Long long ago, in a far, far galaxy, next door but three to the restaurant at the end of the universe there was a bar. Known most often as 'Harry's Bar', though sometimes 'Sarek's Bar' after its proprietor, it was a warm, friendly, peaceful place where TrekBBS denizens could gather for a pint, a laugh and some gentle fellowship or philosophical debate at the end of their long day's boldly going.
Eh. Who am I kidding? It was a doghouse. A place of drunken brawling and riotousness. A place where any furniture not nailed down was smashed over someone's teeth (and some of the stuff that was nailed down!) A place where mere Bar Fights were for wimps. A place where only the toughest ventured to swill down a quick illegal Romulan ale and get out before one of the more rumbustious clients took a bat'leth to you. It was... glorious!
Finally, after repeated complaints by noise abatement officers, environmental health officers and local law enforcement Harry's Bar was forced to close its doors. A few half hearted attempts were made to reopen subsidiaries in local outposts, but they lacked the cosmopolitan glee of the original. Harry's Bar had gone. Forever.
RevdKathy pushes open the door, shoving back several pieces of broken chair, and enters the stale-aired room. In the dimly lit arena the ghostly shapes of broken furniture rise up under dirty dust sheets. The place exudes deep sadness, and a stench of very stale alcohol.
Kicking aside a chair leg, the Revd picks her way through the broken glass and strange, sticky patches on the floor to the power meter. Shovelling a few quatloos in the slot, she thumps the meter into life. Lights blaze on, exposing the decay and devastation of the bar. RevdKathy sneezes. The juke box coughs into life, sputtering out a slightly flat recording of 'Beyond Antares'.
The Revd sighs. She looks at the staff in her hand, without much hope. Once a tall, all-powerful Admin Stick of Thwacking, the staff now resembles a Morris dancer's stick struck by Ash Dieback (that famous welsh fanfic writer). Like an interstellar McPhee, the Revd thumps her stick on the ground.. once... twice... three times. And twitches her nose bewitchingly, for good measure.
As if by magic, a shaft of light filters through the empty bar, transforming all it touches. Broken tables right themselves, chairs become (almost) usable. The floor is swept and polished by an unseen hand. The bar sparkles with bottles of every kind of drink, strong and otherwise. And there are actually unbroken glasses to drink from! The juke box pounding out 'Bilbo Baggins' is almost in tune. Almost.
The Revd smiles almost imperceptibly, then walks to the door. A shiny neon sign declares “Harry's Bar”. Throwing back her head, she announces to all who will hear:
“By Order of T'Boss The BAR IS OPEN!”
Eh. Who am I kidding? It was a doghouse. A place of drunken brawling and riotousness. A place where any furniture not nailed down was smashed over someone's teeth (and some of the stuff that was nailed down!) A place where mere Bar Fights were for wimps. A place where only the toughest ventured to swill down a quick illegal Romulan ale and get out before one of the more rumbustious clients took a bat'leth to you. It was... glorious!
Finally, after repeated complaints by noise abatement officers, environmental health officers and local law enforcement Harry's Bar was forced to close its doors. A few half hearted attempts were made to reopen subsidiaries in local outposts, but they lacked the cosmopolitan glee of the original. Harry's Bar had gone. Forever.
RevdKathy pushes open the door, shoving back several pieces of broken chair, and enters the stale-aired room. In the dimly lit arena the ghostly shapes of broken furniture rise up under dirty dust sheets. The place exudes deep sadness, and a stench of very stale alcohol.
Kicking aside a chair leg, the Revd picks her way through the broken glass and strange, sticky patches on the floor to the power meter. Shovelling a few quatloos in the slot, she thumps the meter into life. Lights blaze on, exposing the decay and devastation of the bar. RevdKathy sneezes. The juke box coughs into life, sputtering out a slightly flat recording of 'Beyond Antares'.
The Revd sighs. She looks at the staff in her hand, without much hope. Once a tall, all-powerful Admin Stick of Thwacking, the staff now resembles a Morris dancer's stick struck by Ash Dieback (that famous welsh fanfic writer). Like an interstellar McPhee, the Revd thumps her stick on the ground.. once... twice... three times. And twitches her nose bewitchingly, for good measure.
As if by magic, a shaft of light filters through the empty bar, transforming all it touches. Broken tables right themselves, chairs become (almost) usable. The floor is swept and polished by an unseen hand. The bar sparkles with bottles of every kind of drink, strong and otherwise. And there are actually unbroken glasses to drink from! The juke box pounding out 'Bilbo Baggins' is almost in tune. Almost.
The Revd smiles almost imperceptibly, then walks to the door. A shiny neon sign declares “Harry's Bar”. Throwing back her head, she announces to all who will hear:
“By Order of T'Boss The BAR IS OPEN!”
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GRRRRRRR don't even think about it! No singing! Hell and devil! Not on the black souls of Sarek and Harry... oh and the drunken carcas of T'Bonz. Where she be? Sneaky Romulan stealing ale again? 
