Star Trek Muppets In Space Luke Ending JAN 2026

Описание: a fun little mix
The final scene backstory:
The asteroid field was thick with trouble—the kind that scratched paint, rattled nerves, and got a guy thinking about his life choices. Barf gripped the controls of the Eagle 5, his trusty, duct-taped Winnebago of the stars, as another phaser blast stitched green fire across the darkness behind him.

“Figures,” he muttered. “The one day I’m hauling perfectly innocent crates.”

Floating all around the Winnebago were wooden boxes, lazily tumbling like cosmic flotsam. Each one was stenciled with the same helpful warning:

RED SHIRTS
CAUTION
HANDLE WITH CARE

To the Federation, they looked like a logistical miracle. Red Shirts were always in short supply. Always. These crates? A gift from the universe itself. Salvage them, inventory them, issue them to away teams—problem solved.

To Barf, they were something else entirely.

Space mines.

Very polite, very wooden, very explode-y space mines.

Another Federation ship slid into view, sleek and confident, its captain undoubtedly already writing the after-action report about how they’d heroically recovered “valuable personnel supplies.” Barf glanced at the nav display—Doggy Haven was close, but not close enough. The Eagle 5 coughed, wheezed, and protested like an old hound being asked to fetch one more stick.

“Hang in there, baby,” Barf said, patting the dashboard. “Just like the old days. You and me. No princesses. No hotshot pilots. Just… mines.”

He flipped a switch. The crates began to drift outward, spreading into a loose, inviting cloud.

On the lead Federation ship, an ensign leaned forward.
“Captain, scanners confirm the objects are… crates labeled ‘Red Shirts.’”

The captain smiled. “Finally. Bring us closer.”

That was when the first crate detonated.

The explosion blossomed bright and angry, scattering asteroids and panic in equal measure. Two more crates went off in sympathy, then another—each blast perfectly timed, perfectly chaotic. Federation ships veered hard, phasers firing wildly as the minefield came alive.

Barf whooped, a full-throated growl of triumph echoing through the cockpit.
“Who’s a good boy? I’m a good boy.”

The Eagle 5 limped forward, slipping through the confusion, scorched but free. Behind him, the Federation regrouped, wiser now, warier of free-floating generosity in space.

Doggy Haven’s star rose ahead, warm and welcoming.

Barf set a course for home, ears back, tail metaphorically wagging. Lone Star might be off living happily ever after, but Barf still had his ship, his mines, and a universe that clearly underestimated wooden crates.

And somewhere out there, a Federation quartermaster would be revising a very important memo:

Do not retrieve Red Shirts from unmarked asteroids.