The bartender doesn't flinch. He reaches for a bottle of silver liquid and a fresh, bright lime. "Salt or no salt, big guy?"
The year is 2410. The Klingon Empire is at peace, and Worf—now an Elder Statesman and high-ranking diplomat—has finally found a challenge worthy of his warrior spirit: retirement. 2. Future Worf and the Margarita of the South P...
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. The bartender doesn't flinch
"Computer," Worf rumbles, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "Locate the nearest source of... agave ." The Klingon Empire is at peace, and Worf—now
As the first sip of the citrus-and-tequila blend hits his tongue, Worf’s eyes widen. The acidity is sharp, the spirit is bold, and the chill of the ice is a shock to his Klingon physiology. It is a good day to drink.
"Today," Worf mutters, staring out at the turquoise horizon, "is a good day to relax."
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.