Chapter 6: The Klingon Incident
Three weeks since the Bitcoin joke and they still won't let it die.
"Stuart's Imaginary Money Update," Howard announces, walking into the shop. "Still worthless. News at eleven."
"Actually, it went up to six cents per coin." I don't look up from pricing back issues. "That's a twenty percent gain."
"Wow. You made like, six whole dollars. Living the dream."
Sheldon enters behind him, already examining the new Star Trek comics with laser focus. He picks up issue #4, flips to a specific page, and makes a disapproving sound.
"This is inaccurate."
"What is?" I move over, curious despite myself.
"The Enterprise's warp core configuration. The dilithium crystal chamber is positioned incorrectly relative to the matter-antimatter reaction assembly." He points to a panel. "This would result in catastrophic containment failure within seconds."
"It's a drawing, Sheldon." Leonard trails in last, looking tired. "Artistic license."
"Artistic license doesn't exempt creators from basic adherence to established technical specifications. The warp core's design has been consistent across multiple series and technical manuals. This is simply lazy research."
I lean over to look at the panel. And that's when it happens—a flash of memory that isn't mine. Stuart at nineteen, obsessing over Star Trek technical manuals. Learning Klingon from language guides. Spending hours in the library with a Klingon-English dictionary that had no business existing.
The original Stuart was a huge nerd.
"The matter-antimatter pods are probably just outside the frame," I start to say, then my mouth keeps moving without permission. "betleH 'etlh je. ghIjmeH taj je." The blade and the sword. Also the knife to kill.
Dead silence.
I freeze. Did I just—
Sheldon's head snaps up. His eyes are wide, expression cycling through shock, excitement, and something that might be respect.
"You speak Klingon."
It's not a question. It's an accusation and a revelation simultaneously.
"I... uh." My brain catches up to my mouth. "Took some classes in college? It was a weird phase."
"petaQ," Sheldon says, testing me. Fool.
And before I can stop myself: "HIja'. 'ach DaH Hoch jaH yInmey." Yes. But now all bets are off.
Howard's mouth is literally hanging open. Leonard has set down the comic he was browsing. Raj looks delighted, like he's watching his favorite show.
Sheldon moves closer, intent and focused. "Most people who claim to speak Klingon have memorized a few phrases. Your syntax and pronunciation suggest actual fluency. How extensive is your vocabulary?"
"Pretty extensive." The memories are flooding back now. Stuart spent two years on this. Audio lessons. Online forums. He could hold conversations. "I was really into it for a while."
"Demonstrate." Not a request. A command. "Full conversation. Now."
"Sheldon, maybe Stuart doesn't want to—" Leonard tries.
But I'm already grinning. Because this is insane and perfect and exactly the kind of ridiculous thing that would happen in this life.
"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"
Sheldon considers this with the gravity of someone selecting a dissertation topic. Then: "batlh," he says. Honor. "nuqneH batlhvam?" What about honor?
And we're off.
For the next five minutes, we have an actual debate—in Klingon—about the concept of honor in Klingon culture versus human interpretation. Sheldon argues that honor is quantifiable through specific actions. I counter that honor is contextual, dependent on cultural framework. He brings up specific Star Trek episodes. I reference Klingon opera.
Howard quietly turns to Raj. "I think Sheldon just found his soulmate."
"I thought that was Spock," Raj whispers back.
"Spock would never speak Klingon. It would be illogical."
Leonard is watching with this betrayed expression, like his best friend just got stolen by the new kid. Which is kind of what's happening.
Sheldon and I reach a natural stopping point in the debate—we've circled back to our starting positions, which is apparently how these things end. He's looking at me with pure, undiluted approval.
"Your fluency is remarkable. The grammatical structure, the proper use of suffixes, even the cultural context of your arguments. Most impressive."
"Thanks?" I'm actually sweating a little. That took more mental effort than I expected.
"Stuart." Sheldon straightens, formal. "I am officially upgrading your status to 'acceptable for advanced friendship protocols.'"
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're invited to apartment dinners. You'll have access to the group's private discussions. Your opinions will be weighted with appropriate gravity in future debates."
Leonard makes a choking sound. "Sheldon, it took me two years to get advanced friendship protocols."
"Yes, but you don't speak Klingon."
"Neither did Stuart until five minutes ago!"
"Language proficiency is a superior indicator of intellectual commitment than mere prolonged exposure." Sheldon turns back to me. "Are you available for dinner Friday? We're attempting a new Thai fusion recipe that Raj suggested."
"I... sure?"
"Excellent. Seven PM. Apartment 4A. Please don't bring anything—Sheldon has specific rules about food contributions," Leonard adds, still looking slightly wounded.
Howard is grinning. "Man, you just speed-ran Sheldon's friendship tree. That's got to be some kind of record."
After they leave—Sheldon still discussing Klingon grammar rules—I stand in my empty shop and laugh.
Speaking Klingon just earned me advanced friendship status.
The original Stuart would probably be thrilled. All those hours of study actually paying off. The language skills that marked him as "too nerdy" in most social circles just became the key to the inner sanctum of an even nerdier group.
And the weird thing? I'm thrilled too. Because Sheldon's approval—arbitrary and bizarre as it is—feels earned. Like I passed some kind of test I didn't know I was taking.
I lock up the shop that night still smiling. The Batman clock on the wall shows 6:47 PM. The last Iron Fist comics sold today—all twelve of them to a collector who paid triple cover price. My Bitcoin portfolio is up twenty percent, which nobody else cares about but makes my secret spreadsheet look slightly less insane.
And now I have advanced friendship protocols.
Whatever the hell those are.
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