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When the red alert sounded, James Kirk and Commander Spock were, unfortunately, locked in each other’s arms in a linen closet, having slipped in there for what was popularly called a “nooner.” Both were buck-naked and busily engaged in feasting on each other’s flesh.

Oh, Hell,” Kirk swore as he heard the alarm whopping through the intercom. His erection wilted faster than greens in a frying pan full of hot bacon fat. “Come on. We’ve got to see what’s happening.” He grabbed the nearest pieces of clothing, as did Spock. Fully dressed, the two men raced to the bridge, to discover a Klingon warship hanging off their port side, visible through the huge view screen. As the pair charged onto the bridge and came to a halt, a gasp of horror went up from the assembled crew. Kirk stopped. He looked at Spock. He looked down at himself. They were both wearing—security uniform tunics.

“Oh. Oh, Hell. Red shirts. Red shirts.” Kirk looked at Spock. Spock looked at him.

“Captain—we’re doomed.”


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