Fun Stuff > CLIKC
A Republic far, far Away.
glyphic:
My credits almost gone, I shamble into the filthiest dive bar on Kashyyk. I put my blaster in the basket and throw my cloak on the pile. The bartender grunts a greeting and goes back to wiping down the cracked and warped bar desk. The other patrons are too interested in the bottoms of their glasses to notice a disheveled human like myself. The last few days have been a nightmare. My ship was boarded, my partner was the victim of a lucky shot by an Imperial stormtrooper. I have nothing left. There is an empty seat at the end of the bar, so I sit down and order a shot. The bartender pours it and starts the same boring story I have heard from bartenders across the galaxy; "You know, I have a daughter out there..."
Surgoshan:
Um... I pull out my lightsaber and get all badass on shit. And I throw shit. And have a 'fluence on the weak-minded.
satsugaikaze:
--- Quote from: Alex C on 25 Jun 2009, 11:58 ---I'd still rather be a nerf-herder than a moisture farmer. Fuckin' 'vaporators.
--- End quote ---
Don't forget the Tuskens.
Also, I don't know what this role-playing is doing here but that's pretty fuckin funny =P
SirJuggles:
Look at this punk. I'm trying to take some time for myself and this little shaved wookie comes stumbling through here kicking up dust and asking for trouble. As if his kind haven't given me enough trouble already. I've been trying to get my name cleared in the local courts for weeks. But those blasted human justices don't see no reason to hurry things along for the likes of me. Not without a few credits to grease the wheels. Credits I ain't got. It's the likes of him they take their time doting over, always ruling in favor of. It's bloody nepotism by species is what it is. Why I'd be doing this planet nothing but a favor if I just slipped over there and wiped that little... *grunt* Of course the bartender's givin me that look. The one that says he knows exactly the difference between my tab and the credits in my pocket. Used to be times got tough, you could always count on a good fight around these parts to let off steam. Now it's as uptight as anywhere else on this godless rock.
glyphic:
I've been playing in the house band of this stinking dive for longer than I can remember. I was young when I started, I know that. The filthy bartender had just sold his shuttle and got me on retainer for enough credits to keep me living, but not much more than that. Oh, the follies of youth. I rumble out a song on a decades-old keyboard, trying to remember the name of the song. Not that it matters, the scum in this bar would be hard pressed to name themselves, let alone a tune I picked up from a club on the other end of Kashyyk. Anyway, as I stumble across a particularly complex passage, a kid walks through the doors and takes a seat at the bar. He doesn't even notice the other customers eyeing him. The kid dropped his blaster at the door, but he might have another on him. Even from across the room, over the music I can tell the bartender is starting in with his same old story. Yeah, he's gonna get out someday. Just like me. Just like every hostile scoundrel in the place. I see one of those scoundrels giving the new kid quite the look. Nights like this, I'm glad I've got a blast shield around the stage.
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