Whack The Weasel
(or "Star Trek: The Degeneration")
Draft #1.02
Sept. 20, 1993 - Sept. 27, 1993, Feb. 16, & July 27, 1994
Converted to HTML November 6, 1999.
© 1993, 1994, Richard Ward
(rrward@gci.net)
You may copy and/or redistribute this document in either electronic or paper form under the following conditions:
  1. The text of this document is not altered in any way, save for page layout changes to better facilitate printed copies.
  2. This document may not be published in a magazine or book for which a fee of any kind is charged, or on a bulletin board or other on-line service for which an additional charge over and above the normal subscription rate.
    (In other words, don't charge money for this file!)
(With apologies to Gene Roddenberry)

  (With thanks to Kathy W. for her input and bloodthirsty editing,
and to Joyce M. Zimmerschied for proof reading this mess.)

 

Click here for a printer friendly copy of this story.
FORWARD: I would like to take a moment to note that while I loathed Wesley Crusher, I have never hated Wil Wheaton.

"Captain's Log, Stardate 46969.2," Captain Jean-Luc Picard spoke into the hidden wall microphone. "The mission to map the Chanard Gas Nebula is proceeding without incident. Nothing of interest has occurred in weeks. The crew seems to have adjusted to the monotony, but if thing don't pick up soon I'm going to lose my mind. This must be the least exciting mission I have ever been on."

Captain Picard stood and walked across his Ready Room to the food slot. "Tea, Earl Grey, hot." he told the machine. In seconds his cup of tea appeared. He gingerly brought the cup of steaming liquid to his lips, carefully taking a small sip, but immediately spit it out with abhorrent disgust.

"This is revolting!" he barked at the food dispenser. For it had not given him a cup of hot tea, but instead a cup of hot brown liquid that was almost, but not entirely unlike tea.

"Computer!" Picard called out. "What is wrong with this damned food slot!?"

"The food dispensing software seems to have been corrupted," the computer replied.

"Why the hell wasn't anyone notified of this?" he snarled.

"Current operating system version does not include automatic reporting of software problems, security breaches, missing crew members, shipboard fires, unscheduled shuttle launches, unauthorized use of ships resources, phaser fire, knife fights, graffiti scrawling, turbo lift failures, hull breaches, or alien boarding parties. These items will be addressed in the next service pack. Please contact your nearest authorized ScumSoft vendor for upgrade information," the computer informed him coldly.

"What are you programmed to automatically report?"

"Spelling errors, pet feeding times, and clogged toilets."

Disgusted, Picard walked back to his desk tossing the glass cup of hot filth into the food slot. He slumped in his chair and glared at the shattered remains of his tea glass scattered across the floor.

"The only problem we've encountered," he continued, "regards our young Ensign Weasely, er, Wesley Crusher. His behavior of late has been less than exemplary. Counselor Troi assures me that it is nothing more than late adolescence, and will soon pass. I am not so sure. There are times when I question the wisdom of accelerating his education. Maybe we should have left him his childhood. Picard out."

Jean-Luc Picard (voted "Best Buns in Star Fleet" three years running by the "Star Fleet Female Officers Association") picked up his book, volume seventeen of the acclaimed series "The Seven-hundred and Seventy-seven Sons of James Tiberius Kirk" and returned to his favorite pastime, reading scandalous things about dead people.

 

On the Bridge an aura of catatonia hung like a funeral pall in the air. Bored with their video games, unnamed ensigns entertained lewd sexual fantasies or quietly inspected their fingernails. One ensign slumbered at his station with his right index finger shoved up his nose to the third knuckle.

Commander William Riker sat in his command chair staring into the monotonous reddish brown that was the Chanard Nebula. Looking merely bored, he was, in fact asleep. Deanna Troi had taught him this trick when they were lovers. Unknown to him, she had often done this when they made love.

Lt. Worf was the only bridge officer that looked even reasonably alert, as he had been spending most of his watch using the tactical station to spy on the private lives of the crew. Humans may be weak and fragile, he thought to himself, but they sure are creative when it comes to sex. He was amazed at the capricious exchange of mates, both overt and covert, that occurred in the human population of the ship. He had learned long ago that some humans were such sluts that they would have sex with members of almost any species. This practice had come to be known as "Kirking", a term Worf did not use, as it mocked a former officer, and a dead one at that.

 

In engineering, things were far from dull and boring. The tension hung so thickly in the air that it impaired the activities of smaller crew members. The only person oblivious to the tension was the cause himself, Ensign Weaseley, er, Wesley Crusher.

Wesley sat at a terminal in a far corner of the main engineering section, staring intently at a grainy image on the display. His sweaty hands nervously worked the controls, trying to clear up the picture. Using filters and computerized object reconstruction algorithms, the young ensign was able to get a reasonable level of clarity. On the screen blue humanoid figures engaged in various bizarre sexual practices, most illegal in the greater part of the galaxy. If it was one thing Wesley liked it was Andorian Porn.

The engineering staff did their best to pretend Wesley did not exist. While they did not like the sweaty little pervert, none were willing to take his actions up with Lt. Commander La Forge, lest The Weasel find out. Some forms of revenge were better avoided. Everyone remembered the late Ensign Gomez' shower.

In Lt. Commander Geordi La Forge's office, said Lieutenant Commander was in heated discussion with the chief of the Astronomical Sciences Unit.

"Why is Long Wave Sensor Array Thirteen offline?" asked Lt. Commander Ivan "Bozo" Bozonovitch, his face showing both his Russian ancestry and his current state of annoyance. "It was reserved for our use this morning and it has not been available for at least an hour."

"What are you talking about?" Geordi asked incredulously. "That array shows on my board as being online. As a matter of fact, I show it to be active!"

"Well we sure as hell aren't using it!" fumed Bozonovitch.

"Someone is. I am definitely reading a power load to that array, as well as a high level of data bandwidth going to its processor unit." Geordi snapped. "Who would be using a reserved senor array without proper authorization?"

"The Weasel!" they spat in unison.

"Look, I'll get that little shit off of that array and have it back on line for you in just a few minutes."

"Thank you." Bozonovitch said hanging up.

Geordi walked slowly out of his office, looking for Ensign Crusher. He quickly spotted the annoying runt in the far corner. His visor told him all he needed to know. Weasel's, er, Wesley's blood pressure was up a bit, he was hot and sweaty, and blood flow to certain parts of his body were just a tad high for doing technical work.

That tears it! Geordi thought as he quietly walked towards Wesley's crouched form.

"Hey Wes, what's up?" Geordi asked casually.

"What!? Oh, nothing really." Wesley stammered, trying to nonchalantly cover the display screen with his hands without looking like he was trying to hide anything. "Just recalibrating LWSA 13. I think that I can double its resolution if I adjust the solenoid acceleration interphasial particle shield on the counter-rotating Hawking Field compensator."

"Let's see what kind of resolution you've got so far." Geordi said moving to get a better look at the display screen. "Why this is VERY interesting. I don't think I've ever seen anything like this in a gas nebula before. Hey, Ensign Bukket, patch LWSA 13's display to the wall viewer over there."

The wall panel lit up with the image of six Andorians engaged in what on Earth was known as a Cluster Fuck. The engineering staff valiantly choked back the laughter that threatened to explode from each of them. Wesley desperately willed himself to melt through the floor, but his body remained stubbornly solid, forcing him to endure yet another round of shame and ridicule.

"Now," Geordi said quietly but firmly to Wesley, "Astronomical Sciences has been waiting for that array for the last hour. Ivan Bozonovitch just chewed me a new asshole a few minutes ago, and what really bugs me is that he didn't even kiss me first. I want you to go to Bozonovitch's office and apologize for tieing up the array, and tell him that I expect a kiss from him next time."

"Geordi, I'm not..."

"Engineering is now off limits to you until I decide otherwise." Geordi informed Wesley, the anger showing plainly in his face and voice.

"Come on, Geordi," Wesley protested. "Give me a break."

Geordi slapped Wesley across the face with a resounding "WHACK!". "That was an order, Mister! Talk back to me again and I'll have you thrown in the brig for insubordination!"

Red-faced with impotent rage and embarrassment Wesley stomped out of engineering.

"Way to go, pervert!" quietly chided Ensign Helena Bukket, a cute young engineer fresh from the Academy, as Wesley went by.

"Bitch!" Wesley hissed under his breath as he headed into the hallway.

As the doors closed behind him he distinctly heard gales of laughter explode from the main engineering room. Wesley quickly located a nearby wall console and was soon pressing buttons at a furious rate. "That ought to screw them up," Wesley said to himself as he finished entering in his commands to the computer.

Having regained his composure, young Ensign Wesley Crusher walked almost casually down the hall in the general direction of Commander Bozonovitch's office. Geordi may have ordered him to go, but he had not ordered him to be quick about it. Anyway, he had other things to do. Seeing Lt. Reginald Barclay up ahead, looking distracted as always, Wesley quickened his pace.

"Lieutenant!" Wesley called as he came up behind one of the few people he called friend.

"Oh. Hi, Wesley. How, how are you?" Barclay asked, being polite and hoping his nervousness did not show more than normal. Although Wesley thought Reginald Barclay was his friend, Barclay had other ideas.

"Did you finish rewriting my Holodeck program yet?" Wesley asked eagerly.

"Yes, yes I did. I finished it this morning." Barclay said, trying very hard not to stare at the monstrous zit forming on Young Wesley Crusher's forehead.

"Thanks! Hey, relax a little!" Wesley called as he took off running down the hall, eager to test Barclay's new modifications to his program. Broccoli may be a nervous twit, Wesley thought, but he's the best Holodeck programmer in Star Fleet.

"Yah, okay, I'll do that. Asshole." Barclay quietly said as Wesley disappeared into a turbolift. As he headed to engineering he considered how easy it had been for him to override the Holodeck's failsafes, and how soon The Weasel would find out how good his perverted fantasy was.

 

Wesley stepped out of the turbolift and headed down the hall to the holodeck. Spying the unmistakable lard-butt of Councilor Troi, he surreptitiously crept up behind her, following her lackluster body. He didn't know why, but he wanted to jump her bones. Considering the astounding enormity of her nose, the doe-like countenance of her mindless, staring eyes, the pathetic flatness of her breasts, the brontosaurian immensity of her buttocks, her unequivocal lack of intelligence, and her insipid and mind-numbingly grating personality, she was truly less than attractive. Yet he felt an exciting tingling in his loins whenever he spied her deformed visage.

He began to actively fantasize about all the twisted, demeaning, and depraved sexual things he wanted to do with her. He stared at the shapeless mass of her wiggling buttocks, feeling the familiar growing feeling in his sex as a tent slowly formed in his slacks. He thought hard, trying to project his lustful desires at her.

She suddenly stopped dead her tracks, whipped around and slapped Wesley across the face with a resounding "WHACK!", sending him sprawling to the floor.

"Keep your perverted fantasies to yourself, you little degenerate!" Deanna screamed at him, her shrill voice echoing in the hall. "If you EVER do that again I'll take it up with your mother, you freak!"

Wesley lay on floor, wide-eyed with terror. Jeepers, that hurt, he thought to himself as he watched the wretched mounds of her buttocks slosh in her uniform slacks as she angrily stomped down the hall.

Wesley stood and brushed the dust off of himself just as a group of school children passed by. A particularly cute ten year-old caught his momentary fancy. Dang, he thought, watching her tiny buttocks wiggle in her tight-fitting pants. I wouldn't mind getting some of that. Well, I'd better get to the holodeck, you can't go to Rura Penthe for what you do with a holoperson.

"Run program 'King Crusher 1'" Wesley said to Holodeck Four's control panel as he approached.

"Program ready", responded the indifferent voice of the computer as the holodeck doors opened.

Wesley walked into inky darkness. He waited until the doors had closed.

"Lights on!" he commanded the darkness.

"Yes, your highness!" responded a chorus of young girls' voices.

Flickering red torchlight chased away the darkness, revealing a large medieval throne room. Ornate tapestries depicting Wesley dispatching dragons, routing invading armies, shaking hands with God, building an atomic bomb out of a chocolate bar and a self propelled magneto-optical feltching rod, and other heroic acts too numerous to mention, covered the grey granite walls. A resplendent gold throne dominated a dias in the center of the room. Large robot death machines impassively stood guard in the corners. A large banquet table covered with a huge assortment of manly foods and wines stood before the throne. To the left of the throne was a large and very comfortable looking bed. Among all these things stood his harem; twenty-seven naked girls, all between the ages of twelve and fourteen, all very pretty, and incidently, all replications of cute girls Wesley had seen on the ship.

"Greetings, Lord Wesley, King of All Creation!" The harem piped, "How do we love you!"

Wesley walked to the throne kissing and groping the nubile young girls as he passed. Broccoli has really outdone himself this time, he thought. He sat in his throne and surveyed his harem, deciding which he should sample first.

"Chelsea", he said pointing to a cute redhead.

"Yes Lord Wesley?" She responded, her naked breasts flushing with excitement.

Wesley pointed to his crotch. She immediately walked up to him and knelt between his knees. Wesley closed his eyes in expectation as he felt her small hands open his trousers. Ecstasy washed over him as she used her mouth in ways most pleasurable.

He motioned for the youngest of his love slaves, Daphne by name, to come to him, a pretty blond just beginning to show signs of impending puberty. She gleefully skipped to him and he took her into his arms, kissing her deeply.

"What happened to your face?" Daphne asked, pointing to the bruise left by Counselor Troi.

"Counselor Troi struck us," he said, the anger showing slightly in his voice.

"That makes me ever so cross!" declared Daphne, stamping her little feet in childish anger.

"Us too!" called out the rest, save Chelsea, whose mouth was otherwise occupied.

In one corner, out of Lord Wesley's sight, a robot Death Machine stirred. It surveyed the scene before it and decided that it was not yet time to act. Soon, but not just yet.

 

Back in engineering Geordi La Forge was having considerably less fun. Once more Ivan Bozonovitch was on his communication screen.

"Geordi, I appreciate you liberating LWSA 13 for our use, but seeing as we seem unable to retune it, we find ourselves doomed to watch Andorian pornography. While we all like a good erotic movie from time to time, Andorian porn is neither good nor erotic. What we really want to do is look at the Nebula."

"What?" asked Geordi incredulously.

"LWSA 13 is locked onto the transmission I am assuming Young Weasel, er, Wesley Crusher was watching," Bozonovitch said.

"I'll get someone on it right away. Sorry about this."

"Thank you Geordi," replied Bozonovitch.

"By the way, did Weasel, er, Wesley ever show up at your office?"

"Not in living memory. Why?"

"Oh, I just ordered him to apologize to you for using LWSA 13 when you were supposed to have it."

"That little rat, apologize? Not likely. Let me know when you get our little problem fixed. Bozonovitch out."

Geordi walked out of his office, looking for someone smart enough, and expendable enough to try to undo whatever the hell Weasel, er, Wesley had done.

"Ensign Bukket," he said as he approached a cute young ensign fresh from the Academy.

"Yes sir," replied Ensign Helena Bukket expectantly.

"Ensign Weasel, er, Wesley Crusher seems to have locked LWSA 13 onto that Andorian porno frequency. See if you can get control of it for me."

"No problem, sir," she replied, walking swiftly and confidently to the Long Wave Array master console.

Lt. Ivegottwolines nonchalantly approached Geordi. "Shall I go to her quarters and pack her things?" he asked quietly.

"Wait a few minutes. If she has to work on the hardware, then yes, otherwise no. Good thinking Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir," he said walking back to his station.

A few minutes later the cute young ensign poked her head into Geordi's office. "Sir, I'm going to have to open the panel up and see if I can reset LWSA 13 manually."

"Okay. Thanks," Geordi replied.

Looking out of his door he gave a terse nod towards Lt. Ivegottwolines, and the young lieutenant quietly walked out of engineering. Turning to his communications console, Geordi contacted the bridge.

"Lt. Worf here," the dour Klingon said, answering Geordi's call.

"Where's Commander Riker?" Asked Geordi.

"Practicing Betazoid Ohthatssogood meditation."

"Asleep again? Look, we've got a potential 'Wild Weasel' down here."

"Understood, sir," Worf replied. "Anyone I know?"

"Fresh from the Academy."

"Aren't they always. Worf out."

Geordi could hear the engines cycle down as Worf brought the ship to a controlled stop, just in case.

 

In Holodeck Four, Wesley had moved things over to the bed. He was busily making love to Annette, a replica of a security officer's dark-haired thirteen-year-old daughter, while the rest of his harem gently rubbed honey-dijon mustard across his back and scalp. A robot death machine stood very close to the bed, one arm raised, slowly sighting the back of Wesley's head with its sonic cannon, a device that used ultra-high frequency sound to turn mammalian internal organs into unset jello.

 

On the bridge, Lt. Worf quietly counted to himself.

 

In engineering there was a blinding flash of light followed by a piercing scream which was cut short by the sound of exploding electronics. Thick smoke, pungent with the smells of burned meat and ozone, quickly filled the room. Then the lights went out. Only the flickering light from the fire where the late Ensign Helena Bukket had been working pierced the otherwise absolute darkness.

 

In Holodeck Four, Wesley suddenly found himself three feet in the air as both the bed and girl below him had vanished and in complete darkness. Just as suddenly he found himself falling. Even more suddenly he hit the floor with a resounding "WHACK!" that sent excruciating pain through his body as his erect penis bore the brunt of his fall. Less suddenly he found himself curled up in a ball, cradling his now bent erection. In the pitch darkness only the sounds of Wesley's whimpering sobs could be heard.

 

On the bridge, Lt. Worf's count had reached only twenty-three. La Forge had given him a very narrow margin of error.

Riker suddenly jerked in his seat. Something had changed, but he knew not what.

 

Captain Picard looked about his darkened office. He rose to his feet and walked over to his fish tank, the nebula splashing enough light through his window to allow him to see. No bubbles in the water. More than just the lights were out. He struck the Any key on his terminal's keyboard. Nothing, not even that annoying beep that meant the terminal was offline. He tried his comm badge. It beeped annoyingly. The comm server was down. He checked his air vent. No breeze. The ship's power must be down. Another 'Wild Weasel'. He was going to have to take this up with Beverly.

He sat down in his chair. Down? It struck him that there still was an up/down inside the ship. Why was there still gravity? Everything else was down, yet there was gravity. Where the hell were the gravity generators anyway?

The battery-powered emergency lights came sputtering to life, spraying their feeble, dingy yellow light in useless spots on the office floor. He had been in darkness for fifteen to twenty seconds. Ah, the marvels of modern technology.

The doors to his ready room grudgingly opened as two strong-looking crewmen forced the doors apart. Deciding it was time to catch up on what had been happening Jean-Luc walked from his ready room to the bridge.

The battery-powered emergency lights cast their pathetic yellow beams of light onto useless areas of the bridge, illuminating the ceiling, behind the command chairs, and the ships dedication plaque.

"Are you okay, Captain?" asked Commander Riker.

"I'm fine, Number One. What the hell happened?"

"Apparently we had another 'Wild Weasel'," replied Worf from the darkness.

"Anyone I know?" asked Jean-Luc.

"Fresh from the Academy," answered the dour Klingon.

"Aren't they always?" responded Jean-Luc. "You know what they say; 'If you live through your first year, you'll probably live to retirement.'"

 

On Holodeck Four, Wesley painfully gathered his clothes and got dressed. His groin was alive with excruciating pain. He was sure he had injured his genitals; things just did not look right, of course it could have been the dingy yellow emergency lights. He thought that he could learn to like this kind of pain, if it did not entail the need to damage his penis.

 

For the next hour the Enterprise sat dead in space as Geordi and Ensign Ihavenolinesinthisepisode worked feverishly to restore power. Ensign Igetalltheshitdetails swept all that remained of Ensign Helena Bukket into a pail. There was not much left of the cute young ensign fresh from the Academy. Such is life.

When the power was finally restored the lights and air filtration systems were the first to come online. Geordi walked over to the engineering master console and began the daunting task of restarting the system from an unexpected power failure. He pushed the button marked "Wake up, you lazy bastard". The ship sprang to life as the ship's computer restarted all of the ships systems.

 

Wesley limped his way to sick bay, trying desperately not to let everyone around him know where he had hurt himself. As he entered sick bay he found his mother, Dr. Beverly Crusher, and Nurse Alyssa Ogawa looking slightly flustered and distracted.

"Mommm, I hurt myself!" he whined as he approached a diagnostic station.

"What did you do this time?" Beverly asked, only slightly annoyed that it obviously wasn't fatal.

"It's kinda personal," he said, looking over at Nurse Ogawa.

"It's okay, Alyssa is a professional. Pretend she's not even there."

"I think I broke my dick," whined Wesley.

"Hmmph!" choked Nurse Ogawa, trying to hold back a gale of laughter. "Excuse me Doctor, I have some tests to run in the lab," she said fleeing the room.

"Let's see what you've done," Beverly said, helping her son to remove his pants.

Wesley sat, naked from the waist down, on the diagnostic table as his mother examined his damaged penis. It suddenly occurred to him that if he wasn't in so much pain he'd really be enjoying this. He watched as his mother retrieved some sort of device and waved it at his penis. The pain faded quickly as his damaged manhood regained its familiar bilaterally symmetrical shape.

"There, that should be better," Beverly said looking up to her son's face. "Anything else?"

"You could kiss it and make it better," he smirked, proudly displaying his brand new erection.

"You little creep!" Beverly screamed as she rose to her feet. She slapped Wesley across the face with a resounding "WHACK!" that pitched him over the back of the table and onto the floor with a decidedly pleasing thud. She walked around the table and kicked him in the stomach for good measure.

"Get the hell out of here, you degenerate. You're grounded!"

"Geez, mom. Who stuck a burr up your ass?" Weasel, er, Wesley whined as he scuttled out of sick bay.

"Oooh! To think that little monster came out of my body!" Beverly fumed as Nurse Ogawa came back into the room.

"There's been worse," Nurse Ogawa stated flatly.

"Like what?!" asked Beverly.

"Well, there's your daily bowel movement," said Nurse Ogawa with a teasing smile.

"Alyssa, you're as foul as a Ferengi!" Beverly teased taking Nurse Ogawa into her arms. They looked into each others' eyes as they gently embraced.

"Where were we?" asked Nurse Ogawa.

Their lips met in a soft, yet passionate, kiss as their bodies pressed together.

"I think we'd better move to the lab," Beverly said, her eyes smokey with passion.

 

Wesley paced back and forth in the cabin he shared with his mother. He was in a very foul mood. It would be at least another hour until the holodecks were brought online, and he was dead bored.

"Altarian curried rice," he barked at the food slot.

"Foods containing Altarian spices can be..."

"Command override Crusher, alpha, smegma, er, sigma, forty-two," Wesley interrupted.

A bowl of steaming hot rice, covered with a delicious-smelling green sauce appeared in the food slot. Wesley grabbed it and gobbled down two large fork fulls. The flavor was both burning hot and sinfully delectable.

A sudden sharp pain ripped through his guts. Sweat poured from his skin as waves of icy chill swept up and down his spine. The room around him began to fade as if covered in mist. He fell to the ground with a resounding "WHACK!" as his muscles gave out. He lay on the floor for time unknown, his body a mass of burning pain.

Calling upon all his strength he reached up and slapped his comm badge. "Wesley to Dr. Crusher, medical emergency! Help me!"

Only the sounds of heavy breathing and wet sloppy passion answered him.

The pain faded away, leaving him numb and cold. He found he could no longer move, not even his open eyes. His breathing was very slow and shallow, and yet he remained conscious. Great, I'm a zombie, he thought.

It seemed like he lay there for an eternity staring at the ceiling. His mother eventually came home from work and found him lying on the floor. He was aware of his mother as she scanned his limp body with her tricorder, and then scanned the bowl of curried rice. She swatted her comm badge and spoke quickly and urgently, but he could not hear what she said.

Two medical technicians came stoically into the room and lifted him onto a gurney. He felt something enclosing him, and he realized that they were putting him in a body-bag.

But he wasn't dead! How could he tell them that he was still alive?! He couldn't move! He couldn't even move his eyes! In desperation he found that he could wet himself. They continued to seal up the bag. He suddenly realized that corpses must wet themselves all the time. He felt the seal on the bag gather below his chin and suddenly he was in darkness, only the smell of Altarian curry and his own urine to keep him company.

He felt motion around him and he realized that must be wheeling him off to sick bay. He heard the intercom announce that he had died. A loud cheering reached his ears. He realized that his fellow shipmates were happy with the idea that he was dead.

He felt himself being lifted from the gurney and then placed on a hard, cold surface. He heard a slight hissing sound and a deep cold overcame him. Suddenly he was no more.

Wesley found himself standing on a cloud in the middle of a deep blue sky. A tall winged man in white robes floated up to him.

"Wesley 'The Weasel' Crusher?" the man asked.

"Yes," answered Wesley.

The man pulled a scroll from his robes and quickly read through it. He turned his gaze to Wesley and his eyes became cold and hostile. Suddenly he slapped Wesley across the face with a resounding "WHACK!" that sent Wesley tumbling out of the sky.

Wesley fell for untold miles and landed in a pit of boiling mud. Pillars of fire reached up all around him towards a smoke-filled sky. A creature approached him. As it drew nearer Wesley could see that it was basically humanoid with deep red skin, short, pointed horns on its head, a long barb-tipped tail, and sharp looking claws on its fingers and toes.

"Wesley 'The Weasel' Crusher?" it asked him, spitting the words through dagger-like fangs.

"Yes," replied Wesley, flinching to avoid another slap in the face.

"Welcome to Hell!" the creature said enthusiastically.

 

Beverly looked down at the frozen body of her son. For the first time in many years she felt at peace. Now she could get on with her life. She closed the door to the Morgue and walked back into her office.

"Doctor, what shall we list as cause of death?" asked Nurse Ogawa.

"Call me Beverly. Food poisoning," Beverly answered.

"Food poisoning? From a replicator?"

"Yes. Didn't you read the warnings regarding Altarian spices and replicators? Sometimes the replicators get them wrong and they come out poisonous."

"Isn't it mildly poisonous?" Nurse Ogawa asked.

"Well, yes, but you never know when a previous medical treatment might lead to unpredictable reactions to even the mildest toxins."

Beverly walked over to her trusted head nurse and took her by the hand as they went to join the celebration in 10-Forward.

- The End -