You Meet the Strangest People in Bars

Featuring the Numeric Theory of "Aliens Made Them Do It"

Author's Note: This was written at the encouragement of Shrewreader when I was freaking out over not having anything done for day 7 of my 14 Valentines. For it, she should be summarily shot. It has never been properly beta'd since at the time of posting my beta gave up on me and went to bed and I never had the heart to pursue the matter. Bonus geek-points if you spot the War for the Oaks references.

Constable Renfield Turnbull was on vacation. All right, it wasn't true vacation. Inspector Thatcher had needed some paperwork hand-carried to the consulate in Minneapolis. Of course, Constable Fraser was far too valuable to spare on simple transit. More importantly, the Inspector didn't want to spend a week alone with Renfield Turnbull. Her loss, he thought reproachfully. He wished Ray could have come along, but there had been an important case that couldn't spare the detective for even a few days.

The trip should only have taken two days, but Turnbull had identified a firearm regulation conference which coincided with the trip and received permission to attend on the basis of continuing education requirements. After two days, Turnbull had about all the versions of 'Assault weapons are bad, but the NRA won't let us regulate them.' he could take. He bowed out of the evening's session and made his way out of the hotel and onto the street. He arbitrarilly took a right, and after half an hour of walking found himself in a bustling shopping district. He took a glance at the street signs, noting he'd ended up on Nicollet Avenue. He blinked. "What do you know? It is a real place. I wonder how far it is to the Uptown Bar?"

A passerby overheard him. "Uptown Bar? Um, that way until you hit Franklin." She pointed. "Take a right. Then take a left on Hennepin and go a few blocks."

"Ah. Thank you kindly, ma'am." Turnbull smiled and headed off in the direction she'd indicated.

Half an hour later, Turnbull pushed open the doors under the stylized words that proclaimed Uptown Bar to the world. He made his way to the bar, eyeing the decorations with interest. When the bartender came around Turnbull ordered a Canadian beer and settled himself on a stool and surveyed the room around him. To his delight there was no petty crime in need of intervention, and a rather decent band on stage. Well, if one liked rock. He was slowly but surely broadening his music horizons thanks to Ray, so he was more interested than he would have been six months ago. Turnbull turned to ask the gentleman next to him if he knew the band's name and his jaw dropped of its own accord. There, sitting next to him and minding his own business, was Richard. Dean. Anderson. Colonel Jack O'Neill's actor. The members of his list would be so envious. He remembered to shut his mouth while he considered his options. Having made rather a mess of things when he'd tried to show his appreciation for Tracy Jenkins, he'd rather not repeat the mistake.

This called for another beer.

Having started on his second beer, Turnbull decided to go with casual. "Excuse me, sir. Do you know the name of the band that's playing tonight?"

RDA turned and took a sip from his beer. "Um, InKline Plain maybe?"

Turnbull nearly spit out his beer. "I'm sorry?"

RDA furrowed his brow in thought a moment. "Wait, not InKline Plain. Chain Toggles? Something like that. I didn't look at the sign too closely, the music's always decent here."

Turnbull nodded slowly. "You've read War For the Oaks, I take it?"

RDA grinned. "Enough to know the reference."

Turnbull took a deep breath. "Pardon my query, but are you Richard Dean Anderson?"

RDA blinked. "Yes..."

"Could I possibly get an autograph? You see, I belong to a Stargate: SG-1 mailing list, and I would be greatly honoured if I could bring home an autograph to scan in for the group."

RDA cocked his head to the side. "Mailing list?"

"Yes, sir. An email exchange community dedicated to creative endeavors relating to the show Stargate: SG-1 and its characters."

"Really?" RDA raised an eyebrow. "Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt..."

Somehow over the course of the next three beers, the discussion degenerated into a debate on whether or not the characters in SG-1 would eventually be forced to have sex on a mission. RDA took the tact of "Well, you never know what they're going to do to you during sweeps week, but my guess is a really big spaceship. Our viewers are all engineers; they want technology and things that go boom."

Turnbull countered by pointing out that the rest of his mailing list was female. Then he broke into in-show legitimization. "Mr. Anderson, you can mathematically compute the statistical chance that a new planet will result in mandatory sex for the characters, whether on or off screen."

RDA blinked. "You can?"

Turnbull nodded. "First, you look at the fact that all of the planets with a gate fall within human habitation ranges. The majority of them are in climates similar to North America. This makes sense since it's all filmed in Vancouver, but let's ignore that little fact. So say, ninety five percent of the worlds the characters gate to have 4 seasons. That leaves five percent for deserts and ice planets that are sure to pop up due to modified orbits or changes in star activity." He took a sip of his beer. "Out of that ninety five percent, according to what we know right now the Goa'uld rule what? Thirty percent? Let's say forty, to be generous. So that's fifty-seven percent of all viable gate addresses that are untouched by the Goa'uld." At this point Turnbull had grabbed a napkin and was scribbling notations while RDA looked on with a bemused expression.

"Now, given the similarities to mid-North America, the likelyhood of arriving in any particular season is split evenly 4 ways. Fertility festivals occur when crops are planted, in the spring. Fertility relates to sex, at its most basic form. Most ancient religions and mythologies deal with sex as a reflection of the two aspects of nature. It's where 'Mother Earth' comes from. So 14.25 percent of the time you're arriving in the season of a fertility ritual. How often do you think your characters piss off the natives instead of making friends? Fifty-fifty split? We'll use that as a rough estimate, and figure any extra that goes towards the final number accounts for the chance New Year's Festival that requires sanctification." Turnbull finished his scribbling with a flourish and presented the napkin to RDA.

"This leaves you with a seven-point-two percent likelyhood that you'll be on a non-Goa'uld controlled world, during the springtime, and asked to participate in a fertility festival because you fucked up negotiations. Which means that seven out of every hundred missions runs a high likelyhood of forced sex. There is no statistical way it will not occur. Now, whether or not you arrive during such a festival is a bit smaller percentage, but definitely in the realm of occurence."

"Huh. You really think?" RDA finished his beer, reached for one of the unused napkins, and scrawled on it for a moment before signing his name and passing it to Turnbull. "In case I forget."

"Thank you kindly, sir. Of course. The real debate among the fans is who it's going to be that gets chosen for the ritual, Major Carter or Daniel Jackson. SG-1 is a very progressive show."

RDA took a deep breath and started coughing from the smoke filled atmosphere. "We're on Showtime, not HBO. I think you give the writers too much credit. If you're saying what I think you are."

Turnbull shrugged. "Give it two years."

RDA opened his mouth to reply when the bartender cut him off. "Rick? Last call, it's closing time."

RDA waved his hand. "Nah, I'm good, Mitch. Thanks anyway."

"I am fine as well, sir. Thank you kindly for your service." Mitch nodded and headed to the other end of the bar to collect tabs and tips. Turnbull offered his hand to RDA. "I thank you very much for the opportunity to speak with you, Mr. Anderson. Do you require assistance in locating transportation for the evening?"

"Nah, I'll be fine." RDA held out a hand to shake. "Well, it's been strange. Tell your mailing list I said 'Hi' or something."

Turnbull shook his hand forcefully. "I shall. Thank you again." He waved his precious napkin (which was actually the second he'd acquired that evening, but for certain things there were exceptions to the mountie policy of brutal honesty) and departed, taking care not to trip over his own feet. It was a brisk forty minute walk back to the hotel, and then to bed. If he happened to oversleep the first session of the conference in the morning, he highly doubted he'd missed anything of value.

RDA took one last look at the napkin of calculations before sliding it into his pocket with a grin. Amanda was never going to believe this.

~ Finis ~

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