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“Morning, Frink.”
“Morning, Garak. The usual?”
“Mmm,” Garak replied distractedly. The sky was unusually grey today.
“One fish juice-cafey, coming right up,” the Ferengi barista announced as he began working the controls on his brewer.
Cardassian fish juice, with a shot of hyper-caffeinated Earth coffee, served by Ferengi ex-pats atop the dust of Mehlket Hall. What have we come to?, Garak wondered as he stared off into the distance.
“Here you go,” Frink said, placing the drink atop the cart. “That’ll be five leks.”
Garak’s eyes snapped back to Frink’s. Pointing up at the menu, he said, “You mean three leks.”
Making a show of turning around to inspect the board, Frink said, “Oh, silly me, I forgot to update that. Five leks.”
His ire growing, Garak said, “Now, see here. There was a Bajoran man here just before me; he ordered the same thing and you only charged him three leks!” He was now nearly shouting.
Frink smiled, showing off the full array of his crooked teeth. “It’s a rapidly evolving market. A businessman has to keep up.”
Fuming, Garak opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a gruff voice.
"qaStaH nuq?" a burly Klingon sergeant barked in Klingon before switching into Cardassi. They always insisted on starting each interaction in Klingon. “What’s going on here?” The sergeant, and his aide, a corporal, glared menacingly at Garak and Frink. Were they irked by this interruption of their morning patrol? Or delighted?
Frink was quick to speak. “This man is refusing to make payment for my goods!” Oh, he sounded quite indignant now.
Garak tried to speak more evenly. “He’s overcharging me for the drink. I won’t pay more than is posted.”
If the sergeant was embarrassed of being reduced to settling petty financial disputes, he didn’t show it. Pointing to Garak, he said, “Disorderly conduct is prohibited in sensitive areas. No shouting.” Pointing to Frink, he said, “Keep your posted prices accurate.” To his corporal, he said, “jIyaj,” and they moved on down the street.
Garak watched them go and then turned back to Frink– to find him standing on a stool, affixing a piece of paper with a temporary adhesive to his menuboard. He stepped down and spun around, holding out his hand. “Five leks.”
Sighing in resignation to this minor yet monumental defeat, Garak fished the five leks out of his pocket. What have we come to?