Brian T. Riley

Pickled spam?

Ok...nearly peed myself on that one. So which GM is the Sweedish Chef?

Isn't there a similar hangar outside of L.A. as well. Or did they take that down a while ago?

::blinks:: at what point does mind ripping and the standards of a Starfleet officer interconnect?

::picks up a small stone and weighs it in his hand::

Hmm. I was thinking of saying something inflamatory until I realized my family wasn't even in the US of A at the time of the Civil War. But...would it really have been better if the Confederacy had won? ;)

On that same level, who knew that Harold/MILF guy would end up being the next Sulu? (for those of you who missed the reference "Harold & Kumar go to White Castle and American Pie")

Ok...I am reluctantly intrigued. On a separate thought, what effect are these pictures and the movie going to have on the crew and look of the Hood? Is the new command color Black? :P Are the miniskirts a touch longer than in TOS or is it just me? Are Captains no longer required to wear a girdle? Will the color scheme and big buttons be retrofitted?

Getting through New Atlantis security was going to be difficult. No weapons were allowed on the space elevator or the central square, excepting of course the brutish looking Colonial guardsmen. Experience had its perks though, and as had worked so many times in the past, a generous bribe had slipped Brian and his team through the meticulous scans. That was over an hour ago. Brian looked over at Sam sitting across from him in the bar; a miserably dirty, seedy dive in the Fourth tier of New Atlantis named the 'Bleeding Wyrm', and considered their position. There had been some discussion on the best way to try to find these poachers during the fifteen minute trip down the space elevator. He had overruled the idea of splitting in to teams but hadn't been much more forthcoming in his plan. Not that it was much of a plan. Brian figured there was little point in combing the countless bars and flop houses in New Atlantis. It would be far more efficient to get the information they needed from someone who was sure to know. Valera's people were here. He could feel their eyes on him. It was the reason for the jacket. The leather jacket that had lain unused and nearly untouched for the past five years. The replica of a leather flying jacket from the 1st American Volunteer Group, the Flying Tigers, a group of pilots from his favorite part of Earth history. It was a beacon. While most wouldn't remember his face, the jacket and the Chinese blood chit on the back were unique and memorable. Brian suppressed the temptation to look around the bar for the rest of his team. Eagle, Torre, and Tom were supposed to have entered the bar separately and hopefully mingled into the crowd unobtrusively. He took a moment to wonder about Eagle, and hoped that he would follow his lead. Their personality conflict on Axrekravia seemed to have been reconciled, but he wasn't sure if Eagle was prepared to take orders from a junior officer, no matter the situation. A glimpse of a dark haired woman out of the corner of his eye and his thoughts flipped unbidden to Samantha. He had barely spared her a glance after the staff meeting and he felt guilty about it. Brian had been preoccupied with his part of the mission, working out his meager plan and working up the courage to go through with it. He had thought that another encounter with her would make him more reluctant to go through with his potentially suicidal idea, and he was probably right. At the moment he wished he could have those few minutes back, just to see her one more time, to touch her silky lips… Brian reverie was shattered by a quick tap of Sam's cane on the floor. His eyes refocused on his companion and he read his look. Somebody was coming this way. It was time.

The 'Tarnished Star' was again empty by request of it's creator. Brian sat on a wooden bar stool, his hands encircling a half empty bottle of Connemara Irish whiskey. New Atlantis, and a history he had hopefully left behind, was only 12 hours away. Of course he should have known better. Starfleet was not just an exploratory arm of the Federation, it had the responsibility for security as well. That meant it frequently butted heads with the Syndicate and the other lesser organizations. He took another slug from the bottle, hoping that the alcohol would dull some of the apprehension he had. Maybe drinking enough of it would grant him a few hours of dreamless sleep. That is what had brought him here, to his holographic refuge. The dreams, the nightmares, the memories. It was possible that everything had changed. Five years on the fringe devours quite a few lives. Most of the small hustlers would be gone, dead or incarcerated. Deep down though he knew that was a hope of a fool. The big players, the few who were ruthless and cunning enough to reach the top echelons of the local organizations would still be there. She would still be there. The image of the stunningly beautiful green skinned woman with long, black flowing hair that came unbidden to his mind made Brian jump like he had been shocked. Yes, Velara would still be there and she definitely knew by now that Arcadia was on its way. One more long drink and he set the nearly empty bottle on the bar. His legs nearly betrayed him as he stood and weaved toward the exit. Twelve more hours, he had to get some sleep, somehow.

::looks up:: Purple?

I prefer this version: Rollin', rollin', rollin' keep them dogies rollin' man my ass is swollen Rawhide! Get 'em up, move 'em out wake 'em up, get 'em dressed get 'em shaved, comb their hair, Rawhide! Tie me down, tell me lies pull my hair, smack my thighs with a big wet strap of, Rawhide!

I try to have faith that something good will come out of this, but I get the feeling that this may be more indicative:

Now that is some funny stuff.

Tickets at Fandango: $30 The dispensing machine at the movie theater not accepting your credit card and you have to buy two more tickets: $30 Getting back at those stinkin' talking paper bags for screwing you out of your popcorn money: Priceless