While ship was being repaired in orbit due to damages sustained from a temporal warp, I decided to “catch a movie” as they say in twenty first century parlance. I decided on a family flick titled “Spooky House”, so I, along with an expendable crew member, beamed down directly into the auditorium effectively bypassing the ticket taker with the added benefit of smuggling in some munchies. The monetary barter system must have reached its peak, because from the preliminary report, they were asking for the equivalent of a dilithium power core in exchange for the snacks at that concession stand.

The presentation method consisted of generating photons from a xenon source. The light was projected through a strip consisting of a lengthy succession of still images chemically etched onto a film about 35 millimeters in diameter, and onto a rather primitive 35ft. warped screen. As the advertisements were shown, I judged the length of the Xenon beam to be 50.34 feet (best guess) and probably generated by a 2 kilowatt bulb, very likely running at approximately 79.2 amps and 25.31 volts judging from the illumination. I had no idea what was advertised. That’s how much I cared.

The two dimensional experience, which could be perceived through a “flat” or “scope” area, was shown in flat which is fitting because that’s how the experience felt to me. The movie was a contrived if somewhat overly clichéd mess of storytelling. Even my fellow crew member laughed aloud on several occasions that did not call for such a response. The plot had more holes than the Enterprise’s hull after Khan attacked me and sucked worse than a Supermassive Blackhole.

After thirty minutes of torture I requested (with no objections from the expendable crew member) to be beamed aboard promptly when I got word that the transporter was acting up. Given the choice between watching the movie until the teleportation glitch was rectified or risk having my molecules rearranged resulting in a horrific and painful death, I repeatedly requested they beam us aboard immediately. But the ship’s doctor and the medics wouldn’t have it. So we had to persevere the entire one-dimensional plot in a two-dimensional vista. The crew member was begging me to kill him off, and I was thinking all the while of setting my phazer to stun and knocking myself out for the duration. But then I recalled the fact that stun at close range could kill. Either way, we'd both win. It was then I realized I hadn’t taken a phazer. I hadn’t planned on running into anything dangerous down here. How naive I was.

The resolution was one I had arrived at right after opening credits. I actually care more for Klingons than I did for this movie’s characters. And the dialogue! My god the… awful… dialogue! Had it not been for that stupid Prime Directive, I’d have approached the manager asking for some kind of compensation. My engineer couldn’t apologize enough for the transporter malfunction. I told him all was forgiven if he’d lay off the Scottish Whisky (at least he’s not addicted to Romulan ale) and get back to work. All in all, I’d rather welcome a tribble infestation with open arms than sit through something like Spooky House again.

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