Title: Giggles bags the Borg
Author: Odon
Rated: R. Parody.
Fandom: Star Trek Voyager uberfic
Pairing: Torres/Seven
Summary: Can ace flyer Belsworth Torres best the arrogant Baron von Borg?
Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star Trek Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount (a Viacom company). Contains rude innuendo, homosexual references, and Swifties.
Feedback is welcome. Archiving too, but please try and contact me first. My thanks to Amy for her beta work.
GIGGLES BAGS THE BORG
Of all the gallant pilots who served in the Great War, none was more brave and dashing than Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris of the Royal Flying Corps. True, there were those who said that the handsome hero was some kind of nancy boy, and his leather jacket, well-filled breeches and frequent flirting were merely symptoms of repressed homosexuality, but a sock on the jaw and a knee in the knackers from his loyal comrade Lieutenant Belsworth Torres, M.C. soon settled their hash! Indeed, all learned to give Belsworth (nicknamed 'Giggles' as a jape on the ferocious flyer's legendary temper) a wide berth. When the ace airman first arrived at No. 47 Squadron, one rogue had the temerity to suggest that the dusky, fine-featured fellow was a woman in disguise! But everyone agreed afterwards that no woman would beat a man senseless with a large cucumber, then shove his head up the rear end of a startled French cow. And so it was, to these two intrepid aviators, that their squadron commander broke the terrible news.
"Harry's been killed?" gasped Tom Paris. "Again?"
"But young Kim's been reported dead seven times already," said Belsworth. "The chap's got nine lives. It can't be true!"
"I'm afraid this time it's confirmed," said Captain Janeway, staring glumly at an empty cup of coffee. The commander of 47 Squadron had lost too many brave men, most killed before anyone learnt their names, their shirts red with blood. "He was shot down in flames by the Borg."
"The Baron von Borg!" roared Belsworth indignantly. For all had heard of the notorious Baron from Bad Accent, who'd challenged any Allied ace to beat him in single combat.
"That butcher!" said Tom cuttingly. "Let's take up a fighter and bag the blighter. We'll show that scoundrel what for."
"What for?" asked Belsworth. "This is war, not a game of checkers. Let's take the whole squadron over to his billet and bomb him back to Bavaria."
"No Giggles," said Tom humourlessly. "The Hun's thrown down his glove, and it's our duty as Englishmen to shove it down his sausage-eating throat! We'll battle the scallywag man-to-man, and may the best flyer win."
"Or you could do what you always do," opined Captain Janeway. "Swoop down out of the sun and riddle the Boche in the back before he knows you're there."
"Well...yes, that would be preferable."
And so the august airmen took to the skies in their trusty Bristol two-seater, a red flag in the face of the bullish von Borg. "Stay sharp!" said Tom pointedly as they flew over the Lines, eyes peeled for their prey. Below lay the squalor and slaughter of the Western Front, above the endless empyreans and those magnificent men in their fragile machines.
For hours they sought to provoke the Baron into combat. They buzzed his aerodrome, strafed the Boche trenches, and thumbed their noses at Hun staff cars. But the cunning cove would not be drawn. Finally in desperation, Tom dropped his breeches and hung his bare buttocks over the side, exposing himself to half the German army.
"I say!" exclaimed Belsworth. "Isn't that a bit much, old chap?"
"I can't help it!" snapped Tom. "The fumes from the castor oil lubricant are giving me the runs!"
"Well now's not the time to take a SHIT!" yelled Belsworth, as a blue Fokker D.VII swooped out of the sun like a deadly hawk.
"It's the Baron von Bighead!" shouted Tom. "He's caught us with our pants down!"
"Speak for yourself!" cried Belsworth, squeezing the trigger of the Lewis gun. Bright red tracer shot towards the Hun harrier, but the Baron sideslipped away. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! went his guns, and a line of bullets stitched through the canvas inches from Tom's rapidly-shrinking testicles.
"Shoot the Fokker!" yelled Tom, or something similar anyway.
"I'm trying to!" retorted Belsworth, banging away like a randy French sailor.
The Fokker shot over their heads, did an expert Immelmann and came back upon them, twin Spandau's blazing. Tom jerked frantically on his joystick, spraying his gun across the Hun's face but to no avail. Black smoke burst from the cowling and enveloped him.
"I've got to stop the engine!" Tom choked. "We're done for, Giggles. Get out the parachutes!"
Pale as death, Belsworth yanked open a canvas pouch marked: Parachute (Airman For The Use Of) and was surprised to find a thick sheaf of typewritten paper.
THE MINISTRY OF AIR HAS WITHHELD THE ISSUE OF PARACHUTES TO R.F.C PERSONNEL IN ORDER TO PREVENT THE PREMATURE ABANDONMENT OF GOVERNMENT PROPERTY UNDER ALLEGED COMBAT CONDITIONS. SHOULD YOUR AIRCRAFT BE DAMAGED IRREVOCABLY (AS DEFINED UNDER SECTION DOA-1A) FILL OUT THE ATTACHED FORM BS-101 AND A PARACHUTE WILL BE ISSUED FORTHWITH PROVIDED YOUR SITUATION MEETS THE REQUIREMENTS SET OUT IN PARAGRAPH FUBR-01 OF KING'S REGULATIONS...
Belsworth was still plowing through this rubbish when they hit the ground.
Tom Paris lay slumped in the cockpit, his flaxen hair covered in blood.
"Tom! Speak to me, old man!" shouted Belsworth. But there was no reply from the still figure.
The menacing drone of a Mercedes engine heralded the approach of their nemesis. The Fokker shot overhead in a victory roll and Belsworth raised a hand in salute (or two fingers at least).
"That beastly rotter! If he's done for Tom I'll choke the swine to death on sauerkraut, if I have to chase him all the way to Berlin with a bomb-bay full of boiled cabbage!"
The Fokker turned towards the field in a long sweep and touched down fifty feet away. There were good luck swastikas emblazoned on each wheel, and they whirled crazily as the aircraft taxied towards them, stopping a short distance from the downed Bristol.
A tall blonde in tight black leather and jackboots that went halfway up to the crotch clambered out of the cockpit. Belsworth noted the Hun's fine delicate features and piercing blue eyes (one covered by a glittering monocle) and a chest that bulged with what was clearly arrogant Prussian pride.
"I am the Baron von Borg," said the aviator in perfectly-dictated English. "I greet you as a fellow knight of the air, despite the gross inefficiency of your flying technique." The Baron extended his chest six inches and followed it across to where Belsworth was standing.
"You square-headed, sausage-eating son of a Stuttgart offal-merchant!" greeted Belsworth politely. "Attacking a man with his pants down - what kind of dirty trick is that? We'd have thrashed you in a fair fight!"
"Fairness is irrelevant," said von Borg, waving a gauntlet at the Fokker D.VII. "Our aeronautic technology is superior to your own. Your Royal Flying Corps will fall in flames before us. The proud Prussian eagle will soar across the English Channel and poop on the head of the cowardly British lion." The Baron paused in his speech, noting that the swastikas on his undercarriage had stopped at an odd angle. "Mmm. I think that symbol might catch on some day."
The Baron flexed up on his toes, leather squeaking like a plague of frightened mice. "You are my twentieth victory. Now Oberleutnant Goering will award me the Pour le Merite."
"Is that so, you Teutonic twit? Well I hear Goering's an overweight, cross-dressing dope fiend!"
"That is Allied propaganda!" The sun flashed on the Baron's monocle, heliographing his outrage across half of France. "It is true that Hermann Goering has the brains of a boiled cabbage, but it's not as if he'll ever be placed in charge of the German Air Service. Your generals are so stupid they should be used as fenceposts to enclose dim-witted sheep so English airmen can bugger them."
"You jackbooted jackanape!" cried Belsworth furiously. "If you were a man I would kill you where you stand, but Hun flyers are nothing but a bunch of cowardly women!"
The Baron pulled out an enormous wiener and smacked it across Belsworth's face. "How dare you call me a woman! My bulging chest comes from eating too many sausages!"
"More like Belgian babies, you brute!" growled Belsworth, vigorously beating off the Hun. But there was a surprise in store. As the two airmen struggled, the Baron's flying jacket ripped open to reveal an impressive pair of sweat-covered breasts. The Baron was indeed a woman!
"So! Hermann Goering's not the only cross-dresser in the Hun Air Service!"
"You schweinhund!" raged von Borg, vainly covering her luscious cleavage. "How dare you expose German military secrets! How dare you assault a Prussian Junker! How dare you make me use all these exclamation marks! Only high-ranking officers have seen my breasts, and only to advance my career...I mean advance the war effort. You are nothing but a perverted Englander spy! I shall have you shot, and hung, and decapitated, and buggered by an entire battalion of Jaegers, and then minced to feed starving German civilians!" She jumped up and down in her rage, breasts bouncing like an SE5 on a bumpy landing field.
"I've got your number, you Hun harlot!" Belsworth was furious at being whipped by a woman, even if she was wearing black leather and knee-high boots. "You're part of a dastardly Prussian plot to make us trip over our tongues! But you underestimate British pluck and sheer prudishness."
"Pluck!" scoffed von Borg (or something similar anyway). "The truth is your testicles have shrunk from those cold English showers!" And with that the aviatrix leapt forward and debagged Belsworth in one swift stroke!
"Aha!" she cried, pointing at Belsworth's crotch. "As I thought: the English have no balls!"
"I don't need balls to lick you!" shouted Belsworth, and with an exultant cry leapt upon the villainous Hun vixen.
Tom Paris came round in his cockpit, surrounded by splintered wood and torn fabric.
"Looks like a modern work of art," said Tom abstractly. His head throbbed like a deHavilland bomber and his body felt like the entire Prussian army was goose-stepping over him in hobnailed boots. He could hear the engine ticking as it cooled, but there was no sign of fire.
"I must fix the aircraft," said Tom mechanically. "But Giggles is the expert in that field. I'm a member of the aristocracy - I can't be expected to have any practical skills."
Wincing in pain, Tom unbuckled the safety straps and turned in his seat. To his horror the observer's position was empty! It was then he heard a loud moan that could only have come from his old chum Belsworth.
"My hat! Giggles has been thrown clear and is lying wounded somewhere!"
Then Tom saw the sinister blue Fokker parked next to them, and his lips curled back in a snarl.
"That dog!" he barked. "What are you doing to Giggles, you foul fiend?"
Jamming a .455 Webley revolver in his belt, Tom clambered out of the cockpit and dropped to the ground. More moans erupted from the grass before him, and it was then that he spied the Baron sprawled on top of his comrade-in-arms, no doubt committing an unspeakable act!
"I'm coming!" Tom ejaculated, tugging at the powerful weapon tucked into his trousers. But when he saw what the Hun was doing to Belsworth with a greasy sausage, his gun went off right inside his pants!
"By Jove," said Janeway, sipping from a cup of coffee. "Dashed unfortunate business that, accidentally shooting off one's own knackers. Might interfere with a chap's marriage prospects, what?"
"I spoke to the doctor," said Belsworth. "He and Tom went to school together. From his knowledge of the man, apparently Tom's love life won't be affected."
"Ah, these public school fellows, always bending over forwards...I mean backwards for each other." Janeway finished the cup and poured another. "I know you chaps have got a life expectancy of only three weeks but dash it, I can't stop caring what happens to you."
"You're a mother to us all, Captain."
"There are those who say so, and I've had them polishing the tarmac with their tongues for the past hour," said the squadron commander in a cold tone.
"Err, well anyway," Belsworth continued. "That flying filly may have shot us down, but I gave her a damned good licking afterwards."
"Jolly good show, Giggles! If we had a few more officers like you (plus competent generals, some kind of tracked armoured vehicle, and millions of fresh troops from the United States) we'd have won this war long ago. Still, the Kaiser must be in dire straits if he's using women pilots and cross-dressing commanders. You'll never see that in the Royal Flying Corps!"
"Umm...speaking of which, Captain. I can't help noticing you've a lot of weight on your chest."
"Responsibilities of being the Commanding Officer, old boy."
"Err yes, but I see you also...bulge a lot there."
"Too many sausages, old boy. Too many sausages."
THE END