It’s commonly know that StarFleet has the strictest and most rigid drug testing policies in the known universe. When a four-legged amphibian rtp online from engineering tried doubling his pain medication after a freak accident invloving a hooker, Romulan wine, and a Michael Flatley hologram, Captain Picard had him exiled to a foreign moon. But, somehow, Wesley was certain there was no longer any screen for an ancient herb that was now so uncommon that even he, the ambitious slacker, wasn’t exactly sure what “hash” looked like.
It was still early enough in the afternoon that the ship’s elegant bar was almost bare. Only the grusome dreadlocked barkeep stood guard, blocking Wesley from his prize. “Data,” he said, “we need a diversion. Talk to her, keep that damn woman busy. I need 5 minutes at the replicator.”
And Wesley was gone, a quick time dash for the food machiene that turned human waste into bacon and eggs. Wesley’s friends on Earth always called it the “Defecator,” which, in a sense, it was.
“So Guinan,” Data said as he sidled up to the bar, “I noticed you don’t bathe like the other crew, why is that?”
“The voices,” answered Guinan.
“I HEAR THEM TOO!” said Data, no certain he wasn’t alone.
“I can hear that damn thing whispering, talking about my body,” said the troubled and filthy barkeep.
“I always thought it was just a hum,” admitted Data.
Meanwhile Wesley found himself alone at the replicator, his treasure a few mumbled antiquites away. “Replicatior,” he demanded, “I need 8 ounces of premium hash!” And then he backed away, not knowing what to expect.
“I’m sorry,” answered the machiene in it’s infinitely snobbish know-it-all machiene voice, “Hash isn’t on the menu Ensign Crusher.”
Wesley was crushed, or Crushered as his poker buddies like to tease, he hadn’t planned on negotiating with a smart assed machiene. That is, except for Data, but Data was jonesing and wanted to score as much as Wes.
“Machine,” said Wesley with insincere patience, “I didn’t aske about the menu. I’ve come her on a secret mission from Captain Picard, and it’s imperitive for the survival of this mission. I NEED HASH!”
Wesley then stomped his foot in the way that centuries before was a sign of a petulant child. Wesley thought it gave him an element of machismo. He was wrong, of course, but luckily it didn’t matter to a machine.
“One moment while I assemble your selection,” answered the machine.
Wesley looked around nervously and, at the moment noticed the ships bearded first mate strutting toward him.
“Wesley!” he cried in genuine surprise.
“Hello Piss,” greeted Wes.
For the ten millionth time, Wil Riker was glad for his most recent promotion. While he hated being known as “Piss,” life was far worse when the Captain called him “Number 2”.
“Shouldn’t you be preparing for the academy?” wondered the surprisingly un-offended giant.
“Shouldn’t you seriously FUCK OFF!” yelled Wes clearly disturbed by the stress of this almost bust.
Just then, with a computer’s impeccable timing, the replicator guggled, belched, and then unveiled a brown cube of something neither spaceman had seen before, “Ensign Crusher,” it said, “your hash is ready.”
“Hash?” Wes and Will both said at once.
“Ummm, err, yeah, hash,” said Wes, “it’s for mom, she needs it for some treatment in sickbay.”
“Carry on!” barked Will, obviously glad that he’d found a way out of a personal conversation and even more happy that he’d done so in the form of a starship command. “Get that hash below and then report back to me!”
“Wil do….”, grumbled Wes, “piss off.”
And Piss, pissed off.
Back in the quarters he shared with his mother Wesley made Data sit next to him on the floor. Doctor Beverly Crusher was asleep in the next room and that DAMN HUM was just loud enough to muffle their business. He couldn’t even hear his mother’s famous snore.
Wes spread his secret stash on the carpet between them and found a StarFleet handy lite to spark it. “Are you ready to feel human?” he asked his robot friend.
“I have been, Wesley, for longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Here goes nothing…” said Wes, who grabbed a fistful of the warm brown goo and placed it on a fork. He held a small flame to the tip of the fork and watched as a small stream of thin black smoke rose from the top.
Wes was so excited, he droped his hash on the floor.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said to Data, who wasn’t worried, “we’ve got plenty more.”
This time Wesley grabbed an even bigger chunk, a quarter-ounce at least and jammed it on the fork. His eye were wide as the smoke rose again, and wider still…when his mother’s door opened.
“Wesley!” said a voice coming from withing his mother’s silk robe.
“Um…mom?…I can explain”
“Don’t bother,” said Captain Picard now stepping from the shadows, “I know what you’re up to.”
Wesley went limp, even limper than usual, which is an amazing feat for a boy voted most likely to de-evolve into jello by the boys at Sister Mabel’s Interstellar Prep. This would be the end of his life for sure.
But then Picard, always a surpising man, grabbed the fork from Wesley’s hand and crammed the brown mass into his mouth.
“My mother had a better recipie,” he said, “but Corned Beef is always good.”
With that, the captain headed back to his bed of sin, and Wesley looked at his robot friend.
“You were right,” said Data, “I feel… embarrased.”