If Westboro found Spock's funeral

If Westboro found Spock's funeral

The Westboro Baptist Church this week failed to protest the funeral of Leonard Nimoy when they were simply unable to find it. The Nimoy family elected to mourn in private, and thus the attention-whoring hatemongers from Topeka were trumped and unable to piss off millions of Trekkers and others inspired by the late actor's life and work. In the spirit of the recent piece Fifty Shades of Grey, which began as a piece of fan fiction*, I now offer you my first and perhaps only foray into the frightening world of fan fiction. This one is called "What If The Westboro Baptist Church Attempted To Protest Spock's Funeral, Rather Than Leonard Nimoy's Funeral?"

The morning wind blew cold through the open balcony door as Admiral Picard adjusted the sash on his dress tunic. His expression was grim, dignified and could barely be read. Stoic as ever, he considered his reflection for one quick moment before the door chirped.

"Come," he baritoned, giving one more tug on his uniform.

The quiet shush sound of the door was followed by the manic entrance of a similarly dressed old man, a dear friend whose sense of loss was certainly more profound than Picard's own grief.

"Jean Luc, I just don't understand these uniforms, I can't get the pants right, and I wish…"

Kirk trailed off, seeming to lose the momentum of his entrance and slumping into a chair. "I've already buried him once, you know."

"I know. I'm afraid we'll have to go now if we wish to reach the academy in time for the ceremony, so I believe your uniform will have to do," the younger admiral reassured. "You look fine."

"Anyway," smiled Kirk, "vanity is illogical."

The shuttle was a much more efficient means of moving around the academy's campus than a transporter, and certainly in this case provided needed time for silent reflection as Kirk stared out the window at the campus where the friendship he was about to eulogize had begun over one hundred years prior. The friendship had survived a number of both of their apparent deaths, but none of them had the sense of finality Kirk now felt. His youthful vigor was gone; for the first time, he felt old.

Picard escorted Kirk into the great hall. Hundreds filled the room, dignitaries from all across the galaxy, and as Kirk took to the podium he made an abrupt stumble that drew gasps from the assembled crowd. Spock was gone, and before them they'd witnessed further evidence that their heroes are not immortal.

Kirk's familiar, assured voice cracked as he began, "We are assembled here today to pay final respects to our honored dead…"

Commotion from outside interrupted the eulogy as distant shouts and noise grew closer. A group of humans gathered with signs near the open vomitorium, shouting hateful anti-everything epithets. Their signs read things like "God Hates Fags," "Pray for More Dead Redshirts," and "God Hates Muslims" with the word "Muslims" hastily crossed out and "Vulcans" written in its place. A voice could be heard shouting hateful epithets at mourners through some sort of amplification system.

Kirk barely had time to register what was happening before the protesters were enveloped in balls of light and suddenly gone. In the midst of the crowd, the Klingon ambassador K'mtok stood.

"majQa'," he intoned into his communicator. He turned to the front and addressed the podium. "You may continue."

Kirk was confused. "What just happened?"

"We have quieted the disturbance, and no further disrespect will be tolerated to a friend of the Empire. Carry on."

In high orbit above the planet, a dark and wet cell suddenly filled with light and then with dozens of confused human bigots. There was no room to move, barely room to breathe. The protesters began to… well, protest.

"You can't keep us in here! We have rights! This is Sharia Law," and other nonsense could be heard from the crowd of assholes.

A Klingon officer smiled at the Earthlings through the energy field which made up one side of their cell. "Yes, nowadays, even in the Klingon Empire, even you have rights. That's why we didn't beam you directly into deep space. You'll live out your life in hard labor on Rura Penthe.** In the meantime, our crew have been in deep space for some time, and we have been very lonely. You will join us for the… oh, I don't know if it translates, but we call it 'nIv butt nga'chuq.'"

After surviving for centuries and protesting every group from the bereaved families of AIDS victims, the funerals of beloved public figures, and even those of fallen soldiers, the Westboro Baptist Church had finally met their match. When their ship finally left orbit, all that remained of their Topeka compound was a beautiful, glassy crater.

Back on the surface, Kirk and Picard watch somberly as the last of the throng exits the funeral assembly.

"You know, in so many other timelines, you're dead, Kirk," intones a familiar, sardonic voice from behind the two admirals, startling both. "Maybe you were sucked into a Nexus to die on a poorly built outdoor structure; maybe you died of some unknown alien STD. But what is remarkable," said Q, "is that no matter the timeline, the Phelps family have always been assholes."

-The End-

I have learned a lot while writing this fanfic. Mostly, that it can go off track very quickly, but also that Bing has a Klingon translator. Until next week, qapla'!

*It was erotica based on the young adult series Twilight, another awful series of books with a useless, unsympathetic narcissist of a protagonist. Again, it was a YOUNG ADULT series, written at an audience primarily of 13-year-olds. Next year, perhaps we'll see a movie in which characters based on Ron Weasley and Hermione explore furryism.

**A real, imaginary place. I did my research for this one. Good fanfic requires a depth of knowledge.