Harry Mudd at your service. Please, dear citizen, read now my tale of woeful sorrow. Boy, you think you know people. A guy thinks his secrets are safe. Then SMACK you get hit with a shit pie right in the ole kisser. I still stink of it. No matter how many sonic showers I take, I can’t remove the fetid stench. I’m minding my own business – when don’t I? – suddenly, out of the great blue beyond, my reliable old friend Jim Kirk sends me a subspace message. Here now in its entirety.
JTK TO H. MUDD
Harry, you old scruffy, flea bitten spacedog! Been enjoying your adventures on that new holo serial – Discovery. Wow… look at you before we met. I’d no idea all the many naughty things you’d done. You’ll have to send me an autographed isolinear chip copy of your episodes, ya old dirty rascal you! – J.T.K.
Can you imagine me finding out of about such a travesty from Kirk of all morons? I am beside myself – more beside myself than when I lived on that alien planet and copied people with androids. Never did copy me, but dammit, I should have done so. If only I had made a copy of myself, I’d use it to unload all the insanity I’ve suffered from these unscrupulous Star Trek: Discovery hacks!
How dare they do this to me? Who the hell do they think they are? Portraying me as they do. And no cut of the profits! Con artists extraordinaire!
Starfleet is behind this somehow. That silly organization isn’t worth the charter it supposedly follows so diligently. When I mixed it up with space cowboy Kirk those many years ago, he dug up plenty of my dirt. I’d bet a Klingon cartload of dead Tribbles Starfleet got a hold of the smut and sold it to this Disco show.
Sigh… Now what’s Harry to do? How can I stop this? What recourse have I? Is it the end of the inimitable Harry Mudd? Am I to be a laughingstock across the galaxy – even more than I am now?
Wait a microsecond here… Two swindlers can play at this sneaky game! I’ve got a cargo ship full of dirt on ole Kilowatt Kirk. I know a veritable crap load of delightful secrets from hanging around on that rusty tub Enterprise. Computer! Compose a subspace message. Send to Starfleet Command – CC Jim Kirk. Private and Confidential. This, my dear ones, is gonna be a real photon torpedo blast! Red Alert!