Blog

Cons of Romance
Words 758 – I would like to take a moment to thank ghunchu’wI’ and Felix Malmenbeck, two people who responded on the Klingon Language Institute forum, for their help in translating the words used by the Klingon Master of Ceremonies.

Klingon Stomp – Dance Floor Entrance

I squeezed his arm as we stroll to the ballrooms entrance, where music blasted out in throbbing waves. “My dear Mister Aleman, where on Earth did you get the idea that Klingons would have a slow dance to close their ball?”

“It’s the closing dance?” Jason eeped behind Brent.

I wish I had a fan to tap the boy with for speaking out of turn, but I hadn’t gone with that accoutrement in this year’s costume and I had already secured the opera glasses for what was to come. “I promise not to break him,” I assured, pulling my dagger out of my bustle where I had moved it last potty break. “See it is still in its sheathe and peace-tied.” I wiggled the red leather and gold metal encased weapon at him

Jason’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He passed my escort the pirate’s knife, resplendently colored with black and red before the plastic blade curved into the tacky dull gray of pretend steel. My sheathed blade was a little longer, which was one of the reasons I recommended the toy from the spread of weapons the Klingons made available to their guests when we initially arrived at the ball. With his height, I needed all the reach I could get.

“Just what exactly is the dance?” Brent asked with trepidation.

I glanced up flirtatiously through my waterfall of curls and wide-brimmed hat. “Well, we are at a Klingon Stomp.” Getting the last word in before we were swallowed by the techno-thrash music. Brent let himself be guided to the dance floor, having a facial expression just like Alice must have had after falling down the rabbit hole.

We had reached the edge of the raised wooden area when the master of ceremonies projected “mev!”; instantly the music stopped. Quiet pulsated against the inner eardrum. Most of those on the dance floor rushed off in an orderly-disordered evacuation: the green-skin women, the fur-cloaked barbarians, the black-uniformed Manticorian Navy, and the white-armored stormtroopers. A few of the people who had been supporting the wall all night ascended the dance floor with their partners. 

“What have I gotten myself into, Miss Timepiece?” Brent asked, guiding me to the center of the floor. We were only one of two Non-Klingon couples on the floor by the end of the exchange of dancers, and the other couple looked like escapees from the Mortal Kombat franchise, Liu Kang and Mileena if I wasn’t mistaken.

“I fear this shall make or break you GOH reputation for all time.” We moved into traditional waltz starting positions. Only difference was my left hand securely grasped the outside of his right where he gripped the toy blade loosely, while my weapon hand rested on his shoulder. A fair trade I thought since his left hand was on my back and had control of my center of gravity. “There shall be two minutes of slow dance, where couples may speak quietly as is right and proper. After which the music will change and the dance will become a little more…how shall I put this…freeform? The one who is able to press a knife to her partner’s throat and keep it there when the music stops wins.”

“Wins, my lady? And what are the stakes?”

“For the Klingons, honor and battle glories. Be careful when we move around; you lose face interfering with another couple on the floor. I would be most put out if you step on the wrong person’s foot.”

“Well then, I should thank you for choosing a knife as my weapon.” He nodded his head to the cartoonish naval dirk favored by pirates in movies. “I shall find it much easier to maintain a close dance with this blade.”

I loved Brent’s ability to slip into my cosplay. A few failed dates from outside the con community didn’t get it. I don’t just put on a costume, but a whole persona. Me, but an eighteenth century version of me. “You are most welcome Mister Aleman.”

“But I must point out, I am not a Klingon. Battle glories are not stakes I would play for.” He smirked at me in challenge.

The MC’s shout of “may’ Qav!” forced me to pause before responding. “Then what would you suggest Mister Aleman.”

“A kiss, my lady.”

I exhaled with a hiss. “You presume much, Mister Aleman.”

“And yet,” his smirk deepened, “I do not hear a no.”

The head Klingon hit a large drum for the first time that night and bellowed “moq!” ending our banter.