Inson Whippy's Death

Dr. McCoy bends down to look at him and grimaces. My God, he says, checking the pulse. He's dead. That's how insignificant that toe-headed junior junior engineer is. If only there was some sort of fortified elixir was strong as an ox, but it's fun and bubbly as an Orion go-go girl that we could use to revive him. I, you say, cocking an eyebrow rakishly, wouldn't that be nice? You pull out your trusty hip flask of carbonated scotch and unscrew the lid and pour it into Inson Whippy's mouth. But then the captain comes on the intercom again. Scot