#1
Know Your Parole


When your luck was down, and the day was about done chewing you up and spitting you out, you found a place where you could kick back, unload your troubles, and take refuge in the creature comforts that washed away the grime, at least for another day. For most folks, that place was home, somewhere warm, with someone warm, and with something soft to fall into when you were on the ropes. For others, that place was the Last Ditch, a two-chit cantina tucked away under the armpit of Coronet City, the watering hole of Average Joes, who shambled in under the weight of a demanding boss, or a nagging wife, and dived into jars of piss water in search of their misplaced dreams.

Corellia’s Own. If grim determination in the face of defeat tasted of anything, this was it. Bitter on the tongue, frothy in the mouth, flat, and thinner than a starving Kaminoan in a trash compactor. It was the taste on everyone’s lips. Mine, included. For the past hour, I’d been nursing it like it was going to grow up, go to college, and make a handsome career renovating holiday homes in Bela Vistal. I didn’t have the credits to drown myself in disappointment, instead I hovered at the bar, perched over my one glass of room-temperature beer, and found myself wondering how it became the unofficial beverage of the Corellian patriot. I took another swallow. If this uninspiring shit was anything to go by, the Resistance was doomed.

In the late afternoon, grey light reached through the open door, groping around the gloom like a lecherous old man, leaving no-one untouched. At the back of the cantina, Rowlee hooted something sad on his beaten kloohorn – word was he belonged to the hottest jizz band on Rodia, back in the day; over the course of their decades-long run, the Tootin’ Flewts graced some of the best joints in the Outer Rim, and lived fat on their fame, with flash speeders, expensive suits, and classy dames. But Rowlee was old, now, and his friends were gone. All he had left was his kloohorn, a weathered dinner jacket, and a few half-forgotten tunes to while the day away.

The light from the open door was snuffed out by the appearance of a huge Trandoshan in a pair of dungarees. His hands hung by his sides like deadweights, and there was a telling dip in his broad shoulders that told the tragic tale of his day. He stepped inside, carried on leaden legs to the one free stool at the bar – I kicked it out, a gesture of sympathy and solidarity towards my new neighbour. The scales on his forehead were speckled with a thousand tiny droplets of white paint, and powdered duracrete dusted his crusty dungarees like cake frosting. If I had to guess, he’d just wandered over from that big industrial expansion on the outskirts of town.

“You look like you’ve just gone 10 rounds with a wampa, pal. Here, take a load off.”

“Thanksss.” The stool creaked beneath him. His posture surrendered to countless aches, folding him in prayer before the liquor gods, “I feel like I’ve gone 10 roundsss with a wampa.”

“The new CorTec site?” The Trando managed a nod, before he buried his head in his arms. My comprehension surfaced on a grunt, “I hear they’re under a lot of pressure to get the job done on time.”

“Tell me sssomething I don’t know.”

Behind me, Rowlee was playing something blue. My tongue clicked behind my teeth, “I don’t envy you, friend. That’s a hard living.”

The Trando surfaced, those hard fixed features of his pulled back into something incredulous-looking.

“Thanksss,” he hissed, “I’m ssso pleasssed to be reminded.”

From behind the last dregs of Corellia’s Own, my eyes blossomed in surprise. With a clunk, the empty jar was deposited onto the counter, and I wiped the foam from my lip, to quickly usher out an apology.

“Excuse me, pal. Sometimes, I try to say the right thing and all manner of nonsense falls out. I’m on your side. Here…” With a casual lift of the hand, I caught the barkeep’s attention, “A bourbon for me and my friend, here. Make it a double, Pol. A good double.”

Polquerite Missk, the ancient Chagrian proprietor of the Last Ditch, was unimpressed. Her lips pursed, and her skin creased like dry parchment, putting craters in her sallow face. She liked to pretend my charm held no sway over her, but I knew better: it warmed the old trout’s heart to see me step over her threshold. When I spotted her reaching for the expensive stuff, I cleared my throat loud enough to alter the trajectory of her bony claws. She was nothing, if not persistent.

“Bear.” I returned my attention to the weary Trando at my side. Between my hand and his trio of clawed digits, we achieved something civil enough to be called a handshake.

“Sssaamin,” he said. The promise of a stiff drink appeared to have had a lubricating effect on his tongue. “What’sss your busssinesss, friend?”

“Odd jobs,” I shrugged, “Trash collection. Pest control. I go where the credits are good.”

“Off-world?”

“Local.” Trying to hide my resentment was like trying to disguise a fart in a turbolift, “Got my ship impounded a couple weeks back. Now I’m working out of Coronet to pay off the charges. I had to take a cab to work, today. Can you believe that?”

The drinks arrived, scraping over wood, sloshing against the glass. Pol waited, in pointed silence, while I rummaged around inside my pockets: not in my jacket, nor my pants. Ah. With a pop, my boot was wrenched free from my foot, and when it was upended, out tumbled a handful of credits. They tinkled into Pol’s open palm; there was stone-cold murder behind those heavy-lidded eyes. I didn’t have it in me to leave it at that, so before she was too far away, I tossed her another chit.

“For your trouble.”

Like the famous avril of Yavin 8, Pol snatched the chit out of the air, and clutched to her chest, in her ruthless talons. When my wink went unreturned, I raised my glass of bourbon to Saamin, and they met with a pleasant clink.

“Fortune and health, friend.” We drank, and lost ourselves for a moment, savouring the taste of burning wood chip on our tongues – it paired well with Rowlee’s senile hooting, “So, where does a big fella like you hail from?”

“Not Trandosssha,” he answered, with a toothy grin. His claw tips plucked at the strap on his soiled dungarees, “Ass you can sssee, the hunt doesss not concern me. Ssscorekeeper can sssuck it.”

Saamin drained the rest of his bourbon, and came up for air with a rattling hiss. I paced myself with just a sip. It had not escaped my attention that my new drinking buddy had neglected to answer my question. As there was nothing to be gained from dwelling on Saamin’s mysterious origins, I decided to get candid with my own story:

“I’m a Tattooine boy, born and bred. Mostly. You’d like it. No need to be a hunter when you’re the hunted.”

“If it’sss all the sssame,” Saamin said, hissing his way through his closest approximation of a laugh, “I’d rather not hunt or be hunted”

“Well, sometimes you don’t get a choice.”

It was said in an undertone, for Saamin’s ears only, and when I leaned back again, there was a blaster in my hand. The Trandoshan froze; my blaster was tucked between the bar and my waist, hidden from sight, for all except the target. By now, his pulse would be racing, which was exactly what I wanted. Around us, the cantina buzzed with the drone of drunken men and women, underscored by the constant tinkling of glass and erratic flourishes of jizz. Saamin’s large golden eyes climbed all the way from the barrel of the blaster to my face.

“Who are you?”

“I told you. I’m a trash collector.”

He snarled in response, wet teeth glistening like daggers, “You’ve got the wrong man!”

“Saamin Thasper?” I said, not missing a beat, “From Dantooine? Did you know it was illegal to break your parole, Mr. Thasper?”

“If you know that I broke parole…” His voice became low, dangerous. Then, “You know why I wasss imprisssoned!”

There was a screech and a clatter, as Saamin rose to his feet, and knocked his stool to the ground. And, as imposing as he was, drawn to his full height at such proximity, the effect was dashed when he started to wobble like a Nabooian hoop-dancer on a unicycle. The growl, that once threatened to be ferocious, withered into a feeble trill at the back of his throat. In an instant, the blaster was holstered, and I put myself between my target and the floor. His weight was shouldered with an undignified hrrrngh.

“That I do, sir,” I muttered, straining to keep us upright, “Which is why I had the lovely Mz. Missk drug your bourbon for me.”

Despite the drowsiness, and the overwhelming fatigue brought on by the drugs, Saamin still had enough strength to look me in the eye, “You have no honour.”

“It’s like you said, pal. Scorekeeper can suck it.”

“You…”

Saamin’s head lolled heavily to one side, and his horizontal eyelids opened like wounds. He was out cold. I threw his thick arm around my shoulders, and held it in place by the wrist, while my free arm clamped around his back to stop him from falling. We turned on the spot, knocking over another stool. That was when I noticed the silence: the conversation had stopped, the clinking of bottles and glasses had stopped, even old Rowlee had stopped playing his beloved kloohorn. This was probably what it felt like to be the uninvited guest at a party. I stepped forward, under the weight of every pair of eyes in the room – as if I wasn’t carrying enough already.

“Woah!” I said, as I nearly lost my balance, “Looks like someone can’t handle their bourbon!”

All the way to the door, Saamin’s heavy boots scraped across the floor with all the subtlety of nails upon a chalkboard. For such a small cantina, the walk seemed to go on forever. An elderly lady rose from her table, when she saw Saamin, and the big stupid tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, all the colour drained from her face, “Oh, my. Is he…?”

“Always like this, miss. Yeah. I warned him! But he never listens, this guy. Now, look at him! Oh, he’s going to be in bits, in the morning!”

Without ceremony, we crashed through the doors, and spilled out into the street. It was all I could do to stop myself from going on my ass. Outside, there was a cab waiting; the young driver went rigid in his seat when he spotted me shuffling towards him with a 240-pound unconscious Trandoshan in my arms. He cleared his throat, and squeaked, “Taxi for Mr. Banthabrand?”

“You got it, kid,” I said, depositing Saamin across the back seat, “Don’t mind me. I can handle my own baggage.”

Up front, I eased myself into the passenger seat, making the kind of sound I’d hoped was another 10 years in front of me. Next time, I’m hunting Jawas. In the cantina window, a dozen gaping faces were pressed against the glass; I jerked a thumb over my shoulder, and gave them the old A-OK.

“Take me to the old CorSec building on the other side of town. It’s pay day.”