The Everyday Adventures of Elim Garak

Chapter One: "Quark"

Business was as usual on Deep Space Nine's Promenade. The halls were bustling with common peoples, merchants, and military officers sporting uniforms of all kinds. However, on that particular day, two starkly dissimilar persons stood within a quaint clothiers shop nestled behind one of the many spiral staircases. Many who passed by cast a glance towards the clothing retailer, as a Cardassian and a Ferengi side by side was indeed a curious sight.

Inside, Garak stared unwaveringly at the creamsicle-orange and algae-green Ferengi suit which lay before him. Keeping the same blank expression, he slowly turned to the little bronze man whom stood beside him.

"Well?" the pint-sized Ferengi inquired pompously; nervously holding his hands at chest level, "Can you tailor this fine piece of Ferengi clothing?"

Garak again rotated back to the suit and blinked profusely before muttering, "Well I wouldn't exactly call it 'fine', but I'm sure I could lengthen it for you around the waist."

Quark recoiled in aversion. "How dare you!" he proclaimed, "While I have been putting on a little weight, the tight fight serves as a motivator to lose it. Besides, I happened to grow an extra inch this year. Must be all the new profits spilling in now that Odo finally lifted that ban on vole fights; business has been better than ever!"

Garak cocked his head and raised his eyebrows whilst placing Quark's miniature garment over his arm. "I'll see what I can do for you Quark. And please, do let me know the next time your extravagant establishment decides to host another vole match. I'd be delighted to attend."

"I'm sure Morn would simply adore another patron at his match," the little Ferengi jibed, "a real Cardassian at a vole fight would sure bring in a crowd; and with that crowd, profits."

"Just keep me informed." Garak added with a slight wink as he proceeded towards the rear end of his shop to begin alterations.

"Whatever you say Garak," Quark responded while feeling quite unnerved. Then the little orange-brown man scuttled down the Promenade back to his lowly bar, only to return a day later to retrieve his finely tailored garment.