When the Klingons walk into the Krispy Kreme on Cooper Street in Arlington, the doughnut makers try not to gawk. The 10 or so officers of the Imperial Klingon Vessel, Melota, have long hair and ridged foreheads. They wear elaborate leather and metal armor.

RON BASELICE/DMN

Mark 'Qel'ogh-wI' Alcala, captain of the IKV Melota, got Pat Burke's help getting ready for the recent Klingon Ball, which raised $600 for SafeHaven of Tarrant County.

Everyone in the room is curious what the Star Trek characters are doing here.

They are eating doughnuts and drinking milk.

Photos by RON BASELICE/DMN

Musical Stars, a version of musical chairs, was among the activities during the IKV Melota's Klingon Ball last month at the Lake Arlington Activity Center. Among the group's guests were the crews of other vessels, such as the USS Joshua and the USS Trinity River, both Federation starships.

Members of the IKV Melota thrive on such attention. As members of a local Star Trek fan club dedicated to the gruff, antagonist race on the beloved TV and movie series, they appear nerdy in the real world of suburban doughnut shops and parking lots.

But when members of the IKV Melota don Klingon garb, they become intergalactic outlaws, living by an ancient code of honor, swilling "blood wine," ready to do battle with any creature who gets in their way.

Weekdays, they work for the IRS and Wendy's and tech support outfits. Weekends, though, they spend hundreds of hours sewing costumes and researching every aspect of Klingon life.

"The real world is boring and rainy and unfair," says the ship's elected captain, Mark "Qel'ogh-wI" Alcala, 53. (His Klingon name sounds like kell-oh-wee). "But in the sci-fi universe, every little thing is interesting and seems more noble."

There are many reasons earthlings are drawn to such groups, according to Marc Okrand, considered the foremost authority on Klingon language and customs. Mr. Okrand, who created the Klingon language for the Star Trek movies, wrote The Klingon Dictionary and two instructional language tapes: Conversational Klingon and Power Klingon. He is a linguist with a Ph.D. from the University of California, Berkeley, and is the director for live captioning at the National Captioning Institute in Washington, D.C.

"They start with a common interest like the Klingon martial arts or the Klingon language or costumes – but then the bond becomes much stronger," he says. "The group cohesiveness is what keeps them going. They build great friendships in these organizations. They raise money and do good work, and they realize it's the right thing to do."

Doing good work, the IKV Melota blasted off into science-fiction space in 1997, one of eight Star Trek fan club ships in Texas. Most of the 20 members joined in the late '90s.

They named their ship the IKV Melota after a Klingon opera mentioned by Lieutenant Worf in an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

"Klingons are known for their affinity for Klingon opera," says Michael "Kartoq" Brown, who also collects comic books written in Klingon. "It sounds a lot like humanoid opera but with more howling."

Back at the Krispy Kreme, a bit of glazed doughnut drops from George "Salek" Whitaker's beard, landing near the large spike on Mr. Alcala's boot. Mr. Alcala doesn't notice. They are locked in debate over which episode Capt. Kirk kissed Lt. Uhura – said to be the first interracial kiss on U.S. television. They decide it was a 1968 episode, "Plato's Stepchildren."

The "crew" of the IKV Melota all grew up reading and watching science fiction, dreaming about alternate universes, thinking about worlds better than their own.

"We really are like the fun, intergalactic bikers," says Mr. Alcala, who worked with Mr. Whitaker as a "computer geek" before the end of the 1990s technology boom. Now he works for a computer security company. Mr. Whitaker works for the Internal Revenue Service.

The men are often asked to work security, in full Klingon regalia, at local science fiction conventions.

"People don't want to mess with Klingons. You don't see too many Romulans or Ferengi out there," Mr. Alcala says.

"If you behave like a Klingon, you get to do things you wouldn't get to do otherwise," Dr. Okrand says. "You get to huff and puff and throw your weight around and just say, 'But that's how the Klingons do it.'

"In the show, they are the warriors, but they are so serious about it, it's funny. So when people become Klingons, they're not making fun of anyone. They get to be the sort of tough guys, but they are still comical characters."

Besides the leather, spikes and furry eyebrows, fans are drawn to the Klingon code: "Duty, loyalty and honor," they say in unison. "But above all, honor."

Most members of the Melota are married, and several couples participate. And among these Klingons, divorce is rare, according Mr. Alcala, who is also an ordained minister.

Klingon values translate into the real world, says Mr. Whitaker, 45, as his wife, Donna, dressed in a heavy fur robe, brings him milk from the Krispy Kreme counter.

"I don't call in sick to work unless I'm actually sick," he says. "It's all my sense of honor and duty, and – now that I have a good boss – loyalty."

Every fall, the IKV Melota also hosts an annual warrior tournament, the "Bat'leth." Klingon contends with Klingon, armed with foam-wrapped wooden weapons that meet the size and weight specifications mentioned briefly in one Star Trek episode. Participants drink blood wine, a potent homemade cider concocted by Mr. Whitaker, the ship's brew master.

Then they battle in the ring (near an Arlington playground), slapping each other with curved Klingon swords. No hitting above the neck or below the thigh. And blood wine must be consumed quickly.

"Otherwise it might undergo energetic disassembly," Mr. Whitaker says. "That means it might explode."

When not quaffing blood wine, members of the IKV Melota raise money for SafeHaven of Tarrant County, a shelter for victims of domestic violence. The philanthropic Klingons also wrap books at Borders Books and Music stores around Christmas and hold a silent auction during their annual Klingon Ball.

For this year's ball, held a few weeks ago, they invited the crews of other vessels, such as the USS Joshua and the USS Trinity River, both Federation starships. They played Musical Stars, a version of musical chairs. At the auction, they bid on a Star Trek etched-glass checkers set and a set of Klingon wooden handcuffs. The event raised $600 for the women's shelter.

The group also gets together once a month at a local restaurant, where they relish the astonished stares. In true Klingon form, they eat only with their hands. Not a problem if they're eating doughnuts. "The real fun comes when we have something like steak or spaghetti," Mr. Whitaker says.

The real thrill is just the chance to dress up. On Halloween, many crew members attend parties as Klingons dressed as witches and goblins, one costume over the other.

But life aboard the IKV Melota is not all finger foods and blood wine. Over the years, membership has dipped. Some former Star Trek enthusiasts are now Lord of the Rings fans or Harry Potter fans. In the early '90s, there were more than a dozen ships in Texas. People move though. Members change jobs, and the popularity of Star Trek ebbs and flows.

Mr. Alcala looks out the Krispy Kreme windows. He is waiting for the rain drenching the parking lot to subside. Sometimes being a Klingon isn't what it used to be, he says.

"Real life kind of gets in the way."