What's Eating Manfred?

"Things happen to Humanists... Earther."  The Klingon snarled in a low tone.  He flicked Dunson's wrist away as if it was a loathsome insect.

Scott Dunson rubbed the abused limb, sure there was going to be a bruise.

The Klingon (loud and boisterous... typical for a Klingon) did not go unheard.  Patrons turned, reacting with mixed glances.  Most went back to their conversational business, once the Klingon released him.  But a notable tension hung in the air afterwards.  The lounge seemed... subdued, as if others were holding their tongues.  The Klingon didn't seem to notice or care.

The Klingon's name was Klodd.  He had arrived on board recently, from who-knew-where.  Came in and started throwing his weight around (literally), like he had a right to.

Manfred Mickolas McMann was a regular.  Everyone called him Mick.  He frequented with a group of human buddies, who usually stuck together, sharing drinks and cards at a table in the back.  They never bothered anyone – just came to enjoy their off hours in a social atmosphere.  Most of the people on board were civilians, with only a core group of Starfleet personnel.

This was still a Starfleet ship.  Regulations and rules of conduct applied.  The non-humans somehow always got away with bending or outright breaking those rules.

But if a human broke the rules... watch out.  Humans were supposed to uphold and abide by the rules.  Apparently not the aliens, however.

Today, with their usual table taken, they ended up seated near Klodd, close enough to overhear.

"Scott," Mick called out as he passed by.  "You okay?"

Dunson gave some offhanded remark, continuing on his way.

Mick wondered why Dunson never stuck up for himself.  He didn't like seeing him mistreated and abused.  Humans deserved better.  Mick stuck up for him sometimes, but until the waiter developed a spine, it was never going to change.

Mick stared at Klodd, then at the diminutive young woman at another table, the one so proud of her ridiculous 'pet rose', trying to hide a giggle at her fellow human's mistreatment.  Laughing?  What the hell was so funny about it?  Did she take pleasure in aliens abusing humans?  She wouldn't be laughing if she was the one who got manhandled.  Something about her bothered Mick.  Always going on about that stupid holographic flower, like it was the only thing that mattered.

"Hey Mick.  It's your hand."

His buddy's comment drew him back to the game.  He eyed his cards, chomping on his cigar.  "Hit me."

Klodd didn't like the blood pie.  When Dunson came back, he splattered it all over the waiter's front.  Disgusted, Dunson returned to the kitchen to get another.

Out of the corner of his mouth, cigar perched between his lips on the other side, attention on his cards, Mick said, "Why don't you pick on something your own size, Klodd.  Like a pregnant targ."

Klodd didn't like being called fat – probably because it was true.  He came back with some cutting remark about Mick and his buddies being Humanists.  Mick shook his head, checking his cards.  Klodd always was stupid.  Mick and the others had nothing to do with the Humanists – not that it would matter if they told that to the Klingon.

Klodd, seeing this didn't faze him, started adding insulting remarks, mixed with racial epithets and name-calling.  Humans were scum, lowlifes; there was going to be a day coming when humans got theirs.

When Klodd told him he'd better watch his back, something snapped.  Mick got a look in his eyes.  That look.  His buddies glanced back and forth.

"Ignore him, Mick," one advised.

Mick stared at his cards.  He puffed his cigar, took it out, placed it in the ashtray.  The way things worked on this ship, security wouldn't lift a finger despite a threat like that.

"Manfred..."  Howard always called him Manfred.  Howard wore optigoggles; he couldn't use comtacts and had bad eyesight.  He adjusted the prosthesis, pushing it up his nose.  It was continually sliding down.  "Don't."

"Bullshit.  This has gone on long enough.  Someone needs to defend our honor."

"He wants a fight," another said.  "Don't give him the satisfaction."

"What's wrong with you?"  Mick turned an accusing glare on each of his so-called friends.  "You want to lay down and take it?  When's enough going to be enough for you?  The reason they keep kicking us around is because we don't get up and take action.  He wants a fight?  I say give him a fight.  Make him regret ever wanting to pick a fight with us."

"You'll just be lowering yourself to his level."

Mick's expression darkened.  He set his cards down – "Fold." – got up and walked off, with another look at Klodd, another at Nina, on his way towards the door.

"What's eating him?" Howard said.

Upon impact, the knife in Mick's back sprayed an arc of blood droplets.  Some landed in Nina's hair.  Mick's step faltered; he stopped, started to turn, and hit the floor like a pile of bricks.