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.
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.
"Today," Worf mutters, staring out at the turquoise horizon, "is a good day to relax." 2. Future Worf and the Margarita of the South P...
"I seek the Margarita," Worf says, his hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial dritlh. "The one they call 'The Fire of the Reef.' I am told it requires a warrior's constitution."
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. As the first sip of the citrus-and-tequila blend
"Computer," Worf rumbles, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "Locate the nearest source of... agave ."
Worf pauses. He remembers the teachings of Kahless. "A warrior does not hide from the salt of the earth. I will take it with a heavy rim. And... the small umbrella. But make it . Like the blood of my enemies." Clad in a high-collared, linen-spun tactical tunic, Worf
The bartender doesn't flinch. He reaches for a bottle of silver liquid and a fresh, bright lime. "Salt or no salt, big guy?"