DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of T'Lea and is copyright (c) 2002 by T'Lea. This story is rated G.



Spock opened the front door before the buzzer sounded. He had been calmly waiting on the last guest, his fingers patiently steepled. "The sporting match begins in two point one seconds, Jim. You must be more punctual in the future," he commented.

"Plenty of time. Hey! Who needs a brewskie?" James Kirk yelled to the group gathered in front of the holovid, opening a bottle of Legaran Lager with his teeth. Spitting the bottlecap onto the carpet, he thrust the remaining 12-pack into Spock's hands and squeezed in between Scotty and Sulu on the couch.

"I hope they got some big hooters for the half-time show," McCoy says, reclining into the half-whltri position of Spock's La-Z-Vulcan lounger. Propping himself up, he moved a giant red foam hand shaped in a traditional Vulcan ta'al out of his way. Finding his view still obstructed, he skewered the foam ta'al onto the end of a ceremonial lirpa hanging on the wall. He settled back into the La-Z-Vulcan. That was definitely better.

"Boize moi! Remember the set on the redheaded announcer last year..." Chekov enthused, cupping his hands suggestively.

"Da, Chekov, da. Except that was a guy," Sulu informed him.

"Eet vas?" Chekov asked.

"Aye, lad. Looked like he needed a good waxing, too," Scotty responded sagely.

"Pavel didn't think anything of it. All the women have mustaches in his part of Russia," McCoy said. His laughter shook the La-Z-Vulcan so hard that McCoy's feet flew up over his head, stuck in the full-whltri position. Spock leaned over and deftly adjusted the controls, lowering the good doctor back to his former position.

Chekov frowned: "Well, it still was an amazing set..."

"Knock it off. Here comes the best part," Kirk said, gesturing toward the giant Orion slave girl blimp bobbing languorously over the stadium.

"Gentlemen, I have prepared some snacks..." Spock told them as he passed around a large bowl of fried kreyla rinds.

"Spock, these are great! Thank your mother for her recipe again," McCoy told him between mouthfuls.

Spock eyed the empty bowl, then returned to the kitchen to fill it with tortilla chips for the Gorn guacamole and the Subian salsa. As a precaution, he made sure that the fire extinguisher was nearby ... just in case the Subian salsa set off some spontaneous combustion when it reacted with the Terran digestive system.

Spock set the bowls on the coffee table. He reached for the fire extinguisher when smoke came out of Kirk's ears, but Kirk waved him off. "False alarm, Spock!" he managed as smoke billowed out of his mouth.

Spock relaxed his grip on the fire extinguisher handle. He was becoming quite accomplished at hosting these social gatherings. When first asked to host a Super Bowl party, he had consulted his parents on Vulcan for advice.

"Oh, dear," Amanda had said and skittered off to the kitchen to look for her top- secret kreyla rind recipe, leaving Sarek on the comm line with his son. The recipe had been a closely guarded secret of members of the House of Surak for centuries. Finally, Spock was coming into his birthright. She was so proud of him, and knew that Sarek was too even if he would never voice the sentiment. When she returned with a disc of her favorite party foods for Spock to download, she heard her husband advising him.

"Just remember to have plenty of alcohol on hand, Spock. That is the thrust of the entire Super Bowl gathering. It is absolutely vital. Failure is not an option. Even if you have logically determined that you have purchased sufficient quantities of beer and ale, buy several more cases. As your mother is fond of saying, better safe than sorry. Ah, here she is now..."

Spock's mind returned to the present as he heard McCoy bellow for a beer. He wondered if he should wire the living room with a cooling unit for next year's gathering. He calculated that it would improve his beverage serving efficiency by thirty six point three percent, and the wiring would not be difficult... Spock extracted a bottle of McCoy's favorite beer from the cooler and grabbed a Vulcan's Forge Red Ale for himself.

"Thanks, Spock. I couldn't get out of this confounded Vulcan Barco-lounger of yours..."

"It is not a Barco-lounger, Doctor. It is a La-Z-Vulcan," Spock said with great dignity. He had tried every model in the La-Z-Vulcan showroom in ShiKahr before arriving at this most logical choice. Perhaps he would select "His" and "Hers" La-Z-Vulcans for his mother and father for their anniversary. Now that his father was retired, he enjoyed viewing the lirpa matches as well as the popular show "Forgewatch" which seemed to be about scantily clad female adepts of Gol rescuing hapless vacationers to Vulcan's Forge who were not used to the treacherous Vulcan heat, but illogically went into the desert anyway. "Did you hear me, Mr. Spock? I said that I believe I need that fire extinguisher now. Right now! Yee-owwwww!" Kirk screamed.

Spock was horrified to see flames shooting out of the back of the Captain's trousers. He quickly aimed the fire extinguisher at Kirk's posterior and pushed the trigger as Jim hopped around the living room.

"Hey! Siddown. You're blocking my view," McCoy groused.

"Sorry, Bones. Thanks, Spock. That's much better. Guess that Subian salsa is just as strong coming out as it is going in. Whew! Thought I was gonna fire a photon torpedo for sure! That dip is great!" Kirk proclaimed.

"Glad to be of assistance, Captain. I will tell my mother that Subian salsa is a 'hit'." Spock did not understand humans' illogical tendency to eat food that was so spicy that it literally melted their innards. His mother had attempted to explain it to him, but he did not fully grasp the concept.

The timer on the oven sounded, and Spock removed a tray of hot Pon Farr Poppers. Curious name for a snack food, he thought. He would have to remember to ask his mother about the origin of the term. She had smiled mischievously when she told him the name of the recipe, and he could have sworn that Sarek's ears had turned a darker shade of green...

"Hurry up, Spock! You're missing some great plays. Hey, got any shot glasses in there? Scotty brought a bottle of Rigellian Rum. Oh, shit! Look at that! Star Fleet Academy sucks this year!" Spock heard something solid strike his holovid screen. Shaking his head, he picked up a tray of shot glasses from the counter, balancing it expertly in one hand. He grabbed a potholder and hefted the tray of Pon Farr Poppers in his other hand, making his way back to the living room. He was eager to see if his calculation of the odds brought him a financial windfall this year as well. Perfect. His timing was impeccable. The half-time show was just beginning. Spock settled onto the floor in a lotus position. He helped himself to a Pon Farr Popper and a handful of chips and Gorn guacamole. Not bad, he thought, crunching lightly on the snacks. Sipping delicately from his bottle of Vulcan's Forge Red Ale, his eyebrow rose fractionally as he watched the half-time entertainment. A cadre of female adepts of Gol were performing the ritual Red Sand Firepot Dance. As he gazed at their long hair swinging in sultry arcs, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. Not bad. Not bad at all.