StarDestroyer.Net BBS

FIVE YEARS LATER.



The Independent Space Station “Astra Vegas”, on the Federation Frontier…



As Falkenhorst gave Sheppard the guided tour of his new Space Station, Shep could only look back and dream as to how much he had missed out on by not going legit (well-semi legit).

In this haven amongst the stars enforcement of laws regarding promiscuity and substance abuse either went unenforced, or didn’t even exist. Falkenhorst knew a business opportunity every time he saw one and jumped at the chance, selling his share of the porn production company and the aging former Klingon ship Asskicker to Shep to get his startup capital.

He had succeeded wildly, everywhere Shep’s eyes turned abord the station there was sweet blissful sin and indulgence. A corner hash-café was filled with the collective fumes from patrons of numerous species as they puffed hallucinogenic plans from star systems across the galaxy. Weapons were sold openly, including shoulder mounted microphoton launchers that could take out an unshielded runabout in one shot. More interest were the pair of green skinned Orion girls in the midst of frenzied passion. Judging by the empty guitar case in front of them, and the heavy armed Nausicaan standing behind watching the crowd intently Shep identified them as sex buskers with an armed guard. Their public performance was drawing quite the crowd and as the small bars of latinum were tossed in they increased their pace and responded to requests.

One man tossed in a full bar and squealed with delight “lick her asshole!” One of the Orions obliged, turned her lithe partner around so that she stood legs akimbo with her arms bracing then bench. She then spread her partner’s cheeks and began delicately dragging her tongue over the puckered flesh, and moved her hand up, gliding her fingers over the dripping wet pussy but mere centimeters away.

The crowd roared with approval until an overzealous Andorian took a step forward and was promptly shot in the head by a disruptor, causing the victim’s cranium to explode. The body fell backwards and was dragged off by a couple of armed guards at the discretion of Falkenhorst’s assistant and Station CFO Nog, who accompanied the two men on their tour.

“And over here…Falkenhorst said has he escorted Shep down the gleaming white hallway, waiting for a minute as Sheppard became entranced by the Orion sex buskers, who had moved into a 69 position and were making more money in that minute than Shep had over the last six months. Fortunately Falkenhorst had offered to take the Asskicker and her crew in until Shep could find them some work.

“Over here is one of our body modification parlors.” Looking in through the window of the parlor, a young woman was seated on a chair face down as a curious looking man wearing chains, leather, and surgical gear performed a procedure on the back of her neck. “The rage right now,” Falkenhorst explained, “is to add duranium links under the skin, graft to the bone, and then cover the link with skin. The BDSM crowd loves them for built in fetish play. The chains can be kept at home when not in use, and are much more durable than the retractable pet leashes.”

“Doesn’t Starfleet come in and bust your ass over this though?” Shep asked. “Federation body modification laws are very strict, needless for me to mention the various distilleries, fetish clubs, holo-brothels, and was that a guy dealing crack in the last hallway?”

“We’re small enough that the Federation doesn’t really keep tabs on us,” Falkenhorst explained. “Besides, I’ve just made a deal that will keep the Federation out of here forever.”

Opening the door to where the two were scheduled to have lunch, Shep stepped through the door in horror to see Data. “We would be honored if you would join us Mr. Sheppard.”

Sheppard’s jaw dropped and he went for his sidearm, a 9mm Glock that hadn’t left his side in five years time, but the android’s metal skin proved too much for the bullets.

”That pale mechanical fuck has been seriously upgraded.” Thought Sheppard as the doors closed behind him.



UNNAMED PORNO FANFIC II

CHAPTER ONE: THESE BROKEN BONDS



Starfleet HQ, Earth.



Sitting in his quarters at Starfleet Command on Earth, Admiral William T Riker sat at his desk, stroking his beard as if it were a treasured family pet. He was in the middle of a visual transmission to the Federation President.

“Admiral Riker, the Zeon political situation is unstable at best. I don’t see how you think you will be able to convince them to help our failing economic situation.”

Beneath Riker’s beard, a smug grin began to form. “I can see why you would think that Mr. President, but what if I were to tell you that I have a tacit agreement with the Duchess of Zeon herself to reopen Zeon markets to Federation goods and services, including an exclusivity agreement to provide the entire Principality with raw spermstock.”

The President’s eyebrows arched high, the Zeon sperm shortage was in its fourth year after the fallout between the two governments after the “Hyperion Debacle” when Federation Captain Hyperion crashed an entire year’s worth of sperm bound for Zeon into a nearby planet.

“You have to understand my skepticism at that statement Admiral. Between the harm caused by our failure, YOUR personal failure to get that cargo reclaimed (SEE UPF CHAPTER 11!), and the fallout from Janeway’s abysmal negotiating afterwards we lot about 25% of our GDP!”

“It was a relationship thought beyond repair Mr. President,” Riker said, “at one time, but as the saying goes ‘Give the customer what they want.’ And I found out what the Duchess of Zeon wants more than anything else, and…”

Riker leaned back slightly with a dramatic pause and then clasped his hands together in a sinister fashion.

“I’m in the process of delivering that right now.”


The Independent Space Station “Astra Vegas”, on the Federation Frontier…


“Falkenhorst you fucking traitor…when I get out of here I’ll..”

Falk motioned over to Nog, who put on a pair of brass knuckles and proceeded to punch Sheppard in the dick as he was held in place by a pair of goldshirts.

“You were saying old friend?” Falkenhorst turned away from his former partner and looked over at Data, who was flexing the hand that he had used to deflect Shep’s bullet. “Maybe you didn’t realize that I’m in this business for money, not to make friends, and even though you’ve been flat ass broke since we split up you’ve managed to amass quite the bounty on your head.”

When the Data personality had been uploaded into B-4, it eventually took over the entire body resurrecting the destroyed Android, however in their attempt to build the most perfect spy the Romulans had also added several upgraded components, including reinforced armor plating for the exoskeleton and phaser lenses in the eyes. Data looked directly at Shep and fired the phaser eyes, stunning Shep into unconsciousness.

“So…we cool?” Falk said as he straightened the cufflinks on his slick suede suit.

“Yes Mr. Falkenhorst I believe that your and the Federation are ‘cool’ for the most part, Admiral Riker will be quite satisfied. However I must inform you that under Federation directive 396 I cannot allow you to maintain possession of Mr. Sheppard’s vessel.”

“You robotic sacksuck that’s my fucking ship! We had a deal!” Falk yelled as Nog reached for the brass knuckles again, anticipating a possible fight with the goldshirts.

“I have altered the deal,” Data said, “pray I don’t alter it any further.”

Falkenhorst cracked his knuckles and spit on the floor. Although he had no regret for turning in Sheppard, he had a lot of sentimental attachment to the Asskicker which he had largely restored himself from a run down shell barely suited for scrap.

“Now if you’ll excuse me gentlemen,” Data said as he directed the goldshirts to drag Sheppard away. “Take Sheppard into custody, where he will remain pending his extradition.”

Data and the Federation goldshirts left the room, giving Falkenhorst and Nog a chance to talk. “They came in on shuttles right? That means they will have to send a ship back for the Asskicker, you get the old boys together and tell them if they fucking play along with you I’ll give them each a thousand bucks. Load the cargo hold with all the spare parts and wait for me to show up, I am not letting those goddamn commies take my ship!”

“Very good sir,” Nog replied. “A question though, were do you think they are extraditing Shep to?”

Falkenhorst recalled the misadventures he spent time travelling with Sheppard, hoping that he was very wrong about his assumption.

“I have an idea Nog, and if it’s what I think it is then Shep is royally and truly fucked.”



The Hall of Feminine Oversight, Zeon Prime



The Duchess of Zeon, Marina O’Leary a.k.a Marina Von Zeon was the Head of State and Chief Executive of all 99 worlds of the Femdominate Principality of Zeon (a number inflated by no fewer than sixteen unmanned outposts in lifeless systems and twenty seven settlements of fewer than two thousand individuals propped up and maintained economically through government subsidizations). In addition to her duties ruling the country she was also the CEO of the State Owned Spermtrans Corporation.

Spermtrans was the constitutionally mandated monopoly charged with procuring viable sperm for use in the feminist utopias reproductive programs. As a feminist dominated dosciety with lesbianism strongly encouraged, imported sperm was essential to maintain population health. What few fertile males that lived in Zeon possessed no rights and were owned as property, just beneath pets on the societal structure, although they could become second class citizens provided they submit to castration to ensure their degrading sexual tastes were eliminated.

Unfortunately, an accident five years ago had crippled Zeon’s population growth. Attempts at viable cloning, and other various genetic experiments failed miserably. Leaving a five year window before the population would begin a dramatic age shift. Other importers were examined but the overwhelmingly human population of Zeon, descended from Earth colonists in sleeper ships, required sperm from the only other nation with a strong human population, the Federation.

A joke from a Federation Ambassador in the months following nearly provoked a war when he said publically that “Women aren’t good at science no wonder they’ve got so many fucking problems.” It was a dispute that only ended when the Ambassador in question died in a mysterious “transporter accident.” The lack of evidence pointing to an assassination was the clearest indication that the renowned Zeon assassination bureau “Miss-sad” was involved. However, with their economy in a state of shock following the cessation of trade with one of their biggest trading partners, the Federation declined to pursue the matter.

Meanwhile, the Duchess was also dealing with family strife. Five years ago her adopted daughter, Colonel Zaia Von Zeon, had gone on out on a routine investigation to investigate Breastmilk smuggling by members of a Porn Cartel also closely linked to the Zeonic Government’s Lesbian Procurement Division, a division responsible for recruiting gorgeous females to improve the physical beauty of the population (their motto: Beauty Inside and Out) through subsequent generations.

Upon returning, Zaia had seemed distant. A motherly offer to listen and an a subtle threat of interrogation later and Zaia revealed that she had undertaken a Temporal Preservation Mission. Under Zeon Military Law any attempt to undo the Principality via Time Travel was an act of aggression and it was the duty of all Zeon Citizens to prevent this by any means necessary. She revealed the treachery of the gnomes, and her moment of weakness in the past where she had consorted with a male, and a moment of further weakness where she had given birth and abandoned the child.

Feigning empathy the Duchess listened in every detail, but in truth she was cataloging every detail, the history she was listening to sounded familiar in a way. Secretly taking some of Zaia’s DNA from her hairbrush she had it compared to her own, and was horrified at the result.

The Duchess of Zeon, one of the Founding Mothers of the Femdominate Principality of Zeon, had adopted her own mother. She learned that her name itself was a paradox, as Zaia had named the baby Marina after her own adopted daughter. In essence she was named for herself. She had been abandoned in an attempt to guarantee her own future, but the life of an orphan had been a tough one and dissatisfaction with society’s treatment of women had led her to work to found Zeon itself.

This all meant that the one known as Sheppard, who five years ago had been one of the most influential Porn Cartel figures in the quadrant, was her father.

Embarrassed and humiliated beyond belief she waged a silent war against the porn industry under the guise of protecting women to run her estranged father out of business, to ruin his life as he had hers, although she could never admit to the fact that her life had been ruined, as admitting as such would be an admission that founding Zeon was anything but the pinnacle of her achievements, which would be treason.

The initial shock of discovering her heritage had tempered her response, but her outrage was still palpable. Colonel Zaia Von Zeon was stripped of her commission and last name and exiled to one of the subsistence colonies where she would build a life for herself. The love for her daughter and the hatred for her mother created a swirl of emotion best left for the judges of time and distance to rule on her fate.

She had felt her revenge almost complete when the problems of Zeon’s population trouble had started to show the early effects, pediatricians across the “99” worlds were reporting that their number of patients aged 2 or lower had plummeted dramatically and a scare was starting to build. The only answer of course would be to resume Federation sperm shipments, but could not appear weak in doing so.

Fortunately she had the ear of one Admiral William T Riker, whom she had met in the aftermath of the destruction of Romulus at a conference dealing with that situation on Q’onos. She had overheard Riker’s dissatisfaction with the Federation leadership and saw her opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. In exchange for letting it appear to be Riker who brokered the deal that would save Zeon’s people and revitalize the UPF economy, Riker would use his considerable military resources to find and locate her father, who had fallen off the grid. She didn’t tell him of their relation, merely that he was a wanted fugitive. With that done, Riker would gain prominence in the Federation as well and be able to seize a loftier position for him. The Duchess believed Riker to be inherently stupid, which would weaken the Federation and tip the balance of power more in Zeon’s favor.

She stood by herself in the Great Hall of Womanly Champions, looking at the unspeakably tall life sized statues, some of them reaching heights of nearly two meters. She was waiting for word from Riker, who was due to communicate her promptly.

After nearly an hour of musing, she finally got her response. One of her aides, a nubile young auburn haired girl with streaks of blonde wearing the standard issue button down blouse and short skirt all of her aides were required to wear, came into the room with the recorded message on a data pad, encrypted for the Duchess’s eyes only. As she turned to leaver her mistress in private, the Duchess gave into temptation and slapped the girl on the backside in the traditional Zeon way. Entering her password, she watched the recording of Riker.

“Greetings Duchess Von Zeon, if you’re receiving this message then it pleases me to inform you that Sheppard is in custody, we will transfer him to your tender love and care at the agreed upon meeting site at Deep Space Twelve. You may bring one ship and that’s it, Riker out.”

The Duchess gave a predatory smile, “You think that you’re the one running this little game of ours Admiral, but the lion tamer’s perceived skill is only equal to that of the lion’s patience. I believe you will find soon that the whip you carry is not the protection you believe it to be!”



THE LAST PARAGRAPH OF THE CHAPTER IS BEING EDITED OUT AND REWRITTEN BECAUSE FOR FUCK'S SAKE IF YOU THINK YOU KNOW A SPOILER THEN CLAM IT THE FUCK UP.

Fanboy, you're a sick fuck. Keep writing.

Darth Fanboy wrote:In a derelict room long since abandoned for reasons of maintenance costs and difficulty of cleaning, a long forgotten object stirred. A smoking device used by ancient earth people, made from hand blown glass with a porcelain base, began to stir though it had not been used in years. An ephemeral green glow went unseen as unworldly energy began to build.

Sounds like a bong. Does this mean Fanboy will be returning as a Spirit of Vengeance or other supernatural being?

Sidewinder do you just post every fucking thought that comes into your head? Here let me answer your questions and give you all the spoilers and make writing this thing goddamn pointless.

UNNAMED PORNO FANFIC II

CHAPTER TWO: SIDE ORDER OF PLOT


Federation Shuttlecraft “Snatch Rash”, departing space station Astra Vega.


Bound tightly at the wrists and ankles and unable to rely on the use of a safeword to free him, Sheppard was forced to lay motionless on the floor in the back of the Shuttlecraft Data was using to take Sheppard to the rendezvous point at Deep Space Twelve.

As the officers under his command piloted, Data went about gloating over Sheppard, his emotion chip’s smugness levels running at capacity.

“You know in a way I do owe you one Mr. Sheppard, after all it was your gangsters who helped me realize that I needed to off Picard and get out of the business for good.”

Sheppard recalled that it was his hired mooks, Frankie and Seppo who had taken down Picard’s black market porn studio after a financial transaction gone bad. Data was the one who had actually done the deed though.

“However, I’m being paid quite well by Comman….by Admiral Riker for this job. Hah! Did you see what I did there? I still can’t get over the fact that shithead made Admiral. Why do I want to emulate such a moronic species?”

Data sighed as he squatted down over Shep ready to gloat further.

“In the end though, I would have killed Picard anyway. Besides, I found out that while you weren’t directly involved, you had a restraining chip put in me (~See UPF Chapter 3!), which was installed but became damaged when one Geordi LaForge beamed me into a frozen river of shit in the cold vacuum of space. So you see, I really can’t waste too much time giving a shit about you. The Zeons are going to have a field day with your weak organic ass. Who knows? Maybe they’ll record it and sell the tape.”

Sheppard cussed under his breath.

“Sir,” one of the nameless goldshirts said from the pilot’s chair. “Our course is plotted and we are ready to go to warp.”

“Well good do you want a cookie?” Data scowled as he raised his hand and backhandled the guy in question, knocking out a tooth with his android strength. “Just fucking do it all ready, or do you want me to sit around like some bald headed walking queef waving my finger yelling ‘Engage!’ in the sissiest most non-French voice ever?”


Cargo hold of the Asskicker, docked at the independent space station Astra Vegas.


Nog was incredibly conscious of his cybernetic appendages as he moved through the darkened corridors of the Asskicker, wondering if Shep had even kept any of the old crew alive or if he had sold their bodies to science. Nog had lost all of his limbs in an accident perpetrated by Jake Sisko and orchestrated by one Julian Bashir, a demented rapist who was also an amputee fetishist. Bashir had also ran the DS9 porn ring until his demise at the hands of agents working for Nog’s current employer, Falkenhorst.

Falk had immediately recognized the Ferengi’s business acumen and potential and made him his right hand man, and Nog had risen to prominence handling the financial matters of the independent space station Astra Vegas, while he knew it to be the biggest break in his life he also felt a twinge of guilt for abandoning the crew of the Asskicker, where he had served as a bridge officer for years as well as the head of Shep and Falk’s numerous quadrant-wide Ponzi schemes.

Searching around though, Nog could see only rampant disrepair and stains that he hoped were not bodily fluids, even though deep in his lobes he knew this to be true.

He could not see anything, but his keen sense of hearing picked up a metallic clanging somewhere in the back of the ship, and he moved that direction, not sure he wanted to find anything at all. The tricorder he was using was only detecting the faint levels of power maintaining minimum life support, which was why the temperature was just barely above tolerable condition for most humanoids. Sheppard was notoriously cheap and did not install a proper air conditioning system on board, the ship was heated by dangerously allow excess power to radiate into the ship, which was sometimes a plus as crewmen aboard the Asskicker tended to meet a lot of very loose, very dirty women while simultaneously being poorly paid. As such, they didn’t have the money for vasectomies, child support, or rubbers. So any person who spent more than a few hours time in close proximity to the ship’s warp core eventually became sterile. One guy’s testicles completely dropped off, but nobody liked crewman Essell Akker anyway and he was shoved out of an airlock after asking Shep why they couldn’t corner the Lolicon Pornography market.

Nog moved closer and saw that there was a locked cargo hold with the security mechanism still active, keeping the door from opening. “Please! Let us out!” Nog heard the cry from a locked cargo hold.

Assuming it was Sheppard’s crew, Nog attempted to bypass the security lock, only to find that Sheppard had ingeniously used a padlock in its place made of duranium. Modern metallurgy combined with ancient 21oth century manual locks made life hard for the technologically reliant 24th century. However, Nog recognized the lock, it was based off an older design with a 4 digit combination dial built on, all the Ferengi had to do was figure out Shep’s code, which was usually easy.

“Six-nine-six-nine,” Nog dialed up, guessing correctly that the lock would be the same as Shep’s carelessly guarded ATM pin number. After popping the lock Nog pried open, Nog came upon a sight he was not unfamiliar with, though it was rare.

”I have seen a room full of naked Asian humans twenty three times.

Only four of those times were they all males.

And none of those times were they all THE SAME GUY.”

One of the men, identical to all of the others stood up shivering, covering his shame with both hands though one would have sufficed. He offered a hand in gratitude but Nog declined for obvious reasons.

“Oh thank god someone came! Didn’t expect a Ferengi though…hi my name is…I mean our name is…I mean I’m…ah this is awkward. We’re Harry Kim!”

Nog stepped back, turning his head into the hallway so he didn’t have to stare at the assorted naked men standing around. Not more than twenty minutes back on the Asskicker and things had already become so surreal that he wondered if he was still having a nightmare back in his bed as a kid aboard Deep Space Nine.



Slums of San Francisco, Earth (Present Day Oakland)



“Oh come on you god forsaken waste of rooster sperm!” Tom Paris yelled as he slammed his fist onto the table in front of him. Ever since he had been transferred to a desk job in the wake of the disastrous border skirmish against Zeon, where his modern task force had been defeated by reconfigured but antiquated Klingon military surplus, he had relied on the weekly cockfight for entertainment.

Long since removed from its heyday as a West Coast bastion of American counterculture and off beat lifestyles, the installation of Starfleet’s Headquarters and Academy campus had revitalized the city in the wake of the third world war; unfortunately it had been revitalized into a whitewashed utopia for the bland and whitewashed. Only in the city slums in what was once known as Oakland was there any sort of entertainment for more average folks who didn’t cream at the idea of listening to opera and drinking earl grey tea.

“PECK HIS FUCKIN EYES OUT!” Paris yelled, as his bird of choice maneuvered deftly, but not enough so to avoid being struck by a sharpened beak. The other bird was too strong and too fast, and cornered Paris’s bird, which he had “affectionately” nicknamed Chakotay. “GOD DAMMIT!” He yelled as a hispanic gentleman in a flannel shirt came over to collect his money.

A voice came from behind him. “Commander Paris, I had heard that you Voyager crew used to ‘rock out with your cock out’, but I had always believed that meant Janeway lined you up and just slapped your dicks around while you giggled like sissies at each other.”

“Ah fuck! Admiral Riker I uh….I’m investigating this place ummm, for space Al-Qaeda!”

Riker waved his hand dismissively. “I really don’t give a shit why you’re here or that you’re here. Shit I get kickbacks from Paco over there who, by the way, just took your money so in essence I have to thank you for twenty percent of that.”

“Sir?” Paris replied, he was very confused wondering if he wasn’t involved in some kind of entrapment.

“Sit your ass down and shut the fuck up, I’m not Janeway and I’m not going to play those kind of silly fucking games with you,” Riker grit his teeth as hard as he could, seeing as how he was lying through them. “I have a…well it’s not officially sanctioned but it’s a hell of a lot more interesting than rubber stamping your name on reports all day, and it’s got a good payoff too.”

Paris sat down; he was genuinely interested in the action, but also interested in keeping on Riker’s good side. Officially the man could bust him down to Ensign; unofficially he could have his throat cut open to make way for a Colombian necktie. “I’m all ears Adm…”

“NAH! Ah, here I am Slick Willie.”

“Ok…Slick Willie.”

“No wait nevermind it sounds like you are hitting on me when you say that just call me sir.”

“Ok…sir…well whatever it is you have in store for me I’m on board, but why does Starfleet want me on this? I’ve been blackballed from any real assignments for some time now.”

Riker leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Look I told you this one’s off the books, you’ll be given a posting to cover for it but you report to me. I need you on this because I need someone nobody in Starfleet wants anything to do with, and I think you’ll be extra motivated to get revenge on the Zeon.”

Now Paris didn’t even care what the payout was. “Sounds awfully good sir. Sounds daaaaamn good.”

Riker smiled, he now had the last piece of his puzzle that he needed to further his plans to take over Starfleet.



Federation Shuttlecraft “Snatch Rash”, departing space station Astra Vega.



Falkenhorst knew that the Feds were going to tow the Asskicker, as any decent scan would show that it was not safe to operate. Although Falk knew from building the thing that it was just barely enough to be serviceable. While the Federation didn’t care about sending disposable crewmen to their deaths, they did want the ship intact which would require a tow to encase Asskicker in a far more stable warp field than she could ever generate herself.


While Falkenhorst had a station security force, this particular matter needed to be handled outside of official channels to avoid liability for the station. He didn’t want to risk the insane profit he was generating from the station, but the Asskicker was his baby and despite the majority of his publically spoken sentences being about the importance of money, secretly, he loved that ship too much. Unfortunately his former “problem solver” associates Frankie and Seppo had retired from the thuggery business in order to open their own bed and breakfast on Risa and subsequently were married, a complete surprise to Falkenhorst.

As soon as Nog checked out the ship to get the crew and load the cargo hold with spare partsThe crew would fake stealing the ship, and fake an explosion, going to warp at the last second and ejecting the spare parts to simulate an explosion that destroyed most of the ship. Not the best plan Falk admitted to himself, but so long as he could keep his name disconnected from it he felt it would be fine.

Pushing a button on his desk, he established an encrypted communications link with Nog. “Nog, did you find the crew and load that shit into the main hold yet?”

“The old crew’s gone, I have no idea where they are. But this room full of naked Asian dudes who say they are the crew now.”

“Say what? The fuck has Shep gotten himself into?”

”They’re all clones of some guy named Harry Kim, apparently Shep found them while rooting around the old Janeway estate after the Zeons offed that bitch. Found them in a bunch of vats of banned cloning tech. That cheapskate fired the old crew and replaced them with these clones and threatened them to work for him for free or he’d turn them all over to Janeway and they agreed without question.”

“Doesn’t explain why they’re naked,” Falk grumbled.

“Shep told them to hide in the closet when they got to the station, apparently the original Harry Kim is out there and still has a shit ton of warrants out on him for something. Some Federation dipshit named Chocolate Latte signed off on them but I have no fucking clue why. Anyways, apparently they all stripped down on instinct, because whenever Janeway told them to “go hide in the closet” they were naked and it seemed like the right thing to do. They are all dressed now.”

Falk sighed, relieved that at least Sheppard had kept more than two or three people on hand. “Ok, good enough, just remember, GET THE JOB DONE. Those Feddie Fucks will be back any minute now with the big guns and I’d rather not have us standing around with our dicks out when they got here.”

”Sir, I told you, they got dressed!”

“Not what I meant you big eared jizzwaffle! I’ll go down there myself if the extra hundred bars of latinum you’re getting for this is too much for you to count.”

”We’re getting there! We have one of the transporters working, and are using hand trucks for the rest, it will be done soon!”

Falkenhorst switched off the communicator, angry with nothing he could do about it except light a cigar and hope for the best.



Federation Hall of Civilian Government, San Francisco, Earth



“…and so by Executive Order I am hereby authorizing humanitarian sperm shipments to the Zeon Femdominate, and call upon the Federation Congress to lift the embargo and sanctions currently imposed on that nation.” President Dalton said, profusely sweating as the propaganda lie he had been pushing for his entire administration had finally come to an end. It would not due for the citizens to know that Zeon had actually been the one to sanction the Federation.

It took all of the government’s considerable population-control methods working as hard as possible to suppress that particular bit of truth; any exposure now could be dismissed as “Zeek lies”. It was necessary, because if the Federation citizens knew that their socialist system was propping up the wealthy elite of the government and Starfleet they would react quite negatively, especially when they realized how much dough these “humanitarian shipments” were worth.

But Riker was a crafty fuck, and he needed to keep an eye on him. At the behest of Earth Senator Merkel President Dalton had requested the services of Admiral Thanas Opressa, the famed German animal who was rumored to have a heart so cold that Rura Penthe wanted to sue him for trademark infringement. After the speech, the two men met under the guise of the logistics of the sperm convoys heading to Zeon.”

“That Riker”, Dalton said. “I think he’s planning something.”

“Zere ist alwayz an angle wit ze Amerikans in zis fleet. You can be sure mein investigation will be as orderly, precise and detailed as ist necessary to discover Herr Riker’s intentions.”

Dalton cringed, creeped out as much by the accent as the specially tailored uniform Admiral Thanas wore, including an elaborate belt buckle and bicorn hat.

“Look, I don’t want this to turn into a thing Admiral Thanas. Just…”

“Herr President if I may be forward,” Thanas interrupted. Dalton stopped talking just long enough for Thanas to slap him in the face. “A LEADER NEVER SHOWS WEAKNESS!” He angrily demanded before offering a tissue to deal with the welling tear in his eye, Dalton reached forward to accept when he was slapped again. “WHAT DID I JUST SAY? Now look, you do not worry yourself, my task force is quite capable. Herr Riker is probably just look for more glory ja? We vill ensure he does not overstep his boundaries.”

There was an end to that statement Thanas left out though.

”And zen ven we figure out ze plan ve will co opt it and ze fatherland will stretch across ze stars once more!”

“You…you weren’t plotting to take over the world just now were you?” President Dalton asked. “I know how you Germans get…”

Thanas reassured the President once more with a smile that looked as unnatural as perfect fake tits on a ninety year old lady. “Vould I lie to you mein president?”

Mein fuhrer! It lives!!!!!!!!

Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

Despicably brilliant work as always.

UNNAMED PORNO FANFIC II

CHAPTER THREE: VIOLENCE A LA CARTE


Independent Space Station Astra Vegas, Executive Lounge

As he gathered his weapons, including an old Smith & Wesson .500 he had received as a birthday gift from his dear grandmother, Falkenhorst heard the communication from Nog.

”Boss we got problems!”

“What is it now Nog, you can’t wait ten minutes for me to get down there are cradle you and those nutsacks Shep hired to crew my fucking ship?”

”Sir, some guys just showed up out of nowhere, black jumpsuits and stupid looking turtlenecks! All carrying phaser rifles! They’re all human…I think it’s Section 31!”

Falkenhorst spit and finished loading the revolver, it wasn’t ideal for a gunfight but Falkenhorst learned from experience that stopping power was more important in the kind of firefights he ended up in, where some fucked up mutated creature could crawl out of the sewer at any moment and try to take his ass cherry. Plus, if Data showed up, that 500 S&W had the best chance of making a dent in his metallic ass.

“Nog are you alone right now?”

”Yeah, The Harrys are still loading all that shit into the cargo bay.” I only saw these guys because I was having a smoke near the bridge and saw them beam aboard.”

“Ok good, listen, I don’t give a single fuck about those turkey teats. You get as many of those meatshields in between you and those fuckin’ commandos as possible. They will gut your ass, no questions asked. One last thing, I know right now you’re probably pissing your goddamn pants…literally…but you need to resist screaming like a chickenshit when you book it for the back end. I’ll be there in five minutes, FIVE FUCKIN’ MINUTES. Do you hear me?”

The corridors of the Asskicker, leading away from the bridge

Nog ran as fast as he could, his piss stained trousers only slightly slowing him down, his fist tightly in his mouth as he sprinted, his sharp teeth drawing blood. As he rean he passed by two of the Harry Kims.

“Hey Nog! Thanks again for saving us, I thought nobody would ever find us!” one of them said. “Oh look, you pee your pants and random unprompted intervals too just like us!”

Nog didn’t break stride as he kept running, the smell of piss wafting behind him hit the nose of the two Harry Kims and “reminded” them of their time on Voyager (from the original Harry Kim’s memory implanted within them), where everything smelled like stale piss and unwashed crotch.

Unfortunately for the clones they broke their concentration in front of them for a second to watch Nog run, allowing a pair of Section 31 operatives to move in close undetected. Harry Kim #1 never stood a chance as an operative jabbed forward crushing his larynx, and Kim #2 has his lower jaw pinned to the roof of his mouth as a knife went under his chin and straight upwards, the point ending up in his sinus cavity.

Harry Kim #1’s cry for help failed as his crushed voice box sputtered and gave in, while a gloved hand palmed the back of his skull like a basketball, and a split second later his forehead was shoved as hard as it could into the nearby bulkhead, shattering it into an untold number of pieces and causing shards of bone to embed into the brain. Slumping to the floor, a quick boot to the back of the skull further smashed Harry Kim #1’s skull into an unrecognizable pulp.

“I think those guys were the same guy,” commented one of the operatives.

The other knelt down and scanned one of the corpses. “They are the same guy, and this guy happens to have a warrant on him.”

“Fuckin’ kidding me? Are we going to catch shit for not bringing him in?”

“Nah, these guys are both clones, apparently this is Harry Kim, and he was one of those fucks on Voyager. If it was the real one he would have at least sixteen different signs of radiation poisoning we can’t even begin to identify, plus the blood plasma is Wal Mart brand and his muscles are 15% ammonium hydroxide.”

The standing operative furrowed his brow in disgust. “They use pink slime in fuckin’ clones?”

“Not all clones, just the fuckin’ bargain bin underground ones you’d find in the back of a van in Tijuana.” Slapping his communicator, he alerted the rest of his team. “Look alive everyone, the ship is active, no witnesses protocols are active, don’t let them get between you and the computer core.”



An abandoned room, somewhere aboard the Asskicker



The sounds of battle and danger were muffled and distant in this sealed off section of the ship, once used for crew quarters but abandoned almost entirely in order to avoid costly repairs for the life support system. An assortment of vermin had somehow managed to use what little breathable atmosphere remained and had exacerbated the already considerable damage from neglect.

One of the rooms still had contents from the mercenary known as Darth Fanboy, long since dead, an old bong lay cracked on its side next to a mattress that lay directly on the floor. Though it had not been smoked in years, a vaporous cloud began to stir from within the chamber, growing in size as the violence in other parts of the ship began to intensify…



Outside of the Asskicker's Main Engine Room



Harry Kim #14 and #15 charged at their opponents, a pair of section 31 operatives who stood at the ready, not wanting to damage the precious data in the fragile antiquated computer cores, the Section 31 operatives made the decision to engage the unarmed Harry Kims by hand. AS the two Kims charged simultaneously it was easy to see that they were not experienced fighters as both clones swung wildly hoping for a miracle rather than relying on any sort of technique.

As Kim #14 raised his hands high he was struck true in the solar plexus by a closed fist, which bent him over causing him to puke all over the floor in front of him. Kim #15 swung his arm in a wide arc that was easily caught by the operative he was trying to punch, the operative broke #15’s arm so badly that a sharp shard of bone protruded. Wasting little time, he grabbed the broken arm and used the emerged bone as a weapon, plunging the sharp end into the back of Harry Kim #14’s neck and severing the spinal cord. Kim #15 fell along with his fallen comrade, only to have his testicles completely smashed with a thick soled boot. The other attacker then reached down and snapped his neck.

“That was uncharacteristically merciful of you there Ted,” using the prearranged codename.

“Well Fred it’s starting to get a little boring; this is the third pair of these dumbasses we’ve left in pieces. Who knows how many more there are?” Ted activated his communicator to signal the operation leader. “Ned, this is Fred and Ted, we’ve reached what we think is where the main computer core should be located, ready to begin data download.”

”Roger, once you finish make your way back to the bridge of the ship, we’ll bug out with the Starfleet ship coming to tow this junk heap.”

“Copy Ned, Fred and Ted out.”

Fred and Ted opened the door to the computer room, thinking that the mission could not get any easier, unfortunately they were right.

Most modern starships relied on a complex computer system in order to maintain function, store data, and perform complex operations that would normally require an army of technicians and engineers just for normal use. Complex computers were simply what made starships possible. Somehow, whoever redesigned this ship had decided that two hundred years of conventional engineering was either too boring or too expensive.

In the corner, there was on old man flipping through a dog eared porn magazine, printed tangible material was rare in this part of space, so he was obviously well travelled. An empty bottle of hooch…actually several bottles…littered the floor in his general vicinity.

“Step outside,” he cautioned. “these old D7’s aint bein the place for wee laddies.”

Ted stepped forward, but Fred held up an arm to hold him back. “Do I know you from somewhere old man?”

The hold man’s chest sighed, in his late age he didn’t much care for the recognition he got since he had retired from the adventurous part of his life a couple of years prior.

“You might there son, but I’m not going to be talking about it right now. I’m jes trying ta have a little me time.”

Fred stepped closer. “Yeah…yeah you’re Montgomery Scott aren’t you, you’re like a living legend!”

Scotty sighed, he had joined Sheppard’s crew in an effort to preserve his anonymity, and somehow his Federation past kept creeping up behind him. “Congratulations, ye got me. Now piss off before I lay a beatin’ on you and have you loadin the back end of yer trousers there.”



Asskicker main transporter room



Falkenhorst beamed aboard the Asskicker for the first time in over five years, and what he saw disgusted him. Sitting in the corner in a pile of broken glass and petrified feces was a skeleton, gnawed on by vermin but with a jacket somewhat intact, a nametag still visible saying “Hi my name is…Consequences.”

”Well so much for my old’ fucking transporter mechanic. What else did you royally fuck up Shep?”

As he finished his musing he could hear sobbing and whimpering from behind the console that was unmistakably Ferengi. “Nog get your ass out of there it’s just me.”

Nog crawled out considerably relieved, both because he had an ally and because he had relieved himself yet again, filling his pants with a load of particularly foul and sloppy diarrhea. Falk nearly gagged and then silently cursed at himself.

”Am I getting that soft from living the good life that I can’t even tolerate one stank ass pair of shitty pants?” No time to worry about that now…”

“Boss!” Bog yelped, “I’m glad you’re here, it’s a goddamned massacre out there!

Falk opened the door expecting an exaggeration, but Nog’s description was eerily accurate. The assorted corpses of various Harry Kims were strewn about, and all of them beaten to death in some form. Looking towards the end of the hall, Falk saw a pair of Federation goons working a Harry Kim over, taking turns kicking him in the ribs in an attempt to gain information. Eventually, one of them men used his thumbs to pop both of the Kim’s eyes leaving him screaming on the floor in a dying panic.

Eyeing the situation, Falkenhorst realized they weren’t using the phaser rifles Nog said they had been carrying and correctly surmised that they didn’t want to risk a catastrophic explosion that exotic energy signatures from weapons might cause. Bullets didn’t have that restriction though. Aiming his 500 S&W carefully, he fired. The target’s head burst like a melon, shards of skull, grey matter, and flesh covered the area. His partner reacted quickly, diving behind a nearby corner.

Falkenhorst went to pursue, and then paused for a second knowing that there could be more of them waiting to jump him if he ran blindly around the corner. Briefly he considered sending Nog to go look for him, but the little peckerhead was too good of an accountant and not even Falk was able to keep track of his numerous hidden accounts throughout space, an important tax dodge. Although his opponents were still section 31, they were also still Starfleet, which led Falk to believe he could roll the dice a little bit.

He aimed his weapon down the corridor again and swore as loud as he could. “FUCK! I’m glad that guy ran away, that was my only shot!” Hoping that his foe’s unfamiliarity with his weapon and underestimation of his battle prowess would work against him, and it did. Chargin back around the corner, the Section 31 operative was running as fast as he could to avenge his friend, only to take a .50 cal bullet to his chest, which exploded in a fountain of gore.

“Well…fuck I can’t believe that worked.” Falk said as he stepped through the carnage with Nog close behind.



Asskicker main engine room, central computer room, and breakroom for one Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott…



Ted was not impressed. “Hey look I don’t care who you are you fat old fuck or what you’re doing in here with this goddamn mess but…”

His speech was interrupted when Scotty, moving unnaturally quick for an obese elderly gentleman stood up from his chair and slapped Ted right across the face, and then grabbed him by the shirt collar. “I been wipin’ tougher shite than you from between my butt cheeks since befarr yer grandpappy was a tadpole swimming up your granny’s foul odiferous cunt! Now get the fook out of my engine room before I finish the job.”

Fred attempted to diffuse the situation; obviously the old man was not going to be as big of a pushover as the Harry Kim clones.

“Look, just let us have access to the computer core and we’ll let you get back to” he glanced over at the skin mag on the floor, much to his disgust “…Geriatric Juggs”

Scott considered the option for a moment and started laughing. You want access to the computer? Well why didn’t you fookin’ say so? It’s right over there on the table, haven’t got much of a use for it myself but you’re welcome to it.

Relieved, Fred and Ted looked in the direction that Scotty pointed, but didn’t see the computer at first. There was just an old table with something on it, a box with plastic casing that looked like a viewscreen and a push button keyboard straight out of a museum.

“What the fuck kind of game is this?” Ted demanded.

“What y’ve nevair ‘eard of a Macintosh? Amazing computer in ‘er day. Brought her back with me during a whale watching trip….oohhh…a few hundred years ago. ‘Sides this ship uses real honest to goodness engines, none a that automated crap I manage ‘er joost fine. I play Oregon trail on that thing daering me downtime. This ship doesn’t keep records or unything fancy like that.”

Ted was furious, and turned around. “That fucking thing doesn’t have the computing power to process one of my farts you sad sack of crap! I let you surprise me earlier but I will beat you so hard that….”

“Careful laddy,” Scotty said with a playful grin on his face. “I know ye could probly take me down in a fair fyte. But do you really be thinkin’ I didn’t smack you like that without a plan now?”

Scotty reached into his pocket and procured a blunt that would have made 21st-22nd century hip-hop star Snoop Dogg blush. “Which remoinds me, it’s tyme fahr my glaucoma medicine.” Ted and Fred looked on as Scotty procued a lighter and lit the tightly rolled marijuana cigar, drawing deeply and creating puffs of smoke which began filling the air around Scott quicker than seemed possible.

After a few dumbfounded seconds Fred and Ted realized that more smoke was pouring into the room, enhancing the effect, until a seven foot tall apparition was directly between them and Scotty, composed of the smoke and creating a half-opaque grey limbless form. Without warning two emerald lights that looked like eyes bore down on them, and the two men were frightened, smoke from the ghosts “shoulders” reached out as tendrils of ephemeral doom and the two men tried to escape but down not, the smoke entered their whole body and paralyzed them, but without the intoxicating effect to at least make it enjoyable. The apparition now had a presence inside the lungs of the two men, and in an instant he superheated the gases within. The two men tried to scream but could not as their lungs were rapidly incinerated by unholy energies they could not hope to understand, and the heat from within caused the bone and flesh containing the frying organs to smolder and burn.

The two men collapsed in a heap, their charred remains crumbled into a pile. Fred and Ted were dead.

Scotty looked down through the crowd, while taking another hit and coughing mercilessly.

“Aye, I be owing you one. This old man can’t handle too much of tha good smoke anymore, why don’t you finish it?” Scotty said as he handed the blunt to the phantom, who quickly consumed it causing green energy flickers from within his form.

“Much as I’d like to finish reading my titty mag, I think it best we go find out what has ben happenin Mistair Sheppard.” From his pocket opposite from where he was keeping his pot, Scotty procured a necklace with an ornately decorated medallion, with green jewels creating an impeccable marijuana plant. He put it around his neck, “In ya go fahr now me boy.”

The mysterious entity condensed into a small wisp of smoke and somehow entered the jewels on the medallion, where Scott would keep it until needed.

Falkenhorst beamed aboard the Asskicker for the first time in over five years, and what he saw disgusted him. Sitting in the corner in a pile of broken glass and petrified feces was a skeleton, gnawed on by vermin but with a jacket somewhat intact, a nametag still visible saying “Hi my name is…Consequences.”

What happened to the real Consequences? Was he banned? Got in a real-life car accident?