As with all Tales from the JJVerse fiction, it's best not to take this too seriously. This is Trek as written by a twelve year old, as imagined by an intellect that thinks professional wrestling is real and that maybe thinks that he might actually be Vegeta on the inside. Mostly, this is Trek with all the dials turned to 11 except the boring ones that cause things to make sense.
The space limousine glided to a perfectly smooth stop. Inside its elegantly appointed, uh, insides, Admiral Fogarty was sweating. A man long accustomed to power and life-or-death decisions, he, nevertheless found the task ahead of him to be intimidating. He took off his hat, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
The sweating wasn't at all helped by the heavy, molten orb hovering over head. He had come to the worst honky-tonk joint on Vulcan with a secret mission for the living legend inside. He walked stiffly towards the swinging doors and pushed his way inside.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior and, when they did, he could see the sneering faces of dozens of surly Vulcan mathqueros. Two especially burly ones started edging towards him, their hands drifting towards their graphing calculators, spurs jangling with each step. They were stopped by a grim, yet dominant voice from the back of the bar.
"Ease up, bros. He's with me." the voice came from a figure leaning in the shadows of the darkest, most awesome table in the back of the bar. It was shrouded in a black duster and extremely gaudy Vulcan sombrero. Admiral Fogarty recognized its deep, dominant tones instantly and he shuffled over to the table. "Captain Kh..." he began before being cut off by an annoyed "Bro!"
"Sorry," he sighed. He hated this part most of all. "Grim King of the Skull Throne and Lord Wolfcry, Captain Khas Ker'at."
The sombrero dipped a bit as the head it sat upon nodded. The mirrors and knick-knacks dangling from its edge rustled softly. "Go on."
"Starfleet has a mission for you. It's urgent."
"I don't work for Starfleet anymore." The rumbling voice said really sarcastically. "You kicked me out, remember?"
"There is a price to pay for all of our crimes. Yours were especially heinous. We had no choice. You can't just keep library books, Khas. You need to return them." Admiral Fogarty chided.
"I told you, Admiral. I'm a rebel. You can't just impose some arbitrary book lending rules on me. The library should have known that before they gave me the books." Khas said, his cool starting to melt into a more aggressive, somehow even more dominant tone. So dominant, in fact, that nearby a Vulcan coyote spontaneously gave birth to an eagle.
"Enough. I'm not going to argue this out with you again. What's done is done. But we need you now and are willing to...forgive a great deal if you can save the Federation. Again." Admiral Fogarty replied wearily.
"This is, like, the eight or ninth time now. No deal." Khas growled.
"All right, Khas. I've also been given authorization to throw in four pounds of Skittles." The Admiral said, a bit quietly.
The whole went quiet. The sombrero finally angled up to reveal a black, chitinous, armored head sporting ferocious mauling mandibles and sweet shades. "Ok. I'm in."
Inside of the spacious and totally sweet limousine Admiral Fogarty started the debrief.
"Cap...Um. Grim..Skull. Ugh. Listen," Admiral Fogarty began. "This may come as a shock, but the Federation is actually run by a secretive cabal of..." He was cut off abruptly.
"Yeah, the Illuminati, bro. I know. I met Grand Master Mysterion D'Mistari already during the incident with the Rigellian Banana merchants. He was a'ite, I guess." Khas shook a limb dismissively, the four foot long scything blade at the end missing the Admiral's face by inches.
"Right, we know that. But what you probably didn't know is that HIS master...is a Klingon."
Khas paused, shocked, but so self controlled you wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't written that down just now.
"What?" Khas asked quietly.
"His master's a Klingon. As is HIS master and so on. This goes deep, Khas." Admiral Fogarty looked uncomfortable.
Khas leaned in. "How deep we talkin', bro?"
"So deep it goes all the way to the top." The admiral sighed.
"Then that means..." Khas started.
"Yes." the Admiral cut him off. "That means that the Klingons are in control of everything, especially our banking industry."
Khas frowned. "I thought we didn't use money any more."
"Yeah." the admiral grumbled. "Because they won't let us have any. They've been keeping it all for themselves. They've got so much of it now that they could use it to just buy the Federation outright."
"Yeah, right. Who's gonna sell them the Federation?" Khas sneered derisively.
"Why, Grand Master Mysterion D'Mistari, obviously."
Khas gasped in genuine shock and took off his shades, revealing a set of smaller shades underneath. "Of course. It all makes sense now. I was blind."
"That is because you wear four pairs of sunglasses at all times except when you take off a pair for dramatic effect. It's a wonder you can see anything at all." Admiral Fogarty muttered wearily.
"Any way, Starfleet Intelligence has tracked down the Klingon Illuminati Stronghold. It's behind the framed original of The Mona Lisa."
"The Vatican, then?"
The Admiral nodded. "You'll need to do epic battle with the forces guarding the Illumaniti strong hold, make your way deep into the bowls of the complex, and kill Pope-General Guiseppe Garkok III."
Khas slid his shades back on. "Sounds dangerous, but danger is what I'm all about. I'll assemble a crack team of mercenary commandos and take care of this little problem of yours. Question, though. Why not just shoot it from orbit?"
"The shields protecting that place are strong enough to take a direct hit from a type XII phaser array." The admiral declared grimly.
"Well, what about two direct hits?" Khas asked.
The Admiral didn't say anything for a long while. He face was curiously blank, and his eyes distant. "Oh...huh." he said thoughtfully. Then he pushed a button on his arm rest. "Ensign Cho-fur, please stop and pull over. Khas? I don't...um. Yeah, nevermind. You can go back to your bar...place. We got this one under control after all."
"What?" Khas asked incredulously.
"Yeah. We're good, it turns out. Might as well hop on out and get back to your drinking and illegal high-stakes sudoku competitions."
Khas rubbed his hat-covered head, causing the mirrors and knick-nacks to jangle awkwardly. "Can, I at least get a ride?"
Khas stepped out of the limousine and started the surprisingly short trek back to the Vulcan honky-tonk joint. Later that day, he'd hear a news report about a surprise orbital-phaser-bombardment/seasonal renovation at the Vatican, but he knew the truth. But the Federation would be safe and that's all that really mattered to him.
Still, in his heart, he knew that, if the Federation ever needed him again, he'd be there, especially if he could score some Skittles out of the deal.