2. Future Worf And The Margarita Of The South P... Here
"Today," Worf mutters, staring out at the turquoise horizon, "is a good day to relax."
"I seek the Margarita," Worf says, his hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial dritlh. "The one they call 'The Fire of the Reef.' I am told it requires a warrior's constitution."
The bartender doesn't flinch. He reaches for a bottle of silver liquid and a fresh, bright lime. "Salt or no salt, big guy?"
Clad in a high-collared, linen-spun tactical tunic, Worf stands on the white sands of a remote island in the South Pacific. He is not here for conquest, but for the , a legendary concoction rumored to have been perfected by a renegade bartender who fled the Federation’s post-scarcity boredom for the lawless beauty of the "Old Earth" tropics.
As the first sip of the citrus-and-tequila blend hits his tongue, Worf’s eyes widen. The acidity is sharp, the spirit is bold, and the chill of the ice is a shock to his Klingon physiology. It is a good day to drink.
"Computer," Worf rumbles, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "Locate the nearest source of... agave ."
"Today," Worf mutters, staring out at the turquoise horizon, "is a good day to relax."
"I seek the Margarita," Worf says, his hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial dritlh. "The one they call 'The Fire of the Reef.' I am told it requires a warrior's constitution."
The bartender doesn't flinch. He reaches for a bottle of silver liquid and a fresh, bright lime. "Salt or no salt, big guy?"
Clad in a high-collared, linen-spun tactical tunic, Worf stands on the white sands of a remote island in the South Pacific. He is not here for conquest, but for the , a legendary concoction rumored to have been perfected by a renegade bartender who fled the Federation’s post-scarcity boredom for the lawless beauty of the "Old Earth" tropics.
As the first sip of the citrus-and-tequila blend hits his tongue, Worf’s eyes widen. The acidity is sharp, the spirit is bold, and the chill of the ice is a shock to his Klingon physiology. It is a good day to drink.
"Computer," Worf rumbles, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "Locate the nearest source of... agave ."
