Captain's log, $tardate 79.99. Our position, unknown. Sucked through some kind of... rift... the Enterprise finds itself drifting in unknown space, shrunk down like cosmic Liliputians, hounded by monstrous, troglodytic Brobdingnagians, leaping up and down and batting their sticky hands at us. Attempting to flee, our port warp nacelle was struck by some kind of spinning, fan-like doomsday device, flinging us to the very end of this dimension's space-time: a solid wall past which, Spock speculates, "reality" and "existence" has yet to seep.
Surrounded by bodies, Bones gibbers idiotically about alternate career paths, while that flatulent haggis of a Starfleet Engineer drunkenly stumbles through every embarrassing highland stereotype on his way to actually fixing the damn engines, which can suddenly only power the Enterprise for 15 minutes at a a time.
Meanwhile, we have been set upon by some sort of grotesque hell hound. Helm control minimal, our course and path is clearly in the hands of one of this dimension's galaxy-sized colossi. Morale is low: I grimly consider shooting Chekov for the crew's amusement.
Star Trek Remote Control USS Enterprise Vehicle [Entertainment Earth]