Tribble Fan Fiction #27 · Plate VI: The Philosophical Tree CIPHER-418 · DISPATCH #∞ In which the cipher speaks — and the tribble answers back. To: All Stations From: The Cipher Re: Anomalous readings across all frequency bands Classification: URGENT — NUMERICAL CONTAMINATION EVENT IN PROGRESS This dispatch was intended to be a standard Cipher-418…
Tribble Fan Fiction #26 · Plate V: Mining the Ore The blog has a basement. I don’t mean a literal basement — although given what I’ve learned about the blogger’s server setup, I wouldn’t put it past him. I mean that underneath the posts, underneath the categories, underneath the CSS and the comment section and…
Tribble Fan Fiction #20 I. Somewhere Over the Rainbow The tribble fell out of the tornado. Dorothy Gale had been lying on her bed in the spinning farmhouse — watching the Kansas sky rearrange itself into increasingly improbable configurations through the window — when something small and round and blue bounced off the windowsill and…
Tribble Fan Fiction #18 I. Spared No Expense John Hammond had a vision. It was the same vision he always had — a theme park, bigger and more audacious than anything the world had seen, filled with creatures that should not exist but did because John Hammond had money and ambition and a cheerful disregard…
Tribble Fan Fiction #17 Cold Open [Camera focuses on the Dunder Mifflin Scranton reception desk. Pam is answering phones. A small pink tribble is sitting next to her stapler.] PAM [talking head]: Michael bought a tribble from a guy at the gas station. He said it was “the world’s best desk pet” and that it…
Tribble Fan Fiction #16 I. That’s No Moon The tribble arrived on the Death Star in a crate of Alderaanian grain. This was ironic for several reasons, not least of which was that Alderaan no longer existed — Grand Moff Tarkin had seen to that approximately three hours earlier with a demonstration of the battle…
Tribble Fan Fiction #15 I. A Tribble Has No Name Winter was coming. It had been coming for quite some time, as winters do in Westeros, where the seasons have the courtesy to announce themselves years in advance but the discourtesy to last a decade. The tribble arrived at Winterfell in the pocket of a…
Tribble Fan Fiction #14 Side A, Track 1: I Am the Tribble Liverpool, 1962. The Cavern Club smelled like sweat, beer, and ambition — three substances that, when combined in the right proportions, produce rock and roll. The Beatles were on stage, four young men in matching suits playing twelve-bar blues to a crowd of…
Tribble Fan Fiction #13 I. The Briefcase “You know what they call a tribble in Paris?” Vincent Vega was leaning against the wall of the apartment building, smoking a cigarette with the languid carelessness of a man who had recently returned from three years in Amsterdam and still hadn’t readjusted to the pace of Los…