Sisko: Chief do me a favour; fit some restraints on these seats. I'm sick of being thrown forwards every time the dampers go ticky.
Bashir: Come on Nog, that ain't real gold!
Worf: And now comes the battle in the domestic front.
Garak: So how would like to depart from this life? With a blaze of glory or scared senseless?
Quark: Blaze of glory?
Klingon: You filthy PetaQ! You stole my blood wine! And what do you have to say for yourself?