By Kevin
Schmitt
When you are raised in a vineyard
you develop the right attitude toward spirits. They serve to relax a worker
after a hard day’s effort, and can also encourage a higher level of social
interaction in public gathering establishments. Captain Jean Luc Picard knew as
much as any man about the later. He had in his time visited public drinking
establishments all over the planet Earth as well as watering holes separated
by thousands of light years of space. Only once did he ever have what he would
call a bad experience in a saloon. That was the time he got knifed
through the heart on Star Base Earhart.
Now there was an irony for you. He
had been in regions where the law of the jungle still prevailed. He had
ventured into drinking emporiums where beings of various sorts could get their
lives cut tragically short because they got caught cheating at some game or
because they paid too much attention to a wench with a low life expectancy of
her own. But the one place where Picard really stepped into it was at Earhart.
A simple barroom brawl had gotten out of hand and a hot tempered Alien scored a
touché that in most arenas of conflict would have been fatal. But 24th
Century technology was on hand to save his life and provide him with an
artificial heart that would serve him well for many years.
He was most grateful back then
that his older brother was half a galaxy away and couldn’t admonish him for
overlooking a fact that he had grown up with: Intoxicants sometimes encourage
bad behavior. Of course that is no reason to avoid bars, but it’s a good thing
to keep in mind while you are in one. Picard exchanged glances with a drinking
crowd that was memorable to say the least. They were aliens who immediately
recognized him for what he was as he entered the establishment. His escort lead
the way to a table what was right in the very middle of a pretty big place.
Maybe thirty tables and a very long bar.
“What’s the problem Captain, don’t
you like the idea of being surrounded by dozens of drunken Romulans?” asked
Commander Donatra.
“I imagine that our recent
altercation with Shinzon is still being handled as classified by your
planetary news services. “
“But of
course. What else would you expect?” asked the Romulan while signaling a
waiter.
“What a
pity. I was hoping to be treated to a rousing chorus of For He’s A Jolly
Good Fellow.”
“If I understand you correctly,
you would rather be carried on their shoulders than dragged out into an alley.
Well, fear not, they will be thinking that you are on someone’s leash and they
will not meddle in matters that are above their station.”
“Unless
they’re too drunk to follow your rationale,” pointed out the human.
“Yes well there is always that
possibility,” Donatra conceded. “Now shall we down an ale or two, or would you
prefer something stronger?”
“Stronger than Romulan ale?”
Picard asked with trepidation. “May I remind you Commander that our combined
medical resources are being taxed to the utmost with all the battle injuries
we’ve sustained. I do not believe it would be very responsible of me to
willingly become another casualty.”
“Your pardon, Commander Donatra,
but we happen to have some wine that has been cut for the elderly
customers that come in when there is a surplus of Vegka soup on hand,” a
waiter suggested while cleaning the table.
“Elderly?”
queried the human.
“Primarily
customers that are over two-hundred of your years,” the commander specified.
“Well, if
Worf can drink prune juice…” Picard muttered to himself.
“Excuse
me?”
“The wine
sounds lovely,” the human piped up with a smile.
copyright 2014 by Kevin Schmitt
