GETTING OUT OF A JAM

Title: Getting out of a Jam, 1/1
Author: Jaye (Copyright June 2003)
Codes: VOY PG-13 Parody

Disclaimer: Star Trek and all related characters and concepts are the property 
of Paramount. No infringement is intended or profit made. This is PG-13 for 
language. If you aren't interested (or aren't old enough), don't read it.

Archive: Drop me a note first so I know where it's going. Please keep the text 
(especially the disclaimer) intact.

Feedback: Sure but be kind, or at least constructive. E-mail is 
reader8901@fastmail.fm

Summary: Voyager deals with an interspecies incident.

Note: This is parody, a satirical look at life on board the good ship Voyager. 
You've been warned.

***************

"I have never been so insulted in all my life!" Tom Paris huffed, puffing his 
perfect pink lips into a pout. He snuffled and ruffled a delicate hand through 
his flawlessly-fluffed wavy golden curls.

"Well, Mr. Paris, I think your hissy fit is nowhere near as important as the 
Burtatouns going ape-shit---on us," Janeway replied, her voice kicking up more 
gravel than a dump truck pulling out of a quarry.

"But the Prime Minster called me a She-Male!" Tom screeched. "Just because I'm a 
willowy slender elegant wonder doesn't *mean* anything. I can fight with the 
best of them. Well, maybe not Vorik. Or B'Elanna. Or that farm girl from 
'Caretaker'."

His perfect crystal-sapphire-cerulean eyes filled with tears. "This is all your 
fault, you Borg bitch on wheels." He glared at Seven, who shrugged and stood her 
ground (which was approximately 2.5673211 meters from the wall, 2 meters if she 
actually turned to face it).

"That's true," Janeway confirmed, the words scraping another layer of paint off 
the paneling as she went nose to knockers with the busty blonde. "You said they 
judged visitors on the beauty of their away teams. We sent them the cream of the 
crop."

"The apples of our eyes," Harry added.

"The top bananas in our bunch," B'Elanna concluded, getting hungry.

Seven just gave that smug smile that said "You stupid-humans-Vulcans-half-
Klingons-holograms-Talaxians, you'll never know half the things I do, like how 
these seven-inch heels make my calves look so darn good." But when her bee-stung 
lips (stung by real bees) finally opened, she simply pointed out "The Burtatouns 
like manly men and feminine femmes. To them, Lieutenant Paris is...missing 
something."

"You mean there's not enough beef in his jerky?" Neelix inquired.

"Lacking pepper in his jalepeno popper?" Harry chimed in.

"Too little licorice in his whip?" B'Elanna asked, suddenly craving popcorn and 
gah.

"Hey!" Tom shouted, his cute aristocratic patrician nose wrinkling in a definite 
snit. "I do *not* resemble those remarks."

"Well, Tom," Chakotay's smooth voice caressed his mate then glided around the 
conference table, performing a perfect figure eight and triple axel along the 
way, "you have to admit people see you sitting pretty and wonder how you're 
sitting so pretty."

"It makes sense. To the Burtatouns, I think the condition involves having too 
much cream in your puff," the EMH diagnosed.

"Extraneous dough in your dumpling," Harry blurted. He almost missed his cue, 
pondering how those aliens didn't know squadoo about picking out a girlie-man. 
*He* had the distinction of screaming his head off in the first half-hour of the 
whole series, dammit.

"Excessive vanilla in your ice," B'Elanna finished the round, wondering if 
anyone still remembered the white man's first answer to rap. And how soon she 
could wrap herself around a quadruple-decker burger and maybe a spare set of 
ribs.

"Don't worry, Tom. You just need more ginger in your snap," Neelix supplied 
helpfully.

"Extra lemon in your ade." Harry added.

"Added dill in your pickle," B'Elanna sniggered, getting a real jones for 
pastrami on rye.

"But I'm the *tallest* person here!" Tom protested. "How can you not testify to 
my testosterone?"

Tuvok lifted one eyebrow clear off his face and waved it in the air above his 
head to fully demonstrate his disdain. "It is not logical to assume height 
illustrates your masculinity. The obvious course of action is to---oh piss on 
it, get real Paris. You're not exactly the stiffest wrist in the room, for 
Spock's sake. Besides---" and here the Vulcan pasted his eyebrow back on, a 
little crooked but then Chakotay's tattoo wasn't exactly a model of consistency 
either "---you can just chalk it up to the old adage: not every gentleman 
prefers blonds."

"Paris, Paris, Paris," Neelix whined, his spots scrunching to look vaguely like 
a map of Hawaii as he channeled Jan Brady, "why do we always have to talk about 
*him*. Why not talk about me?"

"Okay, what about you?" Chakotay asked, his velvet tones winding like a 
luxurious, earth-toned ribbon in and out of peoples' ears through their empty 
heads.

Neelix was struck dumb. No wait, not yet. "Uh, I dunno. I cook, I chat, I baby-
sit...shit I'm boring." I guess it really depends on your definition.

"Well, *I* for one want to know how we can save Voyager's bacon," the EMH stated 
in an irascible yet gruffly avuncular sort of way.

"Before we're toast," Harry whined. He looked at the audience. "I could do this 
all day."

"And our goose is cooked." B'Elanna wondered if she still had that recipe for 
Moo Shoo Banana Pancakes.

"It is obvious that *I* must provide the solution to this problem," Seven 
droned, like a drone, well an ex-drone if you don't count all the pneumatic 
equipment helping her defy the laws of gravity. And of course the silicone. 
"After all, I saved the ship in every other episode since I came aboard."

"Well, get on with it then," Janeway said as she walked around the room pawing 
her subordinates, who winced under the rasp of sandpaper that took the place of 
the velvet against their eardrums.

Seven indicated the wall panel, where a complex formula began scrolling by too 
quickly for anyone to read and thus realize that it was just another bunch of 
technobabble. "We have fulfilled our quota of cheesecake by sending down the 
Delaney twins, Sue Nicoletti, and some posters of Kes in that velvet catsuit 
from her last few episodes." Seven smirked as she thought of how much better 
*she* filled out hers, which was Lycra, to boot. Not to mention those boots with 
the seven-inch heels. "To get the needed supplies from the Burtatoun Prime 
Minister we just have to serve him a slab of prime beef."

"Mmmm...fresh meat," Neelix sighed dreamily, forgetting his depression.

"A hot sweat-salty snack," Harry concurred.

"I like it raw," B'Elanna growled, looking very Klingon, well as Klingon as you 
can get with a makeup department that can't even draw a simple tattoo accurately 
from week to week, "covered in butter and just waiting for me to lap up every 
juicy, creamy drop of..." She suddenly noticed all the *very* interested faces. 
"Uh, wait a minute, I meant eye candy---eye candy, yeah."

"It's obvious." Janeway picked up her mug of whiskey---who thinks it's coffee 
with that voice?---"We send Commander Chakotay down in a thong."

"*What?!!* Tom bellowed, his azure-aquamarine-sky-blue eyes widening. "Why him?"

"He's big---everybody says so." Janeway shrugged. "Besides, he's got a honey of 
a set of buns."

"A malt-liquor six-pack of abs," Harry added.

"And boy, what a brisket," B'Elanna finished, wondering if you could get 
indigestion from food metaphors.

"Are you sure that'll do the trick?" the Doc fretted. "Maybe we should also 
throw in Ayala."

"Yeah, that hot tamale Miguel will put some beans in their chili." Harry licked 
his lips.

"I thought it was that bodacious bit of Russian Beluga (caviar, that is) Gregor 
would put some beet in their borscht." B'Elanna was definitely starting to feel 
nauseous.

"Whatever." The three syllables exited Janeway's mouth and scraped Harry's cheek 
raw on their way around the room.

Chakotay stood up with a soulful, nurturing, supportive sigh and put his hand on 
Tom's broad, slender but still sleekly muscled shoulder. He stooped to drop a 
kiss on one winglike arched delicate brow. "Are you going to be okay with this, 
Pumpkinsugarcookie?" The husky coo wrapped Tom in satin and rubbed him all over, 
making goosebumps rise.

Tom's long pale creamy smooth throat arched as he stared up at his mate. "That's 
just the icing on the cake," he sighed.

THE END