The Unforgiving Country

His ridges exploded in Klingon gore. “Curious,” said Spock, eyebrow all a-lift, “in death he proves his point. It was indeed a good day to die.”

Kirk laughed. Spock’s boney, green-blooded fingers snapped a few more bullets into his revolver. “Good hunting, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said, tipping his zebra skin cowboy hat.

Spock nodded and his Captain was off after Khalas.

The girl might have been terrified but for the shots of Romulan Ale she had been ordered to drink “under the Prime Beer-ective.” Khalas held her by the throat, waving her to and fro at Kirk’s approach. “You’re too late, human!” He barked and drew his gun. “I have learned from your Wayne-John of old! You die today!”

Kirk felt for the handle of his Smith & Wesson, tucked into his leather Captain’s trousers. “Just one thing, Khalas.”

He drew and fired, the Klingon’s death shot grazing Kirk’s shoulder. The girl fainted.

Kirk stepped forward, Starfleet insignia blazing on his chest. “I’m an Eastwood man.”

Then Scotty’s beam was upon them all.

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