TripHammered
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THE SHORT VERSION: Paramount owns Star Trek and everything to do with it. I make no money off this site; it's just for fun. For more details, read the long version. Live long and prosper.

 

Welcome to the BowMouth
(or, What It Could Be Like if Joss Whedon Came to Write for ENT)
Part 1

{Two farmers walk through cornfield.}

FARMER TED: Are you sure there's nobody around here? I don't wanna get caught.

FARMER FRED: Positive. I own fifty acres in every direction. No neighbors.

FARMER TED: I thought I heard something.

FARMER FRED: Just the wind rustlin' the corn. We're all alone. I promise.

FARMER TED: Good. {turns to face FRED. TED's skin abruptly mottles and turns green. His fingers elongate like tentacles and wrap around FRED's neck. FRED oops, acks, gasps, and passes out. TED drops him as a ship plummets from the sky and slams into the cornfield. KLAANG crawls from the wreckage and looks around.}

KLAANG: ARRRRRRR!

{TED begins to run towards KLAANG, clothes morphing into the orange jumpsuit.}

KLAANG: qaStaH nuq? p'taQ! Hab SoSlI' Quch!

{A violent explosion rocks the cornfield. KLAANG goes flying. TED is chunky green salsa.}

FARMER MAGGOT {clutching plasma grenade launcher}: I told you damn hobbits to stay out of my mushrooms!


ADMIRAL LEONARD: So, I've been looking over your past record. Quite...colorful.

ARCHER: Oh, I know, but that is so totally in the past. Yesterday's news. Obsolete. Really. Nothing like that is going to happen here. {skitters away}

ADMIRAL LEONARD: Damn shame. I was just going to complement him on the writing, directing, and acting of Quantum Leap.


{Starfleet Medical. A group of Vulcans is standing around glaring quietly while PHLOX and his assistants work on KLAANG in the surgical room, separated from the outer room by glass walls. Starfleet Admirals are muttering in another corner. ARCHER enters.}

ARCHER: So, what's the sitch?

SOVAL: The... sitch?

T'POL: A small golden ball with wings. Its capture by a player called "the Seeker" signals the end of the match in an aggressive aerial team sport named "Quidditch." Each team consists of --

ARCHER: I said the sitch. The situation. What's going on?

ADMIRAL FORREST: This alien crashed in a cornfield in Oklahoma --

ARCHER: Is he the same guy who's been leaving those crop circles all over Bucks County?

SOVAL: His corpse will need to be returned to his homeworld for burial. His House is already sitting shiva.

ARCHER {furrowing his brown in concern}: His corpse? He's not dead yet.

T'POL: No, but he will be soon. If we send him now, he'll be just dead by the time he arrives on Qo'noS.

{ARCHER bangs on the window. PHLOX glances up, then smiles that horrendous CGI smile. Fortunately, it's mostly hidden by the surgical mask.}

PHLOX {slightly muffled}: Ah, Captain Archer! You've arrived. Your shuttle made excellent time. I'm just about finished here. I'll be with you shortly.

ARCHER: Is he dead yet?

SOVAL: Not far now.

ARCHER {glaring over his shoulder}: Morbid much?

ADMIRAL FORREST: I think that's his point, Jon.

SOVAL {to T'POL}: What is their fascination with our ears?

ARCHER: You prob'ly think that song is about you, don't you?

{PHLOX exits the surgical room, stripping off gloves and mask.}

PHLOX: The next 24 hours will be critical, but I believe Mister Klaang will pull through.

ADMIRAL FORREST: Doctor, that's wonderful! Thank you!

SOVAL: Damn. I mean, your work was adequate to the task.

ARCHER: Whatever. Doc, can you tell me what's going on?

PHLOX: Certainly. This way, please. {They start to walk to a door opposite where ARCHER entered.}

SOVAL: Where are you going?

PHLOX: We have matters to discuss.

SOVAL: So, discuss them here! Leaving a perfectly good room to have a conversation is illogical. Plus my ears aren't that goo-- I mean, your species is volatile and irrational and you are in need of our guidance.

PHLOX: You'll be apprised of all pertinent information.

SOVAL {stepping forward}: How about a prize Vulcan?

PHLOX: Very well. Subcommander, would you join us? {SOVAL blinks. T'POL follows PHLOX and ARCHER into a waiting room, where TRIP, MALCOLM, HOSHI, and TRAVIS are sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs. All four stand as ARCHER, T'POL, and PHLOX enter.}

ARCHER: Now, you were saying?

PHLOX: You think it's coincidence, your being here, at the moment that Klingon was captured? Klaang was only the beginning.

ARCHER: Yeah, I think that's why they call it "the pilot."

PHLOX: Into each generation a Captain is born, one person in all the world, a chosen one, one born with the strength and skill to lead the flagship, with the charisma to get the babe of the week, the...

ARCHER {interrupting}: ...Babe of the week, Chosen One, yeah, yeah, lead humanity to the next step in their evolution, jewel of the network, blah blah, I know the drill. The rest of my crew is already here to save valuable exposition time. So you're, what, the Observer?

PHLOX: I work for the Interspecies Medical Exchange.

ARCHER: But you're not human?

PHLOX: I am a Denobulan. In our society, each man has three wives, and each woman has three husbands. And if that isn't enough action, they're pretty friendly with whomever's in groping range, too.

ARCHER: Right. The Observer.

TRIP: Sorry, didn't have exact change for the fare on the Metabus. Break that down for me?

ARCHER: Phlox is the "alien observer" whose purpose on the show is to comment on and reflect humanity's foibles from the outside.

T'POL: So what am I, chopped sehlat?

HOSHI: Demographic Magnet.

TRIP: Potential love interest for all --

MALCOLM: -- actual shagging for none.

ARCHER {chagrined and a little embarrassed}: Oh, T'Pol, I'm sorry, You can observe if you want. It's just that traditionally the "Observer" character wants to or winds up becoming human in some way, and you're a Vulcan, and you're all... y'know... {T'POL cocks an eyebrow}... logicky and stuff. I didn't think you, um, played for that team. Which is fine! I mean, it's fine with me. If you do. Play for that team. Or the other team. Totally okay with me. Whatever. IDIC and all that.

PHLOX {rolling eyes}: If we could get on with it, please? {The crew fidgets and snickers but eventually pays attention.} Now, things are getting worse. Battles being fought for no reason. There's unrest in the Klingon Empire. Factions are being stirred up against one another. There's a reason you're here, there's a reason you're assigned to Enterprise, and there's a reason it's now.

ARCHER: Oh, I know! I know! It's because my father built the engines, right?

PHLOX: Right. -- no, no, that's wrong, that's not it at all. It's --

T'POL: Name recognition. Nobody else in this room besides him and my breasts has any Q score.

PHLOX: You're right. It's because your daddy built the engines. {ARCHER makes a "yes!" gesture and exchanges high-fives with TRIP.} Now please, it's very important that you listen to me. Soon, in a matter of days, something will be coming to try and take Klaang. You've got to stop it from happening.

ARCHER: Great! Carpe diem! Let's go, gang! {The humans pile out, talking excitedly -- except for TRAVIS, who never speaks -- leaving T'POL and PHLOX behind.}

PHLOX: But wait -- the Temporal Cold War -- Daniels -- I have to --

T'POL: Being the Chosen One means never having to say you're sorry.


{ARCHER and TRIP are having coffee in ARCHER's quarters.}

TRIP: So, we're really goin' to Qo'noS, huh?

ARCHER: It won't take long. Four days each way.

TRIP: And you brought him because... {They both turn to the corner, where PORTHOS is dozing on his cushion.}

ARCHER: Well, I'm not comfortable leaving him alone -- since Al left me for his own series there's really nobody I can ask to watch him --

{The doorbell sounds. Before ARCHER can respond, T'POL enters.}

T'POL {handing ARCHER a PADD}: I have been officially transferred to your command. Sir.

ARCHER: "Sir" is acceptable in a crunch, but I prefer Captain. Or Sam. Or "my round-eared muffin."

T'POL: Captain, what is that disgusting smell?

TRIP {sniffing his demitasse}: You don't like espresso?

T'POL: I prefer Chai tea, but I was referring to the other smell.

ARCHER: What, Porthos? {PORTHOS awakens and lifts his head at the sound of his name.} C'mere and introduce yourself, boy.

{PORTHOS stands, stretches, yawns, and morphs into a young man with sharp features, green eyes, and spiky blond hair. He walks over to T'POL.}

ARCHER {cheerfully}: Shake, Porthos!

PORTHOS {raising his hand in the Vulcan salute}: Mene sakkhet ur-seveh, Subcommander. I am called Porthos.

T'POL: How did you do that?

PORTHOS: We're out in space. Without an atmosphere, the sunlight reflected off Terra's natural satellite isn't filtered, so I can change at will.

TRIP: What happens when we leave orbit?

PORTHOS: I'm stuck in whichever shape I'm in until the next planet with a moon.

ARCHER: Oh, by the way, your agent called. Something about a show with a mix of live action and puppets.

PORTHOS: Puppets?

ARCHER: Eugene Levy's already signed.

PORTHOS: Oh, in that case, I'm in. He's hilarious.

T'POL: Excuse me, I have to call everyone I have ever met, right now.


{Bridge.}

ARCHER: Okay, places everyone! T'Pol?

T'POL: Here at the science station. Just setting precedent for something which has already happened.

MALCOLM: That's not very logical.

T'POL: Neither is a human male wearing excessive lipstick, but I was politely not pointing that out. {MALCOLM finds his hanky and hastily rubs at his mouth.}

ARCHER: Hoshi?

HOSHI: Got my little silver earpiece thingy, my XM satellite receiver, and SYSTRANsoft booted up. Ready to roll.

ARCHER: Malcolm?

MALCOLM {stuffing hanky back in his pocket}: Tactical is ready, sir. We're armed for bear.

T'POL: Our course does not take us through either of those constellations.

MALCOLM {irritated}: Would you rather see my elephant gun, pet?

T'POL: We're not going there either, Stinky.

ARCHER {pressing a button on his armrest}: Trip?

HESS {over the comm from Engineering}: He had to pee, sir. He'll be back in just a moment.

ARCHER: All right, never mind. {hits a different button} Doctor Phlox?

PHLOX {over the comm from Sickbay}: These Klingons have a fascinating culture. Did you know that when the male wishes to mate with the female, he has to read love poetry to her while she throws things at him?

ARCHER: Gives "poetry slam" a whole new meaning. Thank you, Doctor. {hits button to turn comm off} Travis? {TRAVIS waves.} All right then. Take her out. And please don't scrape the hull along the side of Spacedock.

MALCOLM: By Grabthar's hammer, sir, Travis knows how to fly. He's been in space longer than any of us. Except maybe the elf with the overactive thyroid at Science.

T'POL: I would resent that, but I think Legolas is hot.


{The Suliban Helix temporal chamber. FUTURE GUY is talking to SILIK through the Temporal Interference Field.}

FUTURE GUY: Where's Klaang? You promised me an offering.

SILIK: I had him, Master, but... there was a Captain!

FUTURE GUY: A Captain? A new Chosen One?

SILIK: Yes, Master. Tall of stature and furrowed of brow. Decent of rear view, too.

FUTURE GUY: Have you any proof?

SILIK: I saw him leaving the toupée shop myself.

FUTURE GUY: This... Captain must not be allowed to interfere in our plans.

SILIK: We had Klaang in our grasp, when one of the stupid little Earth folk came out of the middle of nowhere, murdered my soldier, and seized your offering.

FUTURE GUY: Life can be such a trial sometimes. Where is the Klingon now?

SILIK: The Captain has him. They're returning him to his homeworld.

FUTURE GUY: Recover him. And pray that when you do... {The field crackles and shimmers.} ...I'm in a better mood.

SILIK: You know, most people just eat chocolate when they're having a bad day. Ben & Jerry's has this great new ice cream flavor, "Brownie Batter." Maybe you should pick up a pint.

FUTURE GUY: I wish I could, but you know how the Temporal Interference Field always adds ten pounds.

SILIK: Tell me about it! And these jumpsuits? They show every potato chip I've had in the last five years.


{TRIP and TRAVIS are crawling through a Jeffries tube. They reach the end and clamber out into the junction. TRIP takes a panel off and glares at the wires.}

TRIP {doing bad Jimmy Cagney impression; sounds more like a Bugs Bunny villain}: So, you thought you could outsmart me, eh? Thought you were a big shot, eh? {his normal voice} Hand me that microcaliper, would you, Trav? {TRAVIS digs through the box and hands him the instrument.} So you're a "boomer," right? Been to all kind of planets?{TRAVIS nods.}...That is so cool. Ah've only been to one inhabited planet besides Earth... nothin' there but souvenir shops sellin' little pieces of whale blubber in lucite and a restaurant where the cow walks up and asks you what piece'a her you want for dinner. Kinda boring. Screwdriver? {TRAVIS waits.} Sorry, hex head. {He produces the correct tool.} Don't you ever talk?

{Suddenly the ambient lighting goes down and a spotlight shines on the helmsman. TRAVIS puts down the toolbox and pulls out a black silk top hat and a cane. Music swells out of nowhere.}

TRAVIS {high-stepping and singing}: Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal... {TRIP stares, mouth open in astonishment. The screwdriver falls from his hand.}

TRIP: You talk! You sing! You dance!

TRAVIS: Send me a kiss by wiiiiiiiiiiire; baby my heart's on fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire!

TRIP: Ah gotta tell somebody! Holy catfish! {leans down the Jeffries tube} Hess! Rostov! You gotta come see this!

TRAVIS: If you refuse me, honey, you'll lose me, then you'll be left aloooooooooooooooone...

HESS {yelling back}: Coming!

TRAVIS:...oh baby, telephone, and tell me I'm your oooooooooooooooown!

{HESS and ROSTOV come out of the tube. Before they can stand, the lights have reverted to normal.}

ROSTOV: What is it, Commander?

TRIP: Travis can talk! He was just singing! {TRAVIS's hat and cane have mysteriously disappeared. He looks up, questioning.}

HESS: Oh, good one, Commander.

TRIP: No really! Ah mean it! {turns to TRAVIS} Trav, show'em! Show'em what you just did! {TRAVIS blinks.} The song! You were just singin' a song! {mimics the cane movements} "Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my..." {trails off}

HESS {rolling eyes}: Whatever.

ROSTOV: I told you it was a drill. Lieutenant Reed's been running the Armory staff ragged all day with "battle simulations." {They climb back out.}

TRIP: No wait! Ah'm serious! Guys!... {realizes they've left. Turns and shoots a nasty look at TRAVIS.} Thanks. {TRAVIS gives him a big bright smile and hands him the screwdriver.}


{ARCHER exits Sickbay, muttering to himself.}

ARCHER: Of all the doctors in the IME, I get the one who prefers macrobiotics to microchips. "I'll have one of my assistants wrest some information from that dread machine," he says. If I had a nickel for every time --

DANIELS {finishing his sentence}: -- for every time someone insulted Ziggy, you could have retired to Jamaica by now.

ARCHER {frowning}: Who are you?

DANIELS: Let's just say... I'm a friend.

ARCHER: You look like you could stand to make friends with GQ. What do you call that look, early Michelin Man?

DANIELS: I'll have you know this is haute couture in my day.

ARCHER: I hope I never live to see the day when's that's haute stuff.

DANIELS: That's more easily arranged than you realize.

ARCHER: Waitaminute, I recognize you. You're not supposed to be in the pilot.

DANIELS: I know, but I'm doing research for my later appearances.

ARCHER: Research?

DANIELS: Nothing serious, just interning with Chef to familiarize myself with your breakfast preferences.

ARCHER: Oh, that's all right, then.

DANIELS: Plus someone had to fill in the "Angel" character slot, and Buffy has more people with lines than your show does.

ARCHER {shrugs}: It's a union thing. Wait until Buffy comes over to our network. The number of NPC speaking parts will go way down.

DANIELS: Understood. Good luck with the rest of your mission.

ARCHER: Thanks. Can you give me any, you know, hints about the future?

DANIELS: Well, Jeffrey Combs is going to be able to afford that Lexus he was looking at.


{Captain's Mess.}

ARCHER: Farfalle pesto, Trip?

TRIP: Don't mind if Ah do. {takes the bowl and spoons some onto his plate} Subcommander, would you like some ricotta salata?

T'POL: Yes, thank you. {She holds out her plate. TRIP grates the cheese onto the pasta.}

ARCHER: Remind me -- what was the purpose of this scene?

TRIP: To establish the Food Chain, and for T'Pol and Ah to insult each other.

T'POL: Your species is impatient and illogical, and Chef has overcooked the roast beef.

ARCHER: Oh, that was Daniels. Sorry.

TRIP: Your people are prejudiced and close-minded, and don't expect dessert unless you clean your plate.

T'POL: What's for dessert?

ARCHER: Amaretti and gelato.

T'POL: I'm eating, I'm eating.


{Bridge. T'POL is talking to someone in Vulcan on her cell phone while she's working at her station.}

T'POL {on phone}: ...so I walk in and there's this smell, right? And I'm all, "What is that stench?" And he's all "Ah took a shower this morning; how 'bout you, Cap'n?" And I'm like "Not you, you hairless primate, the other lower life-form." {giggles}

HOSHI {in English}: I thought you were supposed to speak English on this mission.

T'POL {in Vulcan}: Hang on a sec. {to HOSHI in English} Excuse me? Do I horn in on your private discussions? No. Why? Because you're boring. {HOSHI looks away, embarrassed. ARCHER looks up, but he didn't catch the exchange. T'POL returns to her conversation in Vulcan.} So then the dog gets up off the pillow and -- get this -- he totally shapeshifts. Into a guy! {punches more buttons} Stupid human interface. What? No, it's this primitive computer system. It's like trying to construct a mnemonic circuit using stone knives and bearskins.

PHLOX {over the comm}: Captain, our patient is regaining consciousness.

ARCHER: On my way. {Stands.} Hoshi?

T'POL {in English to HOSHI as she passes}: How do I send this report to the Vulcan High Command?

HOSHI: 'Deliver.'

T'POL: Deliver? Where's that? {searches the keyboard} Oh! Thanks.... hey, wait a minute, the whole thing just disappeared!


{Sickbay. KLAANG is strapped to a biobed and ranting in Klingon. ARCHER, HOSHI, PHLOX, and a REDSHIRT with a proto-BetsyBoomstick are gathered around him.}

KLAANG: nuqDaq 'oH puchpa''e'? nuqDaq 'oH puchpa''e'??

ARCHER: What's he saying?

HOSHI: Something like "Right in my EV suit?"

KLAANG: Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam!

ARCHER: Tell him we're taking him home.

HOSHI: maH jaH Dung ngem juH.

KLAANG {groaning}: ghuy'cha'!

HOSHI: I think it's a proper name... "Jerry Shiban"?

ARCHER: Tell him his ship was destroyed, but the insurance company promised the check will be here in three, four weeks tops.

PHLOX: I don't believe that was the adjuster's estimate.

ARCHER {waving}: Hello? Who's the Captain here? Tactics, Doctor. You have think strategically.

PHLOX: Oh, right, right, Klingons have a great love of boasting and exaggeration. You're correct. Pardon my intrusion.

HOSHI: jIH Ho' yuch chor. jIH naj vut quHvaj.

KLAANG: jIH qoy' Hegh'bat! mev be'joy'!

HOSHI: Um.

ARCHER: What?

HOSHI: Sir, I think he just made a pass at you.

ARCHER {looking pleased}: Really? Boy, the Vulcans, the Klingons... they weren't kidding about this "Chosen One gets all the babes" stuff.

KLAANG: mevyap!

{The ship lurches violently. Everyone jolts in different directions, regardless of inertia. The lights flicker and go out. Reaction shots of various crew members as consoles shut down, including T'POL and MALCOLM looking alarmed on the Bridge, TRIP running about frantically in Engineering, HESS and ROSTOV playing cards with PORTHOS, and TRAVIS in a muscle shirt lifting 50-pound dumbbells in the gym.}

ARCHER {slapping his chest}: Bridge, report. {Nothing happens. HOSHI and PHLOX stare at the Captain for a long moment.} Oh, right, damn, we can't do that yet. {runs to wall comm and punches button} Bridge, report.

T'POL: Captain, we've dropped out of warp. Main power is -- {the comm goes out}

ARCHER: T'Pol? T'Pol? {punches button repeatedly} T'Pol? {bangs fist on wall} We were supposed to have service all the way to Qo'noS! That's why we switched to Verizon! {turns to HOSHI} Get me Customer Service! I'm having this taken off our bill!

{Bridge.}

MALCOLM: What was that?

T'POL: What was what?

MALCOLM: I thought I saw something -- only for a moment, then the moment was gone.

T'POL: Must've been your entire life flashing before your eyes.

{Sickbay. The main cast has little flashlights. KLAANG continues to bitch in Klingon.}

ARCHER: Can someone get him to shut up, please?

HOSHI: bIjatlh 'e' yImev! {KLAANG falls silent.}

PHLOX {impressed}: You picked Klingonaase up rather quickly, Ensign.

HOSHI {holding up PADD}: I bookmarked kli.org before the power went down.

ARCHER: I'm going to the Bridge. {bumps into REDSHIRT} Oh, sorry.

REDSHIRT: That's all right... Captain. {morphs into Suliban and cracks ARCHER upside the head with the rifle}

ARCHER: Ooof! {ARCHER'S beacon goes flying. HOSHI screams like a twelve-year-old.}

KLAANG: Vampires! -- I mean, Suliban! -- I mean, mevyap!

{PHLOX and HOSHI desperately try to light up the fighters so ARCHER can see what he's hitting. Two more Suliban are intermittently visible in the jumpy beams.}

ARCHER: You shifting types are all alike. {punches Suliban in the face; he goes down and stays there} You always stall when you floor it.

HOSHI: Look out! Behind you! {Another Suliban leaps from the shadows and lands on ARCHER's back. He flips the Suliban over, then piledrivers into his stomach.}

ARCHER: Can you smell what the Chosen One is cooking?

PHLOX: I should never have agreed to switching networks. These cross-promotions are so lame.

{ARCHER dives across the room, grabs the rifle, sits up, and blasts the Suliban leaping on him. Everything is very quiet for a moment as everyone blinks, trying to adjust their eyes after the huge burst of light.}

HOSHI: Ow.

{The lights come up and systems come back online. The dead Suliban is sprawled over the Pyrithian bat's cage. She's inside whimpering "ew! ew! ew!"}

PHLOX {blinking}: Is everyone all right?

ARCHER: That all depends on what the meaning of "is" is. {All turn to see the biobed is empty, and the remaining Suliban are gone.}


{Bridge. ARCHER is ranting. In English.}

ARCHER:...and while you two were having a FaceFinityOff, the Kelly Chameleons broke into Sickbay and kidnapped Klaang!

MALCOLM {discreetly wiping spittle off his face}: I did detect something, sir, but...faint.

TRIP: We have a couch for that.

ARCHER: Trip, get me an analysis of Mister Reed's "faint" problem.

TRIP: Dammit, Jon, Ah'm an engineer, not a doctor.

ARCHER: What's our weapons status?

MALCOLM: We kick arse.

ARCHER: Good. Hoshi, I want you to -- wait, we do?

MALCOLM: Of course we do. Did you think I was going to wait until Tuesday to have our targeting scanners tuned? We can blast the snot out of anything in fifty parsecs.

ARCHER: Wow, we're shattering continuity like a diva with a wine glass. Go help Trip, then. {TRIP and MALCOLM exit.} Okay, Hoshi, get back online and find out what Klaang was yelling about.

HOSHI: I already posted on the KLI BBS, sir. I should have an answer shortly.

ARCHER: Good. Keep me advised. {T'POL is waiting to speak.} Was there something else, Subcommander?

T'POL: For the record, sir, I use EsT'ée Lauder and Mister Reed prefers Revlon. To object to a Max Factor product is illogical.

ARCHER: Those department store brands are really expensive, T'Pol. You should try Maybelline.

T'POL: I will consider it. In the meantime, you've lost the Klingon --

ARCHER: "Misplaced."

T'POL: -- so there is no reason for Enterprise to be out here any longer. We should return to San Francisco.

ARCHER: Why, did you leave your heart there? {Everyone on the Bridge stops and stares at ARCHER. The background music clatters to a halt. Crickets can be heard. ARCHER looks around, uncomfortable.} What? Just because it's an old joke... {After a long beat, the music starts again, and everyone slowly resumes their positions.}

T'POL {edging towards the turbolift}: I think I'll go ask Commander Tucker what brand he recommends.

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4