"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."
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. 2. Future Worf and the Margarita of the South P...
"Computer," Worf rumbles, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "Locate the nearest source of... agave ." "I seek the Margarita," Worf says, his hand
Worf pauses. He remembers the teachings of Kahless. "A warrior does not hide from the salt of the earth. I will take it with a heavy rim. And... the small umbrella. But make it . Like the blood of my enemies." "Computer," Worf rumbles, his voice like grinding tectonic
He approaches a small shack built from driftwood and salvaged shuttlecraft panels. Behind the bar stands an old man with a salt-and-pepper beard.