Star Trek: The Search for More V'Ger
I
"Captain's log, stardate 48630.3. We are enroute to the planet Atlantic City for a long-overdue shore leave. Though I intend to spend the majority of the excursion falling-down drunk shouting obnoxiously from the sidelines of the nearest Craps table, Commander Worf informs me that they also practice a traditional Klingon game wherein the players find marks in the parking lot to plunge red-hot knives into the torsos of. The winner is whomever can claim the most interesting item from one of the lifeless corpses. This promises to be a most glorious piss-up."
Picard beamed as he surveyed the bridge, having just delivered his log entry out loud to the crew of the Enterprise-D without bothering to record it. He was hardly concerned—to begin with, he was already pleasantly buzzed on Romulan ale, and furthermore the only member of the crew who didn't find his antics endearing was that miserable little shit Wesley. He reflexively shot the young cadet an icy stare at the mere thought, fantasizing about the many ways he could be disposed of on a Galaxy-class starship if only it wouldn't ruin Picard's chances of getting laid by Dr. Crusher. Wesley didn't seem to notice, no doubt ensconced in some childish game concealed beneath his workstation.
The mechanical hiss of the turbolift door announced the arrival of Commander Riker, who strode onto the bridge wearing a coprophagic grin and the most tousled hairstyle Picard had ever seen him sport. He had fucked Councilor Troi three times already today and he was feeling even more virile than usual. "Morning, Captain. Looking forward to two weeks of drinking and whoring?"
Picard returned Riker's smile. "Does Beverly Crusher look forward to being railed in the head just outside Engineering?" The two of them shared a hearty laugh as Picard shot Wesley a meaningful look. Wesley fidgeted uncomfortably, no doubt imagining his mother at the receiving end of Picard's Kurlan naiskos, but said nothing.
"I'm sure she does, sir, but word around the ship has it she prefers a rousing game of Doctor," Riker replied, still grinning.
"Oh, number one. You know just how to cheer me up after a long day of staring at that twit Wesley and his stupid nineties haircut. Care for a glass of Romulan ale?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Actually," said Picard as he handed Riker a tumbler full of translucent blue liquor, "today being a red-letter day, why not celebrate? Romulan ale for everyone! Here, Commander Worf, this glass is yours. Data, here you are. Wesley..." he stepped over to Wesley's workstation holding out a glass. As Wesley reached out tentatively he snatched it away, chuckling. "As you were. We wouldn't want to stunt your growth."
As Picard continued to pass out beverages which were purportedly illegal yet surprisingly common on Starfleet vessels, Wesley consoled himself with the knowledge that Picard had yet to notice that one by one, his captain's logs were being altered to reflect what a spiteful old coot he really was, being too inept with computers to notice that that was what Wesley was actually up to almost every time he touched one of the consoles on the Enterprise-D. For instance, while Picard had been making sexual comments about his mother, he had been retouching one log in particular to include the claim of having made first contact with "senility and old man dick rot" which was corrected in a supplemental log, noting that these races were actually first discovered by Admiral Kirk many years prior.
However, before Wesley could begin to tell his ripping tale of Picard's battle with syphilis to the ship's databanks, the computer alerted him to an incoming transmission. He dutifully noted its contents, straining to make out the details over the roar of drunken laughter filling the bridge. "Captain!" he shouted as the transmission ended. "I'm receiving a distress signal from the USS Voyager. They appear to be under attack!"
"Fuck 'em!" Picard shouted glibly, eliciting another peal of laughter from every crew member on the bridge except Wesley.
"Sir, we're the only ship in range!"
"So, what's new? We're the only ship in range every time we receive a distress signal. Somebody else can take care of it this time, we're on vacation."
Wesley stood and turned to face Picard, his eyes narrowing. "Captain, can't our vacation wait fifteen more minutes? There are one hundred and forty-one hands aboard the Voyager. Should I hail their wives and children and tell them Picard is too busy getting shitfaced?"
Picard rose to his feet, wobbling only slightly, and returned Wesley's glare with glassy eyes. "Commander Worf, lock all torpedoes onto the Voyager. Data, bring Captain Janeway on screen and tell her Picard says 'tough shit.' Wesley, come with me. I have something to show you in the cargo bay."
Wesley began to object, but Picard was already upon him, seizing him by the earlobe and marching toward the turbolift.