A/N: A short, wee piece, written for Robert. This particular character has figured into several of his recent free write entries. ;-)
If I Could Do It Over Again: Harry Mudd
"If only I could do it over again," he muttered under his breath, running at breakneck speed (which was not very fast for a man of his girth) down the corridor, the echo of a thousand pursuing feet heavy in his ears.
How could I have been so stupid? He lamented silently. I should have told Norman to avoid Kirk's ship like the plague. Any starship would have served my purpose. I should have known better than to cross wits with him and that pointy-eared freak of a first officer of his.
He switched direction, rushing into a dark side corridor and flattening himself against the wall. The unruly horde bustled by, screeches of, "Harcourt Fenton Mudd, come back here this instant!," its ubiquitous battle cry, ringing throughout his head, slicing through him as if someone were poking razor-sharp shards of glass into his temples. After what seemed an unbearable amount of time had passed, the din of voices, and the stomp of slippered feet, faded into the background.
He took a moment to catch his breath – and he was breathing quite heavily – dragging a sleeve across his sweat-soaked brow. He and physical activity of any kind had not been on speaking terms for a number of years now.
Perhaps I shouldn't have made Stella at all. He considered that notion for a moment, and then summarily dismissed it. It was such a pleasure to finally be able to have the last word; to win every argument. He sighed gleefully at the memory. In recent weeks, it was the only thing that kept me sane in this infernal place. No, he decided, my mistake was showing Stella to Kirk at all. Damn McCoy for asking about the darkened alcove where I kept her, and damn me for being foolish enough to reveal her to them. That's where I went wrong. If Kirk never knew she existed, he wouldn't have been able to make five hundred of her, just to torment me. He was certain he saw the Vulcan's handiwork, or perhaps even that insufferable Mister Scott as well, in that particular feat of engineering.
Suddenly, sharp, shrewish voices began to filter back from the distance. The army of Stellas was on to him! He turned and fled, again cursing his lack of foresight.
If only I could do it all over again, I would've included a fail-safe in her programming. A panic phrase that when spoken, would cause her to self-destruct on the spot, perhaps something along the lines of "you're a horrid bitch, Stella." Unfortunately, this line of thinking was brought to a halt immediately as a set of bony fingers closed around his collar…
