and kicked at the wall. “C’mon, boy!” he ordered Tovar. “Let’s put some mustard into it and show this wall what’s what!”

“Yes, sir,” Tovar said, confused.

Soon enough, the metal wall bent inward and the rivets popped off. Bain peeled it back and ducked in, cupping his hand to his ear. “There! You hear that! The sounds of computer keys!”

“Not another Tandy computer,” Tovar muttered, following Bain into the dim compartment.

A few feet away, two scraggy faced men in Star Wars t-shirts were hunched over a computer, grinning, bathed in the light of its monitor.

“That’s perfect, Damon!” one man said, as the other kept typing. “We haven’t had them form a posse for at least two episodes.”

“Shhh, J.J.,” Damon said. “I’m trying to come up with a good way to end this episode and piss a lot of people off.”

“I don’t think we’ll have a problem with that.”

“Look here!” Bain said, marching up purposefully, waving his metal pipe. “I’ve had quite enough of being jerked around. I want some bloody answers and I want them now!”

“W-who are you?” J.J. stammered.

“Pay no attention to the men behind the curtain…er…wall!” Damon sputtered.

“You two…you’re the ones behind all this?”

“We’re just writers, man!” J.J. said innocently.

“I’m just a writer,” Damon snapped. “You’re a multi- millionaire!”

“I told you the check’s in the mail. Now shut up.”

“Listen here, boys,” Bain said, leaning in menacingly. “I’ve been on this island fifty days. Every time I think I’ve figured something out, you throw another bleeding wrench into things. I’m sick of it. I want to know what the blue blazes is going on and I want to know now!”

“Sorry. Can’t do it. It’s confidential!” J.J. said.

Bain raised his pipe high.

“Just show him!” Damon cried, wincing and pulling back. J.J. obediently typed a command into the computer and turned the monitor to face Bain.

Bain read for a few minutes, his lip trembling. “My…God. That’s gripping. Poignant. Surprising. People will love it.”

“Thanks!” J.J. said. “Now, please, go back to the hatch. There’s lots more to do…”

He turned to J.J. and scowled. “NEVER!” and he set upon them, beating both men mercilessly with the metal pipe.

“Feel better?” Tovar asked as Bain walked out with him.

“Immensely. For some reason I’ve been itching for years to beat the snot out of a couple of imbecile writers.”


THE END