This Deep Space Nine satire requires a lot of explanation, since it is full of inside jokes. My friend has a really annoying brother, and it was always fun to tease him. We called him Chriswoman, and every time we'd insult him, he'd repeat the same insult to us. If we said 'Ops', he'd repeat it. Naturally it became very entertaining. I know it's cruel, but it still was fun. We wondered what would happen if he ever actually turned up on the station.
The Deep Space Nine crew always seem to be in Quark's, which explains their obsession with alcohol. Despite the wide variety of alcoholic beverages, they seem to prefer good old beer. Sisko's obsession with his clock and time is due to the first-season episode "Dramatis Personae" where the crew, except for Odo, were under the control of aliens, and Sisko created a clock. He seemed so proud of it that it became an obsession for him. Be warned- this story is incredibly strange. (Like that's out of the ordinary for me.)
Disclaimer: Star Trek is the property of Paramount and used without permission. Calm down, guys, this is nowhere near professional quality.
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Once there was an androgynous freak named Chriswoman. Its family wanted to get rid of it, so they sent it into the future. It ended up on the space station Deep Space Nine, near the planet Bajor.
Dax was roaming the halls, returning to Ops, when she spotted this oddity. "Where did you come from, little girl?" she inquired.
"I'm not a girl!" Chriswoman screeched.
"My name's Dax. Are you androgynous, then?" she asked.
"You're androgynous," Chriswoman mocked in its maddening habit of repeating any insult, intentional or accidental.
Dax replied, "I'm not androgynous, but some of my previous hosts have been men."
"Where am I?" Chriswoman inquired.
Dax replied, "You're on the space station Deep Space Nine. Ops is just around the corner."
"Ops ops ops ops ops ops," Chriswoman chanted.
Dax looked taken aback. "Dax to Bashir," she spoke into her comm badge. "There is a deranged androgynous lifeform loose on the station, near Ops."
"Ops ops ops ops ops ops ops opsj," it repeated.
"Opsj?" Dax laughed.
"The situation sounds serious," Bashir gasped. "This entity must be apprehended at once. Constable Odo had better handle this; that is, if he's emerged from his precious bucket yet. I'll examine it in the infirmary, after I *hic* finish my beer."
O'Brien passed by the two outside Ops, a tool set in one hand. "I just finished repairing the Irish whiskey program for the Replimat, and . . . what in the name of alcohol is that?! It's such a peculiar entity," he remarked. "What gender are you?"
"What gender are you?" Chriswoman mimicked.
"You mean you can't tell?" O'Brien shrieked, utterly horrified. "Dax! Is it that hard to tell?"
"Well. . ." Dax said thoughtfully, forcing back a giggle. This was a rare opportunity to torment her colleague, and she wasn't about to let it pass.
O'Brien looked stricken. "I'll reform, I promise! I'll take up weight-lifting! I suppose that my beer belly is the root of the problem. From now on, I'll work out and swear off beer!" He strode purposefully away.
"Quick, Dax!" cried a voice. "Contact Bashir for emergency treatment. O'Brien is obviously very ill."
Dax spun around, coming face-to-face with a man sporting a scraggly beard and an armful of wristwatches. "Don't worry, Sisko," she reassured him. "O'Brien just went into Quark's for another round. He couldn't stick to his vow for more than two seconds."
"That's a relief. I'm sure that O'Brien is just dying to know what time it is right now. I will direct him towards that handsome clock of mine." Sisko hummed cheerfully to himself as he headed towards Quark's, thrilled to find another person to persuade to admire his clock.
Dax shook her head. Sisko obviously couldn't comprehend that nobody was in love with that clock like he was. In fact, Sisko had told everyone that he ran across to visit his clock so many times that a poor merchant had become rich by selling wristwatches to the desperate residents of Deep Space Nine.
She turned her head as she heard the whoosh of an automatic door opening. Odo stepped out of the Security office, straightening his uniform. It seemed that Odo's little swim in his bucket had ended.
"What seems to be the problem, and how is Quark involved?" he grumbled irritably as he approached. He assumed that Quark was involved, since Quark was usually involved with any wrongdoing on the station. Besides, Odo enjoyed interrogating him.
"Hey! I resent that remark!" cried a familiar voice. Quark, proprietor of Quark's Bar, rushed to the constable's side. "To think that you'd accuse me of having anything to do with that. . . thing!"
"You're a thing!" muttered Chriswoman. Quark gasped. The horrifying creature could speak! Quark smelled latinum in the air. He might make even more profit from this than the time he make Odo muffins (with real Odo inside!) and sold them on the Promenade.
"Now I understand," Odo remarked. He tapped the communicator on his uniform. "Odo to Security. Please send more officers to my location. I have a dangerous androgynous lifeform in custody. We must secure him in the brig before he escapes and reaches Ops."
"Ops ops ops ops ops," droned Chriswoman.
Odo drew back in horror. "Odo to Security!" he barked. "Double the security detail. This entity is most horrifying."
Quark's lobes tingled as a plan formed in his four brains. "Wait, Odo!" he cried excitedly. "I have a better idea."
"Any ideas you have deal with profit. Why should I listen?" Odo snapped.
"Because there's a free beer in it for you," Quark replied. He noticed with satisfaction that Odo was trying to hide his interest. Odo swore that changelings could not eat or drink, yet he seemed able to take in a considerable amount of alcohol.
"Well. . . I really don't want that androgynous thing contaminating my nice clean brig. Spit out your idea, Quark. And don't leave out the part with the beer."
Quark rubbed his hands together greedily. "It's simple, Constable. Aliens will come all the way from the Gamma Quadrant to see this androgynous horror. And -- here's the best part – I will have a special contest! People will pay through the nose to hear its responses to insults. I will charge five bars of gold-
pressed latinum to each spectator. Now here's the best part. I will offer a beer -- on the house, no less -- to the lucky person who comes up with the insult that produces the most humorous response."
"Not bad for a Ferengi, Quark," Odo admitted grudgingly. "But I will have to hold him for observation for a few hours." Odo was already plotting to try out some insults on this thing to get ahead in the contest and win that free beer.
"Look at this!" exclaimed Dax. She pulled out a folded piece of paper from the thing's outfit, being careful to avoid contamination from the creature. "It says, 'This thing's name is Chriswoman. We don't want to see it ever again, so don't try to return it. Enjoy!'"
"Your name is Chriswoman?!" Quark exclaimed.
"Your name is Chriswoman," declared Chriswoman. Odo made a note to remember this insult; it could come in handy during the contest.
The next day, word of the contest had spread throughout the Federation. Bashir, Kira, Sisko, and even Garak had requested for a private meeting with Chriswoman, secretly hoping to gain an advantage in the contest. All of the docking pylons were filled with ships whose crews wanted to enter the contest. Cardassians and Bajorans, Romulans and Klingons, and other warring races declared peace and all headed towards Deep Space Nine. The Founders themselves passed through the wormhole after centuries of hiding out, accompanied by the Jem'Hadar, to enter the contest. The Dominion, the Romulans, the Cardassians, and other hostile races signed a peace treaty with the Federation. Dozens of planets, including Bajor, applied for membership into the Federation. All of this happened just so each race could encounter the androgynous lifeform and perhaps stand a better chance of winning a free beer. Quark becomes even richer than the Grand Nagus Zek and becomes the next Grand Nagus when Zek dies after consuming five barrels of Romulan ale in one sitting. Intergalactic peace is formed on the basis of one free beer and an androgynous freak named Chriswoman.
