Writing Exercise: The Intergalactic Pilot (a Star Trek intro starring Derek Foley)

I first met Derek Foley when Terry brought him on the Early Late Night Live Show as co-host and it quickly became apparent that we had a lot in common, including a love of Star Trek. (Though he's prefers Picard and I'll always choose Kirk.) A pool player and organizer of Super Megafest, Derek's intro was an easy and fun one to write. Enjoy and let me know what you think!

​Star Trek – TOS:
 
Captain’s Log, supplemental:
 
On a mission from Star Fleet to bring back a piece of stolen technology, Mr. Spock and I find ourselves trapped behind the Neutral Zone in a small Romulan frontier town called Sargon’s Waste. We have the technology, but our ship has been destroyed. Thanks to Spock’s quick thinking and Vulcan resemblance to Romulans, we’ve not been discovered yet. Time is running out and we find ourselves in need of a ship and a pilot. We’ve been directed to Garak’s Tavern and told to ask for a man named Foley, who won’t ask too many questions…
 
      Garak’s was like any other tavern on the outskirts of any other civilization: run-down and tense, with representatives from every corner of the galaxy. The people who congregated at these places only had two things in common: a love for alcohol and the desire to be anywhere but home.
     The Vulcan was adapt at many forms of communication, but the tavern was clearly out of his depth. He hesitated in the doorway and Kirk, breathing easier in an atmosphere he understood, nudged him gently.
     “In the corner,” he murmured.
      They weren’t the only anomaly in the bar that night. A human stood bent over a game table, a game that reminded Kirk strongly of pool, though this one was played with holographic tribbles that were hit into the mouths of crocodile-like creatures. As they approached, the human sunk a shot and, looking pleased, stepped around to set up his next move.
      “Are you Foley?” Spock asked.
      The human glanced up at him. He was sturdily built, with short cropped hair, and, unlike most of Garak’s patrons, clean shaven.
     “Depends on who’s asking,” Foley said, and turned back to the table. His cue stick struck with practiced efficiency and the hologram tribble squealed as it disappeared into the crocodile’s maw. Foley grunted with satisfaction and straightened up. “If you’re looking for a pilot, I might be available.”
      “Nice shot,” Kirk said.
       Foley glanced at him and grinned a lopsided grin.
       “I hate tribbles,” he said with simple sincerity.
       In that instant, Kirk knew that they’d found their man.

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