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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.
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So Our Gang has discovered Risa for the human
race, thus setting us up to be fleeced for the next ten or
twelve generations. Trip and Malcolm, having finally healed
from the frostbite, sunburn, and lipstick abuse, are going
in search of the legendary twelve-fingered Eccentrica
Gallumbits, or something. Archer wants a quiet beach to
read next to, Porthos seriously needs to stretch his little
beagle legs, Travis wants to get his rocks off -- er, climb
rocks, and Hoshi is looking for a new tongue. To learn, I
mean.
Starting their explorations in leisure suits
which should have been banned before the audience was born
(although perhaps this is more of an embarrassment for the
actors than the characters), Trip and Malcolm find a noisy
club and proceed to go cruisin' for chicks. Trip spots a likely
pair of Risan cuties who join them for drinks. The pretty
little tramps (look, I'm just reporting; blame William Ware
Theiss for the wardrobe) mention the "subterranean gardens,"
and our two saps cluelessly tag along.
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Once under the club, Lola
and Dil
shapeshift into the James
brothers and demand the officers' wallets. Our boys are
shocked, shocked to find their playmates aren't the
"gorgeous
[female] aliens" they'd presumed. Trip doubletakes so
hard he very nearly leaps into Mal's arms like Shaggy and
Scooby.
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Our boys protest that this must all be a terrible
misunderstanding and try to run away. The muggers fling them
roughly against the wall instead and grope them for money,
valuables, the family jewels, or anything else they can hock.
(Turnabout is fair play, though; makes up for all the leering
and ogling and drunken bragging the aliens had to put up with
at the bar upstairs.)
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Trip complains that he hopes this isn't their
"mating ritual" -- although up until ten minutes ago that's
exactly what he was trying to initiate, so I don't know where
he gets off bitching -- but both the muggers and the audience
are disappointed as all the fondling turns up bupkus. Trip
offers to make a deal. The muggers, now insulted and
empty-handed, phaser him unconscious. Mal joins him in sleepy-land
shortly thereafter.
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After the commercial break, we find our adventurers
hog-tied and stripped down to their Starfleet skivvies. Say
what you want about the thieves; they had the good taste to
spare us another look at those suits. Malcolm is already awake
when Trip starts and yells and wakes up trying to get loose.
(Please note that Mal gets the undershirt with short sleeves
while Trip once again gets the muscle shirt.) Trip wails that
he's got a hangover, or phaserover, whichever, and Malcolm
grumbles about the fine mess he's gotten them into. They bicker
and insult each other while Trip writhes and squirms to display
his pecs to greatest advantage. Maybe he's still got sand
in his shorts from the Melodramatic
desert last week.
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Once they get loose, they walk calmly through
the club -- it isn't their lack of attire per se which earns
them snickers, it's the matching tighty-bluesies -- while
Malcolm whines that he stinks of whatever was in the bottle
Trip broke to cut their ropes. Of course, if they had enough
freedom of movement to grab a bottle from the shelves, they
could have just wriggled up next to each other and untied
each other's wrists, but.... (I know, I know, it wasn't in
the script.)
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Archer mercifully doesn't tease our boys about
their romp. Hoshi wonders aloud what the smell is. Trip sulks
the entire pod ride back, although it's hard to tell if he's
more annoyed about still not getting any action even though
he ditched the Hawaiian
shirt or about the huge charge the Risan hotel socked
him with for stealing the complimentary bathrobe.
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