The mental voices of the Continnuum murmured, "Should we let him choose his new form? I mean, he'll be in this thing for the rest of his life. Perhaps he should pick the species, the shape? I mean, don't you think he should get a choice? ... Then again ... naaaahhhh."

Q blinked, and Realisation smacked him inside the head.

He was mortal. He had been a bad little Q, and now they had made him mortal.

He ran a trembling hand over the back of his head, wondering what form they had given him. It was bald. He swallowed. "Oh no," he thought in despair, "they've turned me into Picard."

They had not turned him into Picard. Picard's eyesight wasn't this good. Come to think, his new eyesight was extraordinary. Perhaps this was because his eyeballs were now huge, and perfectly round.

He looked down at his white t-shirt, and couldn't see his toes. He was fat. "A mortal lifespan and clogged arteries," he muttered, glancing at the ceiling. "Thank you sooo much." His rotund stomach growled. He was hungry.

Leaning back against a wall with a sigh, he stared at his hands. His hands. Forever. They were bright yellow, and had four stubby fingers that were all the same length.

Yellow?

His eyes widened in horror, and he reached for the mirror.

"DOH!" yelled Q.

Heee hee. The End.