Night of the Living Trekkies Read Online Free PDF Page A

impeccably tailored leather and metal armor.
    Jim walked up to the booth and examined an exotic-looking, extremely heavy dagger. There was a button on the hilt. When he pressed it, two smaller spring-loaded blades popped out of the base.
    “That’s a d’k tahg,” the big Klingon boomed. “The finest workmanship. A warrior such as yourself could slay many a hu’q with it.”
    Jim looked down at the blade. He could tell from a glance that the edge was dull.
    “None of these are sharpened, right?” Jim said.
    The Klingon’s demeanor subtly changed.
    “You’re with the hotel?” he asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Don’t worry, nothing in the booth has an edge,” he said. “I have a few pieces with live blades, but they’re under lock and key in my room.”
    Jim thanked him for his cooperation. One of the biggest dangers in hosting a science-fiction convention was the presence of live blades on the show floor. Most people brought them with no real intention of hurting anyone; they were simply seeking an additional degree of verisimilitude. But when attendance skyrocketed and the aisles were jammed with guests, those sharpened blades became a real liability. All it took was one person pushing and shoving his way through the crowd to get a peek at Patrick Stewart, and the result could be a punctured lung.
    “This is an outstanding collection,” Jim said. “Do you make all of these yourself?”
    The Klingon smiled, revealing a mouthful of pointy fake teeth. Or at least Jim assumed they were fake.
    “I am Martock, expert weapons maker and second in command of the bird of prey Plank’Nar.”
    “No, seriously,” Jim said. “Speak English.”
    “I own a metal-fabricating shop in Atlanta,” Martock said. “This stuff’s like a sideline for me. A really, really profitable sideline. I do
Lord of the Rings
,
Xena
,
Highlander
, you name it. If you see a movie and like a particular piece of hardware, I can make you a copy.”
    Jim took in the weapons on display. There were daggers of various lengths, all with contorted, nasty-looking blades. There were also several large, crescent-shape contraptions with three leather-lined handles on one side and four sword points and a continuous yard-long edge on the other.
    “Nice bat’leths,” he said. “Very authentic looking.”
    “You’ll find no finer swords of honor anywhere in the empire.”
    “Well, I hope you get lots of business. Turnout looks pretty light so far.”
    “Sometimes it’s slow on the first day of a con,” Martock said. “And
that
guy’s not helping things, either.”
    He pointed at the expo hall’s temporary stage. Martock’s booth was in the last row of the vending area, giving him a direct view of the day’s entertainment. As the two of them watched, a fat man sporting a jet-black pompadour, a one-piece sequined jumpsuit, and sickly grayish-green facial makeup took the stage.
    “Oh, crap,” Martock said, unconsciously taking a step back. “He’s going on again.”
    Jim grinned. “I thought Klingons didn’t show fear.”
    “They’d show it if they had to listen to
this
guy. For the third time today.”
    “Ladies and gentlemen and otherwise, please give it up for
Elvis Borgsley
,” someone announced.
    “Really?” Jim asked. “They’re serious?”
    “He’s supposed to be Elvis Presley, if Elvis had been assimilated into the Borg Collective,” Martock said. “I’d like to assimilate him into the trunk of my car. At least until the end of the con.”
    Borgsley headed toward the microphone with stunted, mechanical movements. He launched into an off-key ballad called “Are You Isolated from the Collective Tonight?”
    “Why do they keep bringing him out?” Jim said.
    “It’s all they have,” Martock replied, visibly pained. “There was supposed to be a Trek metal band called Warp Core Breach, but they’re late.”
    “Bummer,” Jim said.
    He was about to walk away when he noticed a cot in the back of Martock’s booth. Someone