Camp Fire Carnival

"Captain's Log, Stardate...five..uh....three....shit. Can't remember. Doesn't matter. Here's what's up: It must have been some party last night. As I emerged from the depths of my latest drunken stupor, I did my best to stifle the groan that was trying its best to work its way into existence. Taking stock of my surroundings, I noticed that I wasn't the only one to partake in last night's festivities. The half-dressed slumbering forms of my new friends were strewn haphazardly around the dying embers of last night's campfire.

For the life of me, I couldn't remember why - or for that matter - how I ended up here with my Astrometrics officer, Seven of Nine. We appeared to be on some sort of planet....a planet that strangely resembled Earth. But that couldn't be, could it? Voyager has been trying for seven years to reach Earth....

As I pondered these questions and any possible answers, I became aware of movement coming from the vicinity of the campfire. Looking up, I noticed that the chicken was starting to come to - which surprised the hell out of me, considering the fact that he (or should I say she he, he, he!) imbibed much more ale than the rest of us. Which brings me to the sex change. Has she realised it yet?

From what I remember of last night, Seven of Nine became extremely irritated with that silly chicken and used her Borg-enhanced left hand to....."

From the other side of the campfire...
Chicken made a vailant, yet useless attempt to shake loose the smothering after-effects of the home-brew provided by Mean-Xena Beta Kappakostakyrakyralos. Looking across the smouldering remains of the campfire, Chicken noticed Captain Shortypants engrossed in a conversation with what appeared to be an oval, bumpy-sided rock. Upon closer inspection, the oval, bumpy-sided rock turned out to be Mr. Potato. Chicken felt a lump in his throat upon seeing his dear friend Potato.

'Why is the Captain holding Potato in front of her like that?' thought Chicken inside his head.

"Captain, why are you holding Potato in front of you like that?" asked Chicken outside his head.

".....Borg-enhanced left hand to........end log." recited Captain Janeway into her padd...er, potato.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm recording my Captain's Log!" Janeway vehemently spat back.

"But, Captain...it is only Sunday morning," stated Seven of Nine. "To be precise, it is currently 9:24am. You are not allowed to record your Captain's Log until exactly 8:55pm on Wednesday. Starfleet Policy."

That last bit was thrown out a bit testily, Chicken thought.

"And you have yet to provide an explanation as to why you are dictating your log into that mouldy potato." Seven eyed her Captain closely, as if trying to decide which of the three Shortypants wavering in front of her was actually the Captain.

"Seven, maybe you should come out of that tree so we can discuss this like adults."

"Very well. But only if you promise not to pinch my buttocks again."

"Sweetheart, I was only attempting to locate my tricorder." Janeway did her best not to start giggling with the memory of that wondrous search the evening before.

"Captain? I was not aware you knew I used that location to store my away-mission tools and personal effects..."

"Yes, I was aware that you weren't aware that I was aware of that. I'm also aware of where you keep your spare pair of shoes..." Janeway mumbled under her breath as she helped Seven down from the tree.

Ignoring the quirk of Seven's brow, Janeway glanced back at Chicken.

"How are you feeling today, Chicken?"

Considering the Captain's question, Chicken took stock of his physical well-being. Running his wing-tips down his body in an attempt to locate the source of the odd feelings he was experiencing, he noticed the lack of a very important part of his anatomy.

"WHAT HAVE YOU PEOPLE DONE TO ME??" Screeched Chicken as he did his best to cover his head with his wings.

Seven of Nine smirked as she eyed the remains of the fleshy-red rooster comb lying partially concealed by the heel of her stiletto.

"I have only corrected what was obviously a freak accident on nature's part." Seven responded cooly. "I do believe I have made an improvement, in any case. Don't you agree Captain??"

Before Capatin Janeway could answer, an ear-piercing yodel ululated from the other side of the campfire.

Gabrielle reached beside her as if trying to quell the annoying banter of the early morning DJ's on her clock radio. Remembering she didn't have a clock radio, let alone know what one was, she cracked open an eye to see Xena bending over her.

"Wakey, wakey! The sun is up and our friends look like they're ready to start their day!"

Mumbling incoherently, Gabrielle rolled onto her side and questioned Xena as to the state of her breakfast.

Xena, now quite worried because she didn't have anything to give Gabby for breakfast, frantically searched the campground for something - anything - to prepare.

Seven of Nine, being the quick thinker that she is, flicked her heel - which caused the fleshy-red rooster comb to fly through the air and land precisely on the cooking stone placed in the fire.

Soon, a bacon-ish smell prompted Gabrielle to finally rise from her bed-roll.

"G..a..b..r..i..e..l..l..e," Xena drawled. "Exactly who is that?"

Looking inside her bedroll, Gabrielle bashfully acknowledged her bed-roll-mate.

"Oh, um, this is , she's from the same starship the Shortypants and Big Boobs are from..."

"Candy??" the group asked in unison.

"No, it's , with an 'i' and a heart over it.... She's a temporal mechanical engineer, whatever that means. She's good in bed, though. I swear...it seemed like we did it over, and over, and over again. It was like, I finally thought we were finished for the night - then it was like we were starting over again, fresh - like we'd never done it before! Strange..... "

With this admission, the pieces finally started falling into place for Captain Janeway. Reaching towards Seven of Nine's backside, she groped (and prodded) until she located what felt like a phaser. But before she could extract it from its, um, current location, whipped off her bouffant wig to reveal the distinct rows of Klingon cranial ridges, topped with a really bad perm.

"B'Elanna Torres!!" blurted Janeway.

"Indeed." said Seven.

"Oh, you two make me sick! You're soooo predictable! Did you really think that I wouldn't find out that you manipulated all of Voyager's sensor logs to make this little 'time-trip' undetected??"

"B'Elanna Torres, are you aware of how 'butch' you are when you are mad?" Queried Seven of Nine.

"Oh, don't start with me, Seven. Both of you have severely underestimated me...." B'Elanna carefully extracted herself from Gabrielle's bed-roll and approached Janeway and Seven.

Meanwhile, Chicken - the fowly opportunistic chick she was - seized the bouffant wig from the ground at B'Elanna's feet. Donning the wig in place of her fleshy-red cock hallmark, Chicken smirked as Seven remarked, "Work it, girl!".

Chicken, confident in her newly discovered 'chickitude', swaggered over to where B'Elanna was confronting Janeway and Seven. Chicken licked her lips, flicked her hips and said in her newly acquired Texas drawl (which comes with the bouffant wig):

"Naw, lissen here y'all. I ain't gonna tolerate an'more a this here fightin', see? Naw eye don't know watch'a'll fightin' about, but I have ay sol-lushon. Y'all ken just Kiss My Grits!"

And with that, Chickenette sauntered on past the crowd-agape and headed for Hollywood (grabbing Potato on the way).

"I believe I have created a monster..." said Seven of Nine.

"Hey, does anyone have any BBQ sauce to go on this piece of cock flesh?" asked Gabrielle.

"Actually, yes...I believe I do have some." replied Seven as she bent over. "Captain, would you do the honours...??"

THE END.

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