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|Fan Fiction Other forums talk about Trek. We make it.|
|February 13 2010, 06:50 AM||#1|
Location: San Diego
Star Trek; Frank Grayson
Because, what happens when reality becomes...real!!
|February 13 2010, 04:09 PM||#2|
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
Looking forward to this though!
"Kirk would have fucked the cold dead skull of the Borg Queen when it was all over."
|February 13 2010, 05:08 PM||#3|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
The sounds of life filled the small apartment. It was modest place to live. A TV was on, and there was an old episode of a Transformers cartoon blending its audio sound with the sounds of a hair dryer coming from the other side of a closed bathroom door.
A man stood outside the bathroom door, his head propped up against it as, again, he found himself locked in a battle of wills with his daughter, blow drying her hair inside the bathroom with the door locked.
“I’m not going to change,” came the girl’s voice on the other side of the closed door. “Everyone else where’s skinny jeans with rips in them; so why can’t I?”
“Because, Amber,” replied Frank Grayson, who stood outside the door, with his head up against it, and with a look of weariness on his face, “you’re my daughter. Maybe these other parents out there don’t care what their daughter’s wear; but I do.”
“If mom were here,” the girl fired back, “she would let me wear them. I hate you!”
Frank breathed in a deep sigh as he tilted his head to the side and saw his son, Austin, at the end of the hallway shaking his head in disgust at what his sister had just said.
“Dad,” Austin said, “She really doesn’t mean that.”
Frank smiled at his thirteen- year old son. Austin had taken after his soft-spoken mother, Frank’s deceased wife, Sharon. Amber, the sixteen- year old girl on the other side of the bathroom door, had taken after Frank, most notably, Frank’s temper.
Yet Frank had to draw the line. If he caved on this, then Amber would have ‘won’. And, unfortunately, that was the gist of his relationship with his daughter; the game of gotcha. The two were locked in a constant state of cold war, without a mother to act as a broker of peace.
Sharon Grayson had passed away several years in the past. She had been killed in an automobile accident, leaving Frank as a single father with two kids to rear on his own. For the most part he had done okay, until Amber became a teenager. Then, from there, the family life became harder and harder without someone to share it with. Frank had never even given a thought of finding a new wife; that was how much he had loved Sharon.
Suddenly the dryer turned off, and the door to the bathroom slowly opened...(please follow this LINK to continue)...
|February 14 2010, 11:41 PM||#4|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
Where or When?
Kor, Darhar master, was not one who relished mysteries. His was a life spent in the front, fighting honorably, ruthlessly, but without any subtleness. Earlier in his life he had been known to kill the father of a Klingon woman he had his eye on, due to the father’s ambiguous questions when Kor had met him the first time.
The recent ordeal with the Organians was another such example. The Organian, in Kor’s opinion, were nothing more than Non-corporeal beings, shifty with their dogma of peace, meddling behind the scenes to engineer the galaxy the way they saw fit. Luckily Federation Captain Kirk had felt the same way about the Organians, and the two of them, Kirk and Kor, would hopefully get to continue the battle between each other like warriors, as was the true nature of the universe; Kor’s universe.
Kor’s command ship, the IKS Klothos, as well as the IKS Tor’mach, were now deep in a new mystery. They were in a protracted battle with the Enterprise, and while both ships were engaged in combat with Kirk, and his legendary Starship, a strange white area of space swept over the two Klingon ships. Gone was the Enterprise, and on top of that, the Klingon ships were apparently thrown far from the scene of battle, in an area of space that had yet been mapped by the Empire.
It had been several hours since they had arrived in the strange area of space. The star system they were now in had three planets, including a lifeless planet that was just several hundred thousand Kalicams in the distance.
Kor, who entered the command bridge, looked at his officers, each manning their posts, trying to find answers; answers which were proving to be elusive. K’taf, Kor’s first in command, was standing near the science station, saw Kor enter the bridge and came over to him.
“Tell me you know where we are,” Kor said, not so much as a request, but more as an order, coming through is words.
“I can not,” K’taf said, “I can tell you where we are not.”
“I suppose that is a start,” Kor allowed. “Then were are we not?”
“The main computer can not recognize any of the star systems that it can scan from our present location,” K’taf stated. “The conclusion is that we are no longer in the galaxy, or even perhaps, anywhere in the known universe.”
“You sound like a Vulcan,” Kor came back with. “You tell me many words, yet there is no meaning to them.”
“I will try harder,” K’taf replied.
“See that you do,” Kor said, with a closed mouth grin on his face.
Yet, Kor knew all to well that K’taf, and the rest of the crew of the Klothos, would perform their duties at the most optimum ability.
Kor patrolled the bridge, he stayed at each station long enough to show his crew that his will was supreme. If a Klingon did not execute their duty with honor and efficiency, they could be executed on the spot.
“What about the other two planets in this system?” Kor asked K’taf, who was shadowing Kor, as he made his rounds on the bridge.
“They are each gas giants,” K’taf replied, “and there are no signs of life.”
“Someone, or something, had to bring us here,” Kor concluded. “I want to know who it was and why,” Kor said to K’taf. “I want answers; and I want them soon.”
K’taf, and the rest of the bridge crew, gave Kor the standard Klingon salute, and then Kor left the command bridge.
Frank Grayson’s head was pounding; pounding as if someone was inside of his head with a giant ...(to continue, please follow this link)
|February 18 2010, 07:17 PM||#5|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
The red-alert klaxon aboard the Starship Enterprise was blaring as Frank Grayson exited the Turbolift and found him self standing on what appeared to be an exact replica of the famed fiction ship’s bridge.
“Sixty Seconds until warp decay,” announced the ship’s computer.
Frank had thought about the strange circumstance; a starship falling from Earth’s orbit, and what he could do to stop it. Maybe, if he saved the ship, his dream would end and he could wake up. It all had to be a dream, Frank convinced himself. It was true, that in his past, he had experimented with crystal-meth, but it had been many years in the past, when he was much younger and stupid. Perhaps, years later, his mind had snapped because of his use of the drug years ago.
But what if it wasn’t a dream or a drug induced hallucination? What if he was actually aboard Star Trek’s USS Enterprise? In any event, he decided to play along with the scenario.
“Computer, if you can, would you please compensate and re-establish Earth orbit,” Frank said in his best Spock/calm like voice.
“Affirmative,” came from the ship’s computers.
Then, as if on clockwork, the bridge sound effects twirled about, just as they did, when Sulu pushed buttons at his post and did what ever he did when Kirk told him to do what ever to do, which, in Frank’s current point of view, was simply too far fetched to ever actually have really been done; but it was.
“Orbit has been re-established.”
As Frank Grayson, father of two, and simple police detective, gathered his wits, he looked down to the lower level of the bridge, and directly at it; Kirk’s chair. If this was all just a dream, they why the hell not, Frank thought to him self. Why not live it up in this make believe world?
With reverie in each step, Frank walked across the bridge, his hands holding on the railing that rimmed the bridge. Then, he stepped down to the lower area, and seconds later stood just next to Kirk’s chair. Oh, to be sure, the Enterprise wasn’t really Kirk’s, it was just his command. But Star Trek wasn’t about things, it was about people, and everyone knew that Kirk, as well as Scotty, had a special connection to the NCC-1701.. And throughout the fictional worlds of books, movies and TV shows, there was hardly a more famous seat. Archie Bunker’s seat was pretty well known; but Captain Kirk’s seat was an icon just as much as Kirk’s name.
Frank pivoted around, and while facing the main screen, which displayed half of the Earth’s round shape on the lower half of the screen, he sat back and down into the chair. Frank took in a deep breath of air. It was almost orgasmic, sitting in the “chair”.
“Ahhhh,” he sighed in deep contentment; and why not? This was probably one of the greatest dreams of all time. It ranked right up there with his dream about Angela Jolie, a pair of handcuffs, and a nightstick. But this, this sensation, sitting in Kirk’s chair, had been one of those intangible ideas from childhood and now it had come true.
“Computer,” Frank finally said, deciding to get a grip of seriousness in his mind, “where is the rest of the crew of the Enterprise?”
“There is insufficient data at this time to respond to that inquiry.”
“Huh,” Frank came back with. “Okay, try this one; who am I?”
“Admiral Grayson, Frank Andrew.”
Frank smiled; he had a higher rank than Captain Kirk.
“Where is Captain Kirk?” Frank asked.
“There is insufficient data at this time to respond to that inquiry.”
“Computer,” Frank continued, “Are there any other life forms on this ship other than myself?”
“Affirmative,” the computer responded with.
“Really,” Frank said, “what kind of life form is it?”
“Klingon male, located in the main brig on level…”
Frank cut the computer off.
“Are you telling me that there is a Klingon aboard the Enterprise, and other than myself, it’s the only other life form on this ship?”
“Affirmative,” the computer replied.
“How did the Klingon get aboard the Enterprise?” Frank decided to ask.
“There is insufficient data at this time to respond to that inquiry.”
Frank’s cop like reflexes took over, and he stood up from Kirk’s chair and headed towards the brig. Generally speaking, or at least as Frank knew of Star Trek, the Klingons were the bad guys on the old Star Trek show. The friendly Klingons from the future Star Trek TV shows were an entire generation away.
But as Frank stepped into the Turbolift, he shook his head. Although he was enjoying the fun of being aboard his own starship, he had a life to get back to. Moments later, Frank entered the Transporter room.
“Computer,” Frank said, “Are the coordinates from where I was beamed up from still loaded in the Transporter machine’s memory.”
“Affirmative,” the computer replied.
“Alright,” Frank said, “can you show me how to operate the Transporter so as to beam me back down to those coordinates, with about a ten second delay?”
For the next fifteen minutes, the computer of the Enterprise explained the fundamental operation of the Transporter. And, moments later, Frank did as instructed and made the proper inputs. He took a breath, and walked over to the Transporter pad, and moments later he shimmered away.
Colorado Rocky Mountains;
Nearly two thousand feet below the Colorado Rockies was the military command center of the United States of America. Fortified with the latest construction refabs, the command center was safe from any attack that another nation could throw at it. To even get down to the command center required a ten minute descent via elevator. The reason for the slow descent was for security measures. Any occupant in the elevator was scanned by various means. It didn’t matter the rank of the occupant. Even the President of the United States would have to undergo the scans.
In the past forty years since the command center had been constructed, only one President had ever visited and it was Bill Clinton. None of the other Presidents had ever visited, which was fine with the General who had ran the command center for the past twenty years. His name was Hank Morton. To everyone one else stationed at NORAD, General Hank Morton was better known as GOD; a cigar chomping God, to be more precise. God was not a happy man.
Hank Morton stood in the elevator shaft, as it neared the end of the descent down the long shaft. Frank wasn’t dressed in his military garb. He had been on a golf course near Colorado Springs, and was just about to strike his approach shot from out of the bunker on the tenth hole, when ..(to continue this chapter, please follow this link >>>>>>> enage)
Last edited by RobertScorpio; February 18 2010 at 07:41 PM.
|February 21 2010, 07:51 AM||#6|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
When driving a vehicle along a crowded freeway, there are certain things that just shouldn’t happen. No one had ever made such a list of things that shouldn’t happen; but whether by instinct, or common sense, such a list did exist in the collective mind of society.
Linda Thomas’s day had already started off on the wrong foot. The daycare she usually dropped her four year old daughter at had suddenly be closed by inspectors from the San Diego Heath Department. This sudden closure forced Linda, and the other parents who relied on the daycare, to find another daycare for their child. This meant filling out bundles of paperwork, and getting immunization cards, and all the little stuff that went into enrolling at a typical daycare. But, like all parents who faces such upheavals, Linda got it all done by 930am. She was already late for work as she drove her white colored Toyota 4-runner away from the daycare, and headed for work.
Linda Thomas worked at a local television news station. She had hopes of one day being one of the main reporters, and hopefully an anchor person, but the struggles of being single parent had put her behind her goals.
Ever since she was a child she had always wanted to be a reporter. All through school she aimed her self at her dream. She had produced her high-school’s ‘school news broadcast’, and finally landed the anchor job in her junior and senior years. Because she was a minority, an African American, she was offered scholarships but turned them down. She wanted to reach her goals on her own terms, and on her own merits. Not to say that there was anything wrong with those who accepted scholarships based on race; but it just wasn’t her way.
Her next step was moving on to junior college, and she excelled there as well. She attended San Diego State University, where she majored in Media Management and minored in journalism. Then, after three years of interning at a local radio station, she made the big leap to staff writer at a local TV station. She was a shooting star in the local media entertainment circles.
Then, on a fateful night, she was brutally raped in her own home. To that point, she had lived a very secluded life. She had stayed away from romance, even in high school, so as to stay focused on her career goals. Her assailant followed her home to her condo, then forced his way in. Without so much as one word, he forced her to the ground of her apartment and then raped her.
The rape led to Linda being pregnant. She had thought about having an abortion, and was actually very pro choice, but decided instead to keep the child. Nine months later, the child was born and it was a beautiful baby girl whom Linda named Aiyana, which was the Cherokee word for eternal blossom. Although having a child had slowed Linda’s career progress, she would have had it no other way. Her parents, who were both still alive, had instilled a streak of independence in her that had seen her accomplish much in her life. Her parents lived in Riverside, which just north of San Diego by a hundred miles or so. If she ever really needed help, in a big way, they had always been there to help her and they always would be; and for that Linda was very thankful.
The traffic was, as usual, horrific coming down the I-15, towards downtown San Diego. It seemed as if everyone had to come to work at the same time, and then go home at the same time later on in the day. With traffic as bad as it was, and had been for years, you would think that a staggered work schedule would be the result for all; but it wasn’t.
Luckily for Linda, there were no important news events other than a statement by Tiger Woods apologizing to the world for his behavior. That meant that the sports reporters, and the sports news broadcasters, were filling up the radio and TV newsroom cycles. Linda’s main responsibility was seeing to it that all news type was correct before going on the prompter for the on-air talent read it. To some it might have seemed like an easy job. But, unfortunately, while Linda took courses in English, and language comprehension, others had not. In fact, the number-one anchorwoman at the channel Linda worked at, Cathy Duval, didn’t even go to college; she landed the job on the female executive producer’s couch. But Linda didn’t care. In fact, the executive had tried the same with her, but Linda turned the woman down. She didn’t want to rise to the top via that route either.
The traffic was starting to thin out, which would put Linda at work in twenty minutes. It was at that moment, as she switched over one lane on the freeway, that a strange sound came to her ears. And then, quite unexpectedly, a man shimmered into view, and sat in the passenger seat next to her.
Linda locked her eyes on her sudden passenger, as she took her eyes of the road before her.
Frank, seeing the rear end of the car in front of them rapidly growing closer, reached over and put his hands on the steering wheel of the SUV, and steered the vehicle around the small hatchback car, with only a split second to spare. Linda turned her head back to facing the windshield, her hands now gripping the steering wheel.
“Who are you?” Linda asked quickly. “How did you get in here?” She darted her eyes back at Frank, then back at the windshield.
“Damn,” Frank said to himself, but to her as well. “I thought for sure that beaming down here would wake me up.”
Linda just kept driving, not wanting to ask the most obvious follow-up question that had ever needed to be asked in the history of mankind. Finally, she just asked.
“Did you say you beamed down here?” Linda asked softly.
Frank shook his head, and came to the final conclusion that none of this had been a dream. He decided to tell the attractive woman the truth; why not?
“I just beamed down here from the USS Enterprise,” Frank finally replied.
“Shit,” Linda said softly.
“I know,” Frank said with a smile, “I said the same thing.”
|February 23 2010, 04:04 PM||#7|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
“Love at first Bite”
(SCORPIO note; by the way, I loved that movie)
Who would have known that a first spark of love could be found at a sidewalk hotdog stand? Well, it did happen. Love isn’t only a splendored thing; it is also very hard to predict. And as Frank Grayson’s life had taken an unexpected turn, after being transported aboard what appeared to be a real USS Enterprise earlier in the day, he was now back on the stable ground of Earth sharing a lunch with the woman whom he had startled by beaming into her car while she was innocently driving down the freeway.
Not much had been said during the drive into downtown San Diego. The KFMB studio was located on a road where most of the local TV stations were located as well. Frank could tell that Linda was trying to make since of what she had seen; a man, Frank, shimmering into her SUV.
As fast would have it, the KFMB parking structure, which just so happened to be located near an old style hotdog stand, with an assortment of benches for customers to sit on. The weather that way was pleasant and sunny; it was the perfect weather to sit down on a bench and share lunch with a beautiful woman.
“So,” Linda said as she used her index finger to remove a smidgen of mustard from the side of her lip, “you’re trying to tell me that you were,” she racked her brain for the right word, “beamed up to a spaceship. You do realize that I could have you committed for such nonsense.”
Frank did realize how silly it sounded, but it was true. He had beamed up to the Enterprise, helped save it from a decaying orbit. It wasn’t a dream, Frank decided, it had actually happened. The question would eventually be, for him; would he ever go back?
“Exactly, that’s what happened. And” Frank said, “trust me; I am not a nut.”
“I hope not,” Linda said, as she eyed the concealed gun beneath his button up jacket. “Are you a cop?”
Frank took a moment to button up his jacket, not wanting others to see his weapon.
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” Frank said with a smile. “A cop, with a gun, who also believes he was just in outer space on a TV show’s spaceship.”
They looked at each other, and then chuckled. It was silly even to consider, but Linda had seen Frank teleport into her SUV with her own two eyes.
“How did you get there?” Linda asked as her reporter’s skills clicked in.
“Oh,” Frank said, as he set his hotdog down, and took the communicator out of his pocket. “I used this thing,” Frank told her.
“That’s a cellphone,” Linda came back with. “Nice try.”
“Did you ever see Star Trek?” Frank asked.
“My dad made me watch it,” Linda said, “that bald guy and his robot friend, and the ditzy mind reader lady,” Linda recounted, remembering the few times she had seen Star Trek.
“That’s one of the newer Star Treks,” Frank educated her. “Did you ever see the one with Kirk and Spock?”
“You mean the one with Denny Crane?” Linda asked. “Oh, yeah, but that was years ago.” Then she looked closer at the communicator. “Oh yeah,” Linda said as she drank some of the coffee she had gotten with her hotdog, “that does look like one of those walky-talky things.”
“They called them communicators,” Frank said. “Anyway, I opened it up in my car, and then pressed this,” Frank said as he pointed at the now not-flashing button. “The next thing I knew, I was up there on the ship.”
Frank realized where they were, as he looked around.
“Wait a moment; are you some kind of reporter?” Frank asked.
“Well, actually, sometimes I am. But most the time I’m one of the producers, but I do like to go into the field from time to time.” Linda told him. “Why?”
“Please,” Frank said softly, “promise me you’re not going to make this into some kind of news story. It could get me fired.”
Linda began to laugh.
“Are you serious?” Linda said. “I would have to add the fact that I saw you teleport..”
“Beam…” Frank corrected her.
“You beamed into my 4-Runner,” Linda said, correcting her self. “The next thing I know, I would be branded a nut-job and be considered the woman version of Art Bell.”
Frank was nearing the end of his hotdog. He had things to tend to himself, like finding his car, but he didn’t want his relationship with Linda to end; he was attracted to her. And, being the old softy he was, he had the strangest feeling that their meeting wasn’t just by chance.
“Would you mind if I got your phone number?” Frank asked. “I mean, I need someone to talk to about this, and you’re the only one I trust for now.”
Linda gave Frank an inquisitive look.
“Um, I don’t knooooow,” Linda replied with a humorous tone in her voice, though she really did find him cute, in a rugged sort of way. She reached into her purse and retrieved a business car. “This has my work # and home #.” She told him, but then she took on a more serious tone. “Now listen, I have a ten year old daughter, and she’s had it kind of rough okay? So, please, if this, whatever this is; is going places? Just don’t take me for a ride.”
And with that, she stood up and walked away.
“I will call,” Frank said to her as she walked away. And then, in his minded, he counted down, 3-2-1..and almost as if on cue, she turned around and smiled.
“You better,” Linda said. “If you don’t, I’ll leave a tip with your sergeant that you have your own starship Galactica.”
“Enterprise,” Frank said with a whisper.
Frank watched Linda walk away, and then he too walked away in the opposite direction. Luckily, for him, police headquarters wasn’t that far. Frank had to find out what happened to his car, but first there was definitely a more dramatic moment ahead; explaining to his boss where he was. Frank knew there would be yelling involved; he was right.
|February 24 2010, 06:01 PM||#8|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
“The Door Slammers Union”
Doors were not really built to be slammed, but people loved to slam them anyway. It was especially a great slam when the door was built without any hinges that lessoned the motion of the swinging door. The door to Frank Grayson’s office, located at the San Diego downtown police headquarters, had been equipped with such ‘brakes’ on the hinges. But over time, from the constant attempted slamming of the door, the breaks had worn down and the door now slammed with the best of them. Most of the loud slams had been caused by Frank’s division captain; Charles Benton.
Charles Benton had intended to be a basketball player from the time he was a child. But due to his size, horizontally, and in ability to not eat foods that were bad for him, he chose a life of crime fighting instead. Even though he had trouble with his weight, he was still able to pass the physical demands of being a cop. Thankfully the union he belonged to had successfully negated any real physical requirements for cops.
Having a loud voice was really all that one needed to be a division captain at SDPD, or so, that’s how Frank Grayson saw it. Because whatever Captain Benton lacked in the way of physical ability, he made up with his loud voice; and it was really loud. He also was an expert door slammer too. Even though they were all plain clothes detectives, Captain Benton made everyone feel they were still brown-shoes.
Lt. Frank Grayson sat behind his door and closed his eyes as his office door slammed shut. The loud whacking sound was as loud as thunder. Captain Benton had just given Frank a verbal dressing down for not only being late to work, but for abandoning his car in the middle of a freeway. Frank had lied and told his captain that he thought he had seen a fire starting in the nearby canyon, beneath homes on a ridge, and had tried to put it out. What really happened, of course, was that Frank had beamed up to the Starship Enterprise. Somehow, fighting a nonexistent fire seemed more realistic excuse.
The door to Frank’s office opened, without much noise, and his partner, Lt. Jose Cortez, came in, holding to cups off of coffee. Cortez handed Frank one of the steaming plastic cups, and sat down in the chair across from Frank’s desk.
“That was pretty bad. I heard him yelling all the way in the bathroom,” Cortez said with a painful look on his face. “Why didn’t you call me dude, I would have covered for you.”
Frank sipped from the plastic cup. The dark liquid inside the cup was supposed to be coffee, but tasted more like volcanic lava mixed with Listerine.
“Who made this shit?” Frank asked, as he forced the first gulp down.
“I don’t know,” Cortez said, looking at the dark liquid in his own cup. “I think it’s the same pot I made three days ago. So, where were you? Banging some chick I hope.”
Frank thought seriously about telling his friend the truth, but decided not to; for the time being.
“Trust me, Jose, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Frank said softly. “So, are there any leads on the Templeton case?” Frank asked while looking at the file on his desk labeled Templeton.
“According to Templeton’s landlord,” Cortez began to say, “There was some kind of argument in Templeton’s apartment that night. The landlord knows this because the two tenants next to Templeton’s place filed complaints the next day about the loud music and yelling coming from the apartment.”
“We should go over there and interview these complaining tenants,” Frank said.
“Agreed,” Cortez said.
Both men finished their coffees, and were successful in fighting off the urge to vomit it back up, and headed out of the office, on their way to Templeton’s apartment.
Frank and his fellow detective, Cortez, were soon cruising down the city streets in their all black Lincoln Continental, when Cortez noticed they were taking an alternate route towards the freeway.
“Why are we going this way?” Cortez asked as they passed a row of TV station complexes, including the one Linda worked in.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Frank said, “I just wanted to go a different way this time.”
Cortez gave Frank a suspicious look.
General Hank Wilson was also finishing a disgusting cup of coffee. He had just arrived at his office, after descending through the long elevator shaft, and waited in his office for any update on Enterprise situation. Captain Kari Donnelly, Wilson’s top assistant, and a very attractive one at that, entered the General’s office.
Although General Wilson had been married for years, it never stopped his eyes from wandering up the legs of a female officer. Such actions were frowned upon in the new “military”, but General Wilson came from another time; and some things never changed.
Captain Donnelly, who had flown several combat missions in both Iraq and Afghanistan, knew that the General loved to scope her legs. She actually quite enjoyed the flattery, but always kept it at a low level. He had long flowing brown hair, but kept it tight above her head, which accented her long neck. She knew she was attractive; and knew that everyone else knew too.
“What’s the news on that thing up there?” General Wilson asked, forgoing even looking at the file she handed him.
As Captain Donnelly spoke, and briefed the General, he, for his part, didn’t listen. He just watched her lips movie, and felt the desire to just stand up, and take her into his arms, and hold her tight; so as to feel her nicely shaped bosom against his chest.
“..And that’s about it,” Captain Donnelly concluded.
“Well,” General Wilson said, “keep me posted.”
“I will sir,” Donnelly said as she stood up and turned towards the door.
General Wilson looked up from the file he was reading to get a good look at the young woman’s derrière. It was part of his morning schedule, after their short briefing.
Wilson read the file that Donnelly had given him. Apparently Homeland Security was also monitoring the strange object in high orbit of Earth. And, according to assets in play, the Chinese and Russian governments were aware of it as well.
An experimental Z7 space craft, which could carry two astronauts into space, was being prepped to get a closer look and determine if the object in space was nothing more than a hoax. But more serious was the conclusion from Homeland Security that there was a distinct possibility that someone on Earth, someone in American no less, was in contact with the ship.
|February 26 2010, 04:40 PM||#9|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
If there was really such a thing as an all-American hero, it was Captain Kipper Vicks. He had the body of superhero, the smile of actor Avery Brooks, and if he were to be pricked with a needle, he would bleed red white and blue. He had a remarkable story.
He was raised on the mean streets of Detroit Michigan, but never let the challenging environment bring him down. His father, and mother, had each served in the United States Marines, and had given him a solid foundation to build his life upon. Where as many of his childhood friends had gone down the wrong path of drugs and despair, Kipper had been kept on the straight and narrow by his parents.
And now here he was, a thirty year old single man, and a Captain in the United States Air-force, and attached to the very top secret Earth Security Force, headquartered at a top secret base straddling the borders of America and Canada.
When ever an unidentified object was tracked by the ESF radar, and the order was given to investigate, the very top secret craft that was affectionately called the Frog was readied for rapid deployment. It had been build using the highest of technologies, some of it so classified that even Captain Kipper, the pilot, was unauthorized to look under the ‘hood’ to see what powered the craft.
It was able to hold two passengers; a pilot and navigator. But it could be flown easily with just the pilot, which was fine with Captain Kipper. His duty shift lasted for seventy-four hours, and then his counterpart, Captain Ben Hatcher, would take over, and Captain Kipper would get seventy-four hours off. Most of those seventy-four hours were spent playing XBOX360 online games, like Halo and Call of Duty, as well as Madden. If he wasn’t playing games he was exercising, sleeping or eating. That was the regimental life Captain Kipper was living; and he loved it.
His recon team, in the fictional but all too fun world of Call of Duty, was advancing on an enemy stronghold when, in real life, the ‘go’ signal for flight ops had been signaled. When ever a ‘go’ command had been given, it would flash over the TV screen as well. Captain Kipper, upon seeing the ‘go’ signal, would just unplug his Xbox360, and jump into his flight suit. The thought that he had just left his Call of Duty teammates in the lurch did not cross his mind at all; that was how dedicated Kipper was.
Once, years ago, he had asked his father why they had named him Kipper. Apparently, during the first gulf war, his father and a few of his fellow marines had befriended a mutt during a top secret operation deep inside the North Korea. They had named the dog Kipper. Everyone, all sixteen of his father’s recon team, came back alive. They attributed their success to their training, and, the dog they had named Kipper. Unfortunately the mutt was wounded during evac, and had to be put down.
Kipper zipped up his flight suit, looked at the picture of Jesus Christ on his desk and bowed his head, and then headed out of his quarters, then down a passageway that led him to the hanger bay. The sleek, white metallic FROG, with its wings swept back had already been taxied out to the path that led to the runway.
There were six men responsible for maintaining the FROG, and prepping it for flight. So top secret were their orders, none of them were allowed to verbally talk to each other, not even Captain Kipper. Communications were done with hand signals only. This was to insure that no unauthorized information was passed from the pilot, Kipper, to the simple maintenance crews. Kipper had seen many strange things in his time, and had decided that the secrecy had to be maintained.
Moments later, and quite excitedly, Kipper climbed into the FROG and taxied it out to the runway. The FROG was equipped with a very top secret engine that operates on a theory that gravity 'waves' have propagation speeds much greater than that of speed of light. Though the FROG was not faster than the speed of light, it was able to do achieve speeds, and more importantly, space flight abilities, that made it the most advanced craft produced by mankind yet.
When the FROG was deployed, Captain Kipper had no idea what the mission was. Once aboard the craft, the small computer interface would activate. Commands were one way; to him, not back. The commands were communicated via a small screen. Kipper had no idea who was giving the orders, and from where. The only thing he had to do was follow them; exactly.
With the coordinates finally given, Kipper flipped the switch that activated the top secret engine. When the FROG took off, it did not taxi down a runway to gain momentum so as to achieve flight. Once activated, the craft just seemed to leap into air, with absolutely very little sound. It was the leaping motion into flight that gave the FROG its nickname.
Frank Grayson, sipping on some tea, listened intently as an older woman, in her eighties at least, told Frank what she had heard the fateful night a week before. Frank and the older woman were sitting in her apartment, at her small kitchen table, which was located directly next to the apartment where a dead body had been found several days earlier. Witnesses, including the older woman, Edna Newman, had complained about loud music and shouting coming from the apartment in question.
“Those two men were yelling at each other,” Edna repeated to Frank. “They were playing that music of theirs so loud, but I could still hear them yelling. Officer, did you know that they were gay?” Edna asked. “I pray that the Lord have mercy on their souls.”
Frank could tell, after speaking with Edna for nearly an hour that she came from another time when intolerance towards others was accepted. He didn’t blame her for he archaic beliefs, how could he? His own grandfather had some said pretty crazy things, but it didn’t change that fact that deep down his grandfather and Edna as well, were good decent people brought up in a different time.
“When did the music playing end?” Frank asked, trying to stay on subject.
“Oh, it had to be around eleven or so,” Edna said. “I remember because I had just finished watching Pimp My Ride, and that is usually over at 11 pm.”
Frank had to laugh inside. Here was this kindly old woman, offended by the gay men she lived next to and yet perfectly content to watch Pimp My Ride. Even still, her old woman charm was still very affectionate.
Ten minutes later, Frank re-entered the sealed off apartment where the dead body had been found. The body had long since been removed, but Polaroid’s of the body, taken the morning the body had been discovered by the landlord, were on the floor next to the crime scene tape that outlined where the body had been found. Frank’s partner, Jose Cortez, was speaking in Spanish with one of the apartment complex’s maintenance workers, who happened to be Mexican as well. Suddenly the Star Trek communicator, which Frank had kept in his back pocket, began to beep. Frank took it out, opened it, and saw the red light flashing again, and this time, very rapidly.
“Jose,” Frank said, “it’s my daughter on the phone,” he lied, “I’m going to have a cigarette and see what she wants. If you need me I’ll be down by the car.”
“No problem,” Jose said.
Frank left the apartment and entered the stairway. Once he was sure he was alone, he pressed the red button and then…he was gone.
There is Klingon in the brig of Frank’s Enterprise, as well as a strange alien named Stanley.
Also…Captain Kipper sees it, but he can’t believe it!!!!
|February 28 2010, 05:05 AM||#10|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
One of the most visibly stunning cities in great nation of Russia is Chelyabinsk Nestled with the Ural Mountains as a backdrop, the spectacular views one can see there are absolutely stunning. The history of the people there stretches back hundreds upon hundreds of years, and is one of the most sought out tourist destinations. (Scorpio note; I have been there, and highly suggest you try to get there in your travels.)
It is near this city, and directly below the first range of mountains, that Russian counterpart to America’s NORAD is based. In fact, it is really of no surprise to anyone that Russian Command and Control (RCC) was nearly identical to the American version; both were built with stolen plans from both sides.
Supreme Commander of Russian forces, who held the title of Marshal of the Russian Federation, was Iosif Solovyov and he ruled the Russian Command and Control with an iron fist. Not just any Russian officer could serve in Solovyov’s command; only those deemed perfect by the Supreme Commander himself could be stationed at the RCC. He himself had learned military bearing from men who had served with Stalin. In fact, Solovyov’s own grandfather had been one of Stalin’s advisors during the so called ‘glory’ days, which, rightly or wrongly, many Russians looked upon with reverie.
In a day and age when Russian influence had diminished, since the wall came down in 1989, Solovyov, and others like him, had made it his goal to bring the glory of the old Soviet military back. Iosif Solovyov didn’t want the Russian military to be a pen prick in the in the mighty American heel, but a dagger, ready to be used at a moments notice, across its neck! The Russian military, or at least aspects of it, believed the Americans had become to arrogant. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the missile defense deployments in former Eastern block nations, were part of this glaring arrogance.
Whimsical minded men, and women, were not allowed to serve beneath Solovyov. Those who had imaginative minds were a drain on the mission at hand. To even show any artistic thought, or, abstract thought, while performing one’s duty, would lead to immediate termination of orders and possible prison time.
Which brought Solovyov to a must disturbing, and, humorless situation. The door to Solovyov’s office opened and his senior duty officer, Colonel Leonid Petrev, reported as ordered.
“What is this nonsense?” Solovyov asked, looking at the report, and then flipping it open so as Colonel Petrev could see it; a blurry image of a so called unidentified object in Earth orbit. But even though it was blurry, the image was unmistakable. “Do not think that since you are a Colonel that I won’t have you stripped of rank and arrested.”
“Sir,” Gen Petrev countered, “I didn’t believe either, as you do not believe now. However, we have just received a report that the American’s have launched their FROG to investigate this object in space.”
“You do realize that this so called object is nothing more than a creation of science fiction,” Solovyov repeated.
Petrev looked at the blurry image of the USS Enterprise.
“I was quite fond of that show when I was but a child,” Petrev said.
“Be sure that your fondness for that show does not cloud your judgment,” Solovyov said with a cold stare. “My wife’s younger brother watched this show, with its liberal views of morality, including sexual perversions. At her insistence I had him confined at the Letrolv Mental Facility near Moscow. Suffice to say, after two lobotomies, his deviant desires were ended.”
“Do not worry sir, I no longer have a fondness for that show,” Petrev said, lying as he did. “However, we can not ignore the fact that the American’s believe something is above our world. Should we launch the Volk-2?”
Solovyov thought for a moment. If the Americans had indeed launched their version of the Volk-2, then the Russians had to act in kind. Solovyov did not verbally answer Petrev, he just gave the General a slight nod.
Frank Grayson , having arrived on the Enterprise only moments before, made his way to the bridge. He was beginning to see the futility of being the only one aboard to operate the ship. According the computer, there was still a Klingon in one of the holding cells down in the brig. There was another alien as well. According to the computer, the Klingon had been capture after he had beamed aboard the Enterprise during a fire fight between the Enterprise and a two Klingon battle cruisers. The other alien, which the computer had a problem with keeping a fix on, was of an unknown alien race, and had been rescued from an asteroid field near Beta Gamma 7. Of course, Frank Grayson had no idea what Beta Gamma 7 was, but perhaps the unknown alien could be trust to help run the ship; a possibility Frank would have to look into at a later time.
The Enterprise was tracking an unknown object that was now leaving Earth’s atmosphere, and was heading towards the Enterprise.
“Computer,” Frank said, “scan the object; is there life aboard?”
“Affirmative,” the computer responded, “one life form; human.”
“Damn,” Frank said to himself.
It was obvious that if the American Military, whom Frank suspected at having a craft like the one heading towards the Enterprise, were sending it up to investigate the Enterprise it meant that the ship could be seen; and most likely not only by the American Military.
Then Frank decided to weigh the possible option of just handing the ship over to his government, the Americans. But if that were to happen, he would have to do it so that the rest of the world know so that the American Military, with possible tactical uses they could accomplish with such technology, wouldn’t abuse it.
Or; Frank could just keep the ship, not trusting how such a piece of technology fit would into the hands of 21st century social dynamics of Earth.
Far from the planet Earth, several star systems distant, someone else was having to make command decisions; but he had been trained to do so. Kor, Dahar master that he was, was well respected by the crews of both ships under his command. He was sitting in the briefing room aboard his command ship listening to his first officer K’taf give the latest report, which was based upon the latest conclusions of the science department.
“My lord,” K’taf said, “The science section has concluded that we are no longer in our universe. We have traveled to an alternate universe, one in which there is no Federation, no Romulan Star Empire, and,”
“No Kronos,” Kor said, finishing K’taf’s remarkable conclusion. “How do we get back to where we belong? What happens if our crystals run low?”
“If we were brought here,” K’taf said, “then there must be a way back.”
“Are we in the Alpha Quadrant?” Kor asked.
“The galaxy we are in appears to be the same size as our own galaxy, back in our universe. As of yet, none of the star constellations are matching those on record, which means we are still traveling blind.”
“The Enterprise was caught up in the same bright light that we were,” Kor said to K’taf. “They have, admittedly so, better science labs than our own. We must find the Enterprise, we must find Kirk, and when we do,” Kor said with a devious smile. “the way home will be coated by the blood of Kirk and his crew.”
“Yes; my lord.” K’taf said, with his own sneer.
|March 1 2010, 09:36 PM||#11|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
(Readers; please be advised. This segment of our story contains the use of ‘curse’ words)
(Readers; please be advised. This segment of our story depicts what could be objectionable use of a rifle/paint gun. This incident is based on a true occurrence and may be inappropriate for underage readers.)
If there had been a Winter Olympic sport that awarded medals for the length that a person’s jaw dropped at seeing an incredible sight, Captain Kipper Vicks would have not only one the Gold, but the Silver and Bronze medals as well; and why not? It wasn’t everyday that a man got the chance to push the envelope of reality, in terms of what existed and what didn’t.
Aside from experimenting with pot in his youth, Captain Kipper didn’t do drugs, nor was he a heavy drink. If there was a social engagement, or he was hanging out with his friends, Kipper was known to drown a beer or two. But that was the extent of his foray into the world of mind altering substances. As he thought further on the subject, as he guided the FROG beneath the massive spaceship know as the USS Enterprise, from his favorite show Star Trek, Kipper had to wonder now if watching TV was just as mind altering as snorting cocaine or shooting up with heroine were. How else could one explain what he was seeing?
The FROGS instruments were detecting an unknown energy field surrounding the mighty starship. Kipper deduced that the Enterprise had its shields up, and that the energy the FROG was detecting was the ship’s shields. Kipper had to separate his awe at seeing the Enterprise with that of doing his duty; investigating an unidentified object in Earth orbit. At that second, a message scrolled across his main monitor from his unseen senior officers.
:: Make a verbal assessment on Channel 4T7:
Captain Kipper did as instructed, and activated the top secret communication’s platform, and switched to the designated channel, 4T7. He spoke in a matter of fact tone, as was called for in such instances.
“I am looking at a large vessel,” Kipper reported, “approximately a thousand feet in length. It has one large saucer section which is attached to a…,” Kipper paused for a moment and decided that sometimes a man just had to say what a man had to say, “Look; it’s the fucking Starship Enterprise. What the hell is going on? Am I being punked or what?”
At first there was no response from the monitor, and then, after 30 seconds, there was.
:: Outburst understood; restrain your self. The believability factor or lack there of, is understandable. We are analyzing visual and other tactical data; well will advise course of action.”
“Maybe I should send a signal, and ask them to beam me up,” Kipper suggested.
Kipper shook his head in disgust.
Even though his suggestion to beam-up to the Enterprise had been said in good humor, he thought about it for another moment. If the ship was fully operational, and why wouldn’t it be, then beaming-up wasn’t such a crazy thought after all. He wondered what the beaming sensation would feel like, or, if like being put under for a medical operation, there would no sensation of the pass of time. (Author’s note; I had heart surgery a few years back, and there was no passage of time. It was a very strange experience)
Frank was reading the text that was displayed on the bridge main screen. It was giving basic instructions on how to operate the Navigation and Helm stations. Usually those stations were manned by Sulu and Chekov, on the TV show, but Frank was all alone on this Enterprise. He was going to have to learn the basic functions of the ship until such time he decided what to do with the ship.
“Computer,” Frank finally said, “please set an orbital course that would take us to a further point from the planet, yet still allow beaming.”
Course plotted the computer replied.
Frank could have asked the computer to do the rest of the procedure, but Frank decided he would do it instead, for the experience. He was sitting at what would have been Sulu’s post, and then leaned over to do what had to be done on the Navigation consol. Once that was done, he slowly danced his fingers across the control buttons on Sulu’s consol.
Captain Kipper had the FROG to the stern of the Enterprise, just slightly below eye level with the shuttle bay doors, when all of a sudden the Enterprise increased speed and height of orbit. Kipper could only watch as the massive ship nearly doubled its orbital position to a point that was further than the FROG’s current capabilities; but at least it was still there. The Enterprise had also increased its speed and gradually moved to far from Kipper’s view; for now.
With the ship at a higher orbit, and safe for, Frank headed out of the bridge and back down to the Transporter room. He had to get back down to Earth before his partner, Jose, became suspicious as to Frank had been for the past half hour or so. As Frank shimmered away, unseen to him, the door to the Transporter room opened again.
The scope of a rifle type weapon was trained at an exact place. A small camera interface, which was attached to the scope, was recording what ever came into the scope’s view. The rifle was lodged high up in a tree, across from the target area. Birds chirped one branch below, totally oblivious to the weapon and what it was there for. The gun was being remotely controlled, which meant there was no one there to fire it.
The person who was controlling the weapon sat in an average high-school classroom not far from the tree. His name was Austin Grayson, son of Frank Grayson. And as Austin’s fifth period teacher, Mrs. Jackson, droned on about the causes of the Great Depression, Austin kept his eyes on the small screen of his Iphone. Austin was able monitor the gun’s scope, and, when the time was right, would be able to activate the trigger and fire a paint pellet at the target. And as fate would have it, the target had just arrived. Principle Conrad had just arrived at his designated parking spot, which the rifle was trained on.
Austin knew that such pranks were juvenile, and even controversial, due to shooting incidents at schools in recent times; but he didn’t care. Most of his peers were either strung out on crystal, or, were busy trying to ‘shag’ as many girls as they could, and spreading the Herpes virus in the process. Shooting a blood colored pellet at a principle was more interesting to him, and provided a much valuable education; could he do it and not get caught.
He had bought the rifle using a stolen ID and a stolen Gun Permit. He had gotten the money he used from a stolen ATM card that just ‘happened’ to come into his possession. Balanced with the fact that he was getting an A+ in all his classes, except History, Austin believed this was justified relaxation.
Principle Conrad, an older man of African descent, in his late fifties at least, struggled to get out of his BMW. The struggle came from the fact that Conrad weighed, at least, 300 pounds. And, if he kept to his usual schedule, Conrad would exit the car, then slightly bend down to shut the car door, which would, if the targeting of the rifle was exact, give the largest possible target to shoot at; his very round butt.
But fate was going to play a trick on Austin, because those two birds that were on the branch below, were about to provide that random twist that fate loved to feed upon. Because just as Principle Conrad bent over to shut his door, and just as his round rump, which was stretched tightly across the bottom of his pants, was at its most round, and just as Austin pressed the trigger button on his Iphone (the # 666) one of the birds nudged the gun and altered its aim.
No longer was it aimed at the round rump, but the door of the car that was parked two spaces up from Principle Conrad’s car. The other car belonged to the on duty Police officer, who patrolled the school during school hours. The officer was sitting in the front seat of his patrol car, with the window down, while enjoying the oral sex being given to him by one of the teachers who also worked at the school and performed such acts for extra income. Austin gasped as he realized the gun had fired and what it was now aimed at; the police officer, who had a strange, joyful look on his face for some unknown reason.
“Oh shit,” Austin said softly.
Last edited by RobertScorpio; March 2 2010 at 12:08 AM.
|March 5 2010, 01:25 AM||#12|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
Special Guest Star
Stanley; created by
Frank Grayson re-materialized at the same point where he had beamed up from, which was between two homes that were off to the right of the main road. As he came out from between the two homes he could see his partner, Lt. Jose Cortez, coming out of the apartment complex where the two were investigating a murder.
“Where’d you go?” Jose asked as Frank walked across the street and over to their shared plain black unmarked cop car; a Ford Crown Victoria.
“Oh, I was talking with the woman who lives in that house over there,” Frank replied, with a white lie. He had actually talked to her by phone the day before. “She walks her two dogs around 10pm each night, so I was hoping she might have heard anything that could help.”
They both got into the car, Frank on the driver’s side.
“Did she hear anything?” Jose asked as they both snapped in their seat belts. (Author’s note; Always use your seat belt.)
“She heard the loud music,” Frank replied, “but none of the yelling the other witnesses reported.”
“Maybe he was dead at the time she was walking her dog,” Jose suggested.
“So let me see if we have this right,” Frank said as he aimed the car down the road, “one guy, Chuck Morrison, age 52, is found dead with an arrow sticking in his heart. His lover, Paul West, age 41, is one of this area’s most respected archers; competes all across the country, highly awarded. Sounds like an easy case, however…”
“Paul, the archer, claims he was out that night,” Jose counters. “Apparently Paul has been having a secret relationship with another man, Anthony Rene, who just turned 21 last week, and who works at the local comic book store.”
“Was the relationship as secret as Paul thought?” Frank wonders. “Anthony Rene, the comic book store worker, who lives at home with his parents, and is going to college, but let’s faces it, not making much money at his job, does he decide to off Chuck, and hope to move in with the Archer, after the dust settles. The old ‘sugar daddy‘ routine?”
“Good theory, very cliché though,” Jose replied.
“I have found,” Frank said as he drove the car onto the local freeway, “that some cases are so cliché because humans are so predictable.”
Jose was about to add something to the conversation when the Police radio on the dashboard chirped to life with a beep, and then a slightly nasal tainted female’s voice sounded over the speaker. It was the voice of the lead dispatcher.
“Two-Charles ten,” her voice stated.
Jose picked up the Motorola police-radio transmitting microphone, the standard white, one button issue.
“Go,” Jose said into the radio, after pressing the button.
“Officer William Tyson is requesting to meet with Frank at 4399 Ashburn street,” the dispatcher reported.
“We’ll go, it’s about five miles from here,” Frank told Jose, not adding the fact that it was near Austin’s high-school.
Frank really didn’t have to tell Jose where they were going, Jose already knew. If they were going somewhere near Austin’s school, it was a dead giveaway that Frank’s son was in trouble; yet again.
Three square meals a day; that’s all they got. They being the two“guests” inside the Enterprise’s brig. One of them was a rough and gruff Klingon named K‘amal. He didn’t bare any of the ridges future generations of Klingons would bare; but his temper was no less violent.
During the confrontation between the Enterprise and the attacking Klingon ships, K’amal had managed to beam over to the Enterprise, in hopes of committing sabotage. Unfortunately he was found out before his acts of subversion could be done, and then he was put in the brig.
That was a couple days in the past. And, now, at regular intervals, three times a day, the Enterprise’s food processors would deposit food from the dispensary station towards the end of the cell he was in. The ship’s computer no doubt knew of the Klingon’s presence in the brig, at it kept dispensing bland attempts at Klingon cuisine.
There had not been any visits from the Enterprise security team in three days. It was almost as if he, K’amal, and the strange being across the brig area in another cell, were the only ones aboard the mighty starship.
And, as annoying as ever, the strange alien was staring at K’amal from across the room. An energy barrier was at the opening of each of the two cells, prohibiting them from leaving their cells.
“What are you looking at!?” K’amal demanded of the strange hominoid creature which had blue tainted skin, and large eyes on its oval shaped head.
And, as usual, the alien responded with a language the Enterprise’s inferior Universal Translator could not decipher.
“zzzheop, zzzhejok, mm’zzzeeehop, zheemams,” the alien stated, as if the Klingon could understand.
“I told you before,” the Klingon said, as he was eating his bland attempt at Gagh, “I DON’T UNDERSTAND YOU!”
“zzzhemmop, zhhemkjoaja’eh, zzzhmem,” the alien added, while blinking its blank expression filled eyes.”
“When I find my way out of this cage, you blue skinned coward, I will rip your body apart, find your heart, and eat it as you die!” K’amal said with anger, and spitting out flakes of food as he did.
K’amal went back to eating his food, ignoring the innocent stares from the alien. As he ate his food, K’amal, as he had done for the past couple days, went over and over different escape avenues. Getting past the energy barrier at the opening of the cell was proving to be the most formidable part of his plans. Then, as he chewed on the disgusting attempt at Gagh, K’amal looked over at the opening of his cell and saw the strange alien now standing at the entrance, but on the other side of the barrier. K’amal threw his food down and rushed over to the entrance of his cell.
“I do not know how you got through your barrier,” K’amal said to the alien, just inches on the other side of the barrier, “and I do not care. If you wish your death to be painless and quick then you will turn off this energy barrier.”
The alien blinked its eyes two times and then turned and started to walk out of the brig.
“Free me!” K’amal yelled, as he was pounding on the wall, to no avail.
The blue skinned alien had actually already wandered out of the brig, the last time had been when K’amal was sleeping. This time the blue skinned alien made its way further than the previous. Suddenly, as it made its way down a corridor, one of the doors swished open and the alien briefly saw another humanoid shaped being shimmering away.
|March 6 2010, 10:23 PM||#13|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
There was nothing worse than a slow news day, especially in the world of local news broadcasts. Because of the advent of the internet, newsrooms all across the country, network and local affiliates alike, were feeling the effects of lower ratings. If a local channel was able to be very successful, and it was rare in these times, then the men and women who worked at those stations could expect promotion within the news business world.
Stu Hammond was such a success story, but it hadn’t always been that way, but his path never wavered.
He had been born in July of 1958 with a rare condition that stymied the grown of his leg muscles. Though his legs grew in length, the tendons that held the muscles in place didn’t mature with the growing muscle mass. By the age of five he would spend the rest of his life in a wheel chair. But where he may have lacked the ability to run and play like the other kids his age, Stu had one thing that most kids didn’t; he had drive.
His father, Carl Hammond, was an equal drive. In the early 1960s, a large part of America was still in the grasp of racism and bigotry. It wasn’t easy for a Blackman to find work, but Carl did. He worked three jobs, barely got two hours of sleep a night, but he did this to insure that his son got the best care he could, in a day and age when health insurance, especially those economically challenged, wasn’t easy to come by.
When he was just five years old young Stu, as most people did on that fateful day in November of 1963, sat by the radio, or watched on TV, the events surrounding the assassination of John F Kennedy. And then, two days later, with the nation still gripped by the death of the President, his assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, was gunned down as well.
Stu, even at his young age, was very much captivated by the ability of the news men, especially those who were heard on the radio no less, to describe the events so well that someone with a great imagination, like Stu, could visualize it with ease. Because of his family’s economic situation, they lived in the small town of Scottsdale, which was located near Phoenix Arizona, his parents could not afford a television. But it didn’t matter to Stu.
Everyday he would listen to the news, and at night, when his mother and father were asleep, Stu would listen to the Superman radio show. Sure, most of the radio episodes were from the fifties, and seemed dated, but it didn’t matter to Stu. Because from listening to those old broadcasts, with the voice of Bud Colyer as Superman/Clark Kent, Stu didn’t need a television for the visuals; he had his mind.
With the drive instilled to him by his father, Stu set out to be a journalist. He was handicap, to be sure, and in those days the world didn’t seem to care, but Stu did not let that bother him. He delivered newspapers as a kid, and then he got a job a local radio channel when he turned 12 years old, thanks to one of the kind men on his newspaper route. Sure, it was only in the mailroom, and it didn’t pay, at first, but it was a start. His fellow workers were helpful, as much as they could be. But Stu didn’t start at the mailroom with intentions to stay there; no sir. The mail room was just the lowest rung on a ladder that always pointed up.
Stu Hammond, the executive programmer of KFMB-TV, steered his wheelchair into the large conference room for the daily 2:30pm production meeting. Stu had been asked many times why he had never switched over to an automatically powered wheel chair, with his answer being the same each time; he liked simplicity. He had wheeled him self around for most of his life by grinding away on the wheels of his chair, and it suited him fine. Kept him grounded in reality.
It was at the production meeting where that stories for that evening’s television news broadcast would be decided, and which order they would appear. Everyday, when he parked came to his place at the table, the head of the table, he always made a point to smile at the old table, which was affectionately called Wilbur. Wilbur had been built in the 1920s, was old, but it had character, and the name of the man who had built it was inscribed on the backside of the table. So why not get a new table?
The table had been in the same room for the past 35 years, and could have been replaced with a modern, more agreeable to the eyes table. But Stu liked simplicity, and so the table had remained. He had risen to the top of KFMB, moving to San Diego when he had turned thirty years old, twenty years ago, and the table had been there through his entire climb.
Now at the age of 50, Stu was running an award winning news broadcast in San Diego. He had been offered network jobs, partly because he was black, or handicap, or because he had earned it. But San Diego had become his home, and now with a wife and two children, it had changed the focus of his drive; giving them the kind of life his parents had shown him. A life of stability.
“Alright people,” Stu said, after clearing his throat, a subtle hint to stop all the idle chatter, “what have we got?”
Stu listened as one by one each division announced the stories they were running with. Sports and Weather were the easiest to place in the broadcast, being what the nature of their news was. The hard news items, including the ongoing wars in the middle east, and yet another recall announced by a car company, were arranged at the top of the newscast, as usual.
As the night’s broadcast began to take shape, Stu noticed that Linda Thomas had remained quiet throughout the give and take of story order. Two of the pieces she had produced were in the mix, but she was doing very little to champion their placement, which was very unlike her. Stu knew why; she had her mind on her love life, or lack there of. The quiet treatment was a sure sign that there had been an event in that area of her life.
Stu had hired Linda, straight out of college, because she had drive, just like he had all those years ago. She had been a real go getter, and even when she became a single parent, she didn’t let that slow her down. But her track record with men was about as successful as the San Diego Padres; not very good. He would speak with her after the meeting to get the ‘low down’ with the latest developments with her life, which was always like a soap opera. Even though Stu had children of his own, he considered Linda almost as an older daughter.
The final news story they would run with was between two apparent fluff stories. Stu liked to end the broadcasts with fluff stories, it put the viewers at ease.
“Its down to these two,” the show runner, a young oriental man named John, who was a sharp producer, said to Stu. John pointed at one of the fluff producer/writers; a stringy woman with blond hair and who had two pronounced ear rings in her nose. Her name was Wanda.
Stu had hired Wanda because of her ‘independent’ nature, and because her ability to find the strangest local fluff items, even though they tilted toward people in the Gay community. Stu had to admit that the gay audience was large enough to cater to, at times, and with his channel at the top of the ratings for the tenth straight here, it was paying off.
“I took Cindy,” Wanda said, referring to one of the young female on air reporters, who was rumored to be sleeping with Wanda on the side, “and we went to Escondido. There’s a man there with a dog who catches Frisbees.”
“And what is so news worthy about that?” Stu asked. “Thousands of dogs catch Frisbees. My wife can catch a Frisbee. Now; if you had a fish catching a Frisbee? THAT would be news worthy.” Stu said.
“The owner of the dog is an Iraqi war veteran, and…” Wanda began to say.
“And let me guess; he’s gay,” Stu finished the sentence for her. “Please tell me there is more to this story.”
“Yes, he’s gay,” Wanda admitted.
“That’s a shock,” John, the producer added.
“But he’s also a Christian; he even voted for Bush.” Wanda said with a forced smile. No one was biting. “C’mon, a Gay Army veteran, Christian no less, and he has a Frisbee catching dog? We‘re talking an Emmy here.”
“I don’t know,” Stu said.
“What if I added that he was going to have sex altering surgery next week,” Wanda added, “That would be different.”
“What’s the other fluff story?” Stu asked John.
John then proceeded to point at Raj Matif, the intern who had just been hired to monitor foreign fluff stories coming from Asian media markets. Raj spoke with a distinct Indian accent, which Stu found to be very cool.
“I have a most incredible news story to tell you about,” Raj began to say. “A little boy from a small village called Kirgard, located two hundred miles south of New Delhi, is making news.”
“Raj,” Stu said, “we don’t have a lot of time to decide. Is this story from India more fluffy than the Gay Christian Army dude and his dog?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Raj said.
Raj handed a photograph to Stu. Stu looked at the photo, and then sat back in his wheelchair and watched as the photo got handed around the table.
“Okay,” Stu said, as he watched the others look at the photo, “it’s a picture of the Star Wars Enterprise.”
“Excuse me sir,” Raj said, “it is the Starship Enterprise, and it is from Star Trek not Star trek.”
“Star Trek, Star Wars, BattleStar Five,” Stu said with slight anger, “who cares. What is so news worthy about that picture?” Stu demanded.
Before Raj could answer, Stu looked over to Linda, who was now holding the picture. Everyone else had just dismissed the photo and passed it on, but not Linda. And, as Stu noticed further, she had one of her inquisitive looks.
“That picture was taken by the little boy,” Raj continued to say, “from a special camera he has attached to his telescope.”
“Wait a second,” John the producer chimed in, “what are you saying?”
“As crazy as it may sound,” Raj replied, “the little boy in India claims that he saw the Enterprise, from the TV show no less, in space, and he took a picture of it; that picture.”
Stu was about to explode when he noticed Linda sneaking out the door. Something about the Enterprise photo had set her in motion. Stu didn’t know what it was, but he trusted her instincts. To give her more time to flesh it out, he chose the fluff story about the gay dog owner.
|March 10 2010, 08:39 PM||#14|
Location: San Diego
Re: Star Trek; Frank Grayson
(this episode is also part of the March challenge, well actually now it isn't. But I am also putting it here in the actual "series" thread incase some of you don't read the Challenges, or since the FRANK GRAYSON title isn't being used as the title of the challenge...)
The large open plane of grass, settled between two hills on either side of the flat valley, was where the herd was now peacefully grazing. Confident that no praetors were near, the large bucks, who sniffed the air for the scent of any danger, began to graze as well, which was a signal to the rest of the herd that all was safe; they were wrong. Because, unfortunately for herd of more than the two-hundred large six legged mammals, Klingons were expert hunters. They prided themselves on their trained skills at the hunt, and were joyous when the kill was made. The hunting party had tracked the animals, and had moved down wind of their position, and were positioned to attack once the order was given; and the Klingons would be successful, they had to be.
Klingon ships, unlike their Federation counterparts, did not come equipped with food dispensers. Food was stored fresh, and with the food supply aboard the two Klingon ship’s running low, Kor had ordered both ships to search for any life bearing worlds, and luckily, one was found. There were no sentient civilizations, just several thousand species of animals, as well as vegetables and fruits.
Scouting parties were sent to the planet, and once the large herd of animals was found on one of the three land masses, in an area easy to hunt them, a hunting party, led by Kor himself, was sent down to the planet for the hunt. Kor had hand picked the hunting party, and made but one request; he, Kor, would cut the heart out of the biggest buck and eat it raw before any other Klingon was granted permission to eat.
Kor, with his Bat’leth gripped in his hands, looked back to the thirty Klingon soldiers, armed with various weapons, and ready pounce. There was no talking, just silence, as each warrior looked to Kor for the attack signal. Feeling the moment nearing, Kor smiled, bearing his teeth as he did. Then, he turned to face the open plane, and raised his Bat’leth. On the opposite side of the field, another group of Klingon warriors were waiting for the signal to attack. A lone Klingon, in a tree where the others could see him, saw the raised Bat’leth, then began a mental countdown, thrusting his left fist for the others to see. And, on the seventh pump of his fist, both groups of Klingons erupted from their hiding areas, behind shrubbery and large boulders, and ran toward the herd.
The animals were slow to respond, and while some were able to run in either direction and escaped, most of the herd was trapped in the middle, too confused to flee. And then the Klingons began to mercilessly hack at animals, with the orange blood of the animals being spraying, and splattering the attack Klingons. The dieing groans of the animals were load, as their necks were slit. From all over the large grazing areas Klingons could be heard yelling in pride as they slaughtered an animal.
Even the young animals were not spared. One of the smaller, younger animals, tried to leap over a slaughtered animal, but was tackled by a Klingon warrior who took out his Tajtiq, and thrust it into the belly of the animal, slicing it open, and then the Klingon warrior reached into the animal’s wound and pulled out the barely digested grass from its stomach, mixed with other innards, and spread it on the dieing animal’s face.
The butchering lasted for nearly a half hour, and then, it subsided; the hunt was over.
The largest buck, which was nearly twice the size of an Elephant, was kept alive on the perimeter of the killing field. And as the warriors gathered around the large animal, as it was gasping for its last breath, Kor emerged from the gathering throng of warriors, and took his place, standing before the dieing animal. Nearly all of the warriors were covered in blood, and the stench of death mixed with the odor of blood and guts, brought a fiendish grin to Kor’s face.
“Qaplaaaaaa!!!!!” Kor yelled, and his warriors replied by yelling Qapla back at him. Then, again, Kor yelled “Qapla!!!,” and again they yelled it back to him.
Then, with the Klingon warriors chanting KOR--KOR--KOR!!!,! Kor turned to face the animal, and then used the Tajtiq that his own father had given him; and then thrust the sharp blade into the animal’s midsection. Then, after sheathing his knife, Kor used his hands and ripped screeching animal’s wound open, and then dug his hands into the animal’s body, and finding what had to be the heard, Kor ripped the heart from its protective place, in the center of the animal’s ring of rips, and pulled it out of the animal.
Kor faced his warriors, who were now silent. And without any ceremony, Kor dug his teeth into the animal’s heart, biting off a large chuck of the raw organ, and swallowed it.
“Feast, my warriors!” Kor yelled, as chewed fragments of the animal’s heart fell from his now bloodied mouth.
The hungry warrior hacked apart their prey, and feasted as never before!
They were stranded in an unknown universe, far from the Klingon Empire. And Kor was not only their commander, he was their inspiration. If any Klingon could bring them through this test of character, it was Kor! And he would not let them down!!!!
Next time; Frank Grayson meets....an alien!
|March 13 2010, 06:19 PM||#15|
Location: San Diego
Star Trek; Frank Grayson
the alien character on the Enterprise will eventually be named STANLEY, and was created by MIRANDA FAVE; and is used with permission.
The plain colored sedan made its way down the crowded streets of Pacific Beach, which was a beach community located in San Diego California. And although the car looked quiet on the outside, on the inside it was another story entirely.
Austin Grayson was sitting in the seat, as, once again, his father, Frank Grayson, gave him a verbal dressing down. Frank, who was sitting in the front passenger’s seat, as his Detective partner, Lt. Jose Cortez, drove the car. Frank was looking back at Austin in the back seat.
“Shooting your god damn principle in the ass with a paint pellet isn’t too bright, now is it?!” Frank half yelled.
“Oh shit dad, come on,” Austin replied, “you tell us all the time how you spiked your principle’s brownies with hash, or how you and your friends broke into cop cars and sunk them in the swaps, never to be found, and other stories, and they always get big laughs from friends and family.” Where as Frank was agitated, Austin was calm and cool when he spoke. Austin took after his mother; calm…cool.
Frank looked to Jose, who was smiling.
“What are you smiling at?” Frank asked his fellow crime fighter.
“Austin’s right,” Jose said with a slight laugh.
“He’s going to get caught, someday,” Frank said to both of them. “Luckily the first officer on the scene was George,” Frank said. “He found the gun in the tree and ditched it.”
“George is cool,” Austin said, “I wish you were cool like he was. Did you know that he lets his son smoke pot at home?”
“I didn’t need to know that,” Frank said.
“Yeah,” Austin said, “George is cool like that.”
“Officer George Langford smokes pot at home?” Jose said, with disbelief in his voice. “Wow.”
“Look,” Frank said, lowering his voice, “one of these days one of your stupid pranks is going to get you in trouble, and neither George, Jose, or myself, will be able to help. Now I know losing mom was hard on you, and your sister; shit, it was hard on all of us, and I know some of this behavior stems from that. But somewhere along the way you’ve got to get it together.”
“I know dad,” Austin said, his voice in a serious tone.
“How did you get the gun?” Frank asked. “Those caliber of paint guns are not supposed to be sold to kids.”
Austin reached into his pocket, took out his slim wallet, and removed an ID from it, and handed it to his father, Frank. Although it looked very authentic, it was obviously fake, since Austin wasn’t really named Mike Mistral, and he wasn’t twenty-seven years old.
“Wow,” Jose said, as he leered over and saw the fake ID, “that’s pretty fucking good.”
“Yeah,” Austin said, “mom showed me how to make them.”
“Sharon learned to do that as a simple analyst for the FBI?” Jose asked.
Frank nodded, with a look of nostalgia on his face.
“She was one of a kind,” Frank said, with awe in his voice. Frank gave the fake ID another look over and then he looked back at Austin. “Not bad,” Frank said. “But look, you’re too young for this kind of stuff. I like the fact you are becoming your own man, Austin, heck I had fake IDs when I was your age, but I don’t want to see you throw your life away on these silly stunts. I told you, once you reach eighteen years old, I can get you into the FBI. But if you get caught doing this crap, like shooting your principle with paint guns, you can kiss an FBI career goodbye.”
Frank handed the ID back to Austin.
Austin nodded as his dad spoke. He knew that his father was right, and would try to stop him self when the urge came to do something stupid again.
“I’ll try,” Austin said softly, as he returned the ID to its slot in his wallet.
“You’re going to let him keep it?” Jose asked.
“If I take it, he’ll just make another one. This way I can track what Mr. Mistral is buying,” Frank said. “And it better not be anymore guns.”
“What about porn?” Austin asked softly.
“With-in reason,” Frank said, as he turned to face forward.
“Whew,” Jose said, with a sigh of relief, “another Grayson family crisis averted.”
“You’re telling me,” Frank added, “and we haven’t even seen Amber yet today.”
All three, in unison, crossed their fingers. Because, strangely enough, all things considered, Austin was the “good” kid of the family. In fact…
Amber stretched out on the bed in her room, with only her bra and a skimpy tight white thong hiding her complete nudity. Her boyfriend, Harris, whom she had started dating the day before, was standing beside the bed, only in his tight white Hanes briefs.
“Why don’t you wear boxers like the other guys?” Amber asked as she looked him up and down.
“I told you,” Harris said as he got on the bed next to her, and met his lips with hers. They kissed for a moment. “I like the firmness of the Hanes, that way I can pretend you have your hands on my…”
“Shhh,” Amber said suddenly. In an instant she was up on her knees, peering out the window that was above her bed.
Harris smiled as he looked at Amber’s very tight rear end, inches from his face.
“What’s wrong?” Harris asked.
“It’s my dad,” Amber suddenly said. “Shit, Jose’s with him too, and so is Austin. FUCK!”
“I’ll sneak out the back, no big deal,” Harris said, as he lazily put his pants on.
“Ummm, Harris,” Amber said, “there is something I need to tell you; my dad isn’t only the biggest dick head in the world, he’s also a cop.”
Harris quickened his pace getting dressed.
“A cop?” Harris asked, in a panic. “You’re dad’s a fucking cop?”
“And his best friend, Jose, is a cop too, and they’re both here.” Amber said, fighting back the urge to laugh as she watched the boy, in pure panic, dress in a hurry. He was bending over, trying to pull up his pants, and Amber licked her lips at the sight of his firm butt as well.
“What a waste,” Amber said softly.
In the blur of a few seconds Harris ran out of her room, to the back entrance. As he snuck out the back he breathed a sigh of relief, no one was there, or so he thought., and he ran off.
As Harris made his way down the back street Austin, carrying two empty trashcans, which he brought up from the front yard every Tuesday’s trash day, smiled. Once again one of Amber’s boyfriends had escaped being caught. But Harris wasn’t as safe as he thought; and why?
Because, unknown to either Amber or Harris, a secretly positioned camera had no doubtfully filmed the entire incident in his sister’s bedroom. Austin didn’t do this because he was a pervert who liked to watch his sister and her boyfriends. He filmed every bad thing she did in her room because it was future blackmail fodder to use against her; when the time came.
Then again, when Amber and her best friend Marcy “experimented” with sex with each other, Austin kept that tape in a special place for special occasions.
Two hours later, after Jose had left, Frank Grayson was busy making dinner for his children. He opened the refrigerator, and saw the four stacks of frozen dinners. One stack was for Frank, one for Austin, one for Amber, and the fourth stack was for guests who ate over.
“What do you two want!” Frank yelled, knowing the kids knew why he was yelling.
“PIZZA!” came Austin’s voice, from somewhere in the home.
“RAVIOLI” came from Amber’s voice, also, from somewhere in the home.
Frank grabbed the to requested food items, plus his own selection, meatloaf, and put the three boxed frozen dinners on the counter. He could cook two of them at a time, and stuck his children’s choices into the microwave oven first.
As Frank prepared dinner, Austin was sitting in the living room watching an old episode of Three’s Company, which was playing on the TVLAND channel. Austin, who realized the show was made before he was even born, was, at times, funny., But he watched for another reason; boobs. The women on the show were always wearing tight shirts that did little to contain their ample breasts, which for a freshmen in high school, was T.V. nirvana.
“Your dinners will be ready in two minute!” Frank announced from the Kitchen.
“OKAY!” came from both children.
As Austin was watching the antics of Jack Tripper, a strange beeping sound came from his father’s leather jacket which was hanging on the door.
Two minutes later, Jack had finished cooking the frozen foods and, after opening them up and putting them on real plates, he set each plate on the table in the positions where he and his children sat around the table.
Amber was the first to arrive, wearing her Ipod, and lost in her own world of music, thanks to the tiny earphones she had in her ears. She just sat down and started digging in as Frank placed a glass of milk next to her plate of food.
Frank was about to sit down when he realized Austin had yet to come into the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen.
“Austin,” Frank called out, “dinner’s up bud.”
There was no reply. Frank remembered hearing the Three’s Company song minutes earlier, and went into the living room to find his son; Austin wasn’t there. Frank walked down the hallway, looked into Austin’s room, which was kept immaculate, and Austin wasn’t there. Frank poked his head into Ambers room, which had dirty clothes everywhere, food wrappers on the floor, two plates of half eaten food items; the room was in its usual ‘post Tornado’ condition, and Austin wasn’t there. Though, there was a sock near Amber’s bed, and it was too big to belong to Amber, and it was stained with old dirt stains.
Frank made his way back toward the living room, holding the sock, and was about to ask Amber’s who the sock belonged, when suddenly, upon entering the living room, he stopped and let the sock drop to the ground; and why?
Because draped across the couch was his leather jacket, which he remembered hanging up on the coat stand.; and there was absolutely no sign of Austin.
“Oh shit,” Frank said, as he realized where his son was.
The USS Enterprise, in high orbit of Earth.
Austin stood absolutely still on the Transporter pad he had materialized on just seconds before, as the strange alien he saw over at the Transporter’s control panel stared at him with equal trepidation.
“Ummm,” Austin said, “hello?”
The alien blinked its two large eye lids.
“Zhheeem’da, zhheeem’da,” the alien responded with a high pitched voice.
Last edited by RobertScorpio; March 13 2010 at 07:10 PM.
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