Data Panic

You know him as Data.
His agent knows him as Brent Spiner.
I know him as
a creepy pig-tailed gangster with a pistol and a hypodermic needle.

The scenario transpired like so:

I find myself dozing away on a couch in a small living room. Across the small room is another couch of similar size. Peering through my sleep-filled eyes, I notice that this couch hosts an undisclosed sleeping occupant under a blanket. As I awake, my focus slowly shifts as I notice movement in the room beyond. I eventually translate this movement as a person rifling through effects in said room beyond. Startled by the ruffling of my awakened self, the stranger enters the living room brandishing a firearm. Though it bares no weight in light of the current situation, I realize that gun weilder is none other than Brent Spiner (Data) donning the cheap suit of a disco era shylock and a greased back do ending in a pigtail. Paralyzed at gunpoint, the crisis becomes apparent. I begin to consider an act of retaliation, but unable to muster the strength and courage to do so, I lethargically remain in comfort awaiting the lifelong providence that the benevolent powers of the universe have so often been doled out to me at the most crucial periods of my life. Having been completely absorbed in my own mental computations, I fail to realize that the assailant has left the room. As my leeching of salvation continues, I fail to proffer an appropriate action to the alarm of the precedent situation as if the previous event had never taken place. Suddenly, the cloud is broken, and I find myself surrounded by a crouching Brent Spiner accompanied by a person of negligent aspect whom appears to be his accomplice. They begin to apply Q-tips© soaked with hydrogen peroxide to my flesh, and my paralysis becomes even more apparent.
Without warning, a hypodermic needle is plunged into my chest and I quickly begin losing consciousness.
As the darkness enshrouds, I finally look the assailant in the eyes, and plead to him,"What are you going to do? You don't have to do this...".
As my very last bit of consciousness fades, the assailant looks at me sternly and replies,

"We're going to dissect you."