Bountyhunting: Kicking Off In Public.

WARNING: This is a mash-up. It's Star Wars fan-fiction, written in the style of Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. I absolutely adore both so it comes from a place of genuine love, but be aware that the second of these influences means that the post contains some of the foulest language ever to appear on this blog. This one especially. If the swearing will be a problem for you, there are lots of far less profane posts right here. For everyone else, strap in...

Photo credit: ArtFX+

If this disnae stoap bleedin ah'm gonnae chib that cunt masel, mates or no fuckin mates.

Wir in Ackmena's over Espa. Me an Boab. Keepin wir eye oan this radge whae's owin Jabba. Screel or somethin. Speccy shite, no much tae look at but his auld man's an Imp and the smart cunt is flashin his poppy aw over. He's no overdue yit so it's jist surveillance likes, low key. No really ma speciality, bit if any cunt wants tae pay us tae sit oan ma erse fir a bit ah'm gemme. Ah'm at a table wi the gobshite, Boab's at the back ay the alcove by the door, armed tae the fuckin teeth as per. A guid cunt tae huv wi ye.

So the cairds are oan. Sabaac. Wir four hands in - ah'm playin like Lando fuckin Calrissian by the way - an ah'm keepin mah heed doon and tannin the Alderaanian brandy an aw. Screel is gien us evils bit he kin git tae fuck. Ah didnae come here lookin fir bother, bit ah'm the wan wi the Relby V10 under the table and that cunt kin huv the barrel-end in his pus any time he fuckin wanted like.

Then whae comes mincing in bit Rodes. Fuck’s sake, ah kin dae withoot him nippin ma heid. The cunt’s niver oot ay Eisley so ah thought it wid be quiet here, bit if there’s wan cunt whae’s gonnae knock this sideways, it’ll be Rodes. If Screel gets wind ay boonty hunters, it’s aw over. That dappit shite clocks us right aff and strolls over.

— Awright Bossko! Any joabs goin? Every cunt’s lookin now an ah’m oan ma feet before he kin get tae us.

— Keep it doon fir fuck’s sake, wir oan a joab noo! ah hiss at him. Bit it’s nae guid, he’s aff his fuckin box the cunt, and he gies us they big eyes and drawls: — Aw, okay ma man! We’re aw lizards here, right pal?

— Ah’m a fuckin lizard, you’re a worm that’s grown legs, noo sit the fuck doon or get a roond in eh?

— Oan it, Cat-man Bossk! The cunt dis this salute which is probably meant tae be funny, but he’s said ma fuckin name twice already an that’s it. Screel‘s getting oot ay his fuckin chair and swaggerin over tae us. Fuck.

— Bossk? he sais, bit wi his mid-rim accent it comes oot soondin like “Baahsk”. — Yoou’re Baahsk? The boun’y hunter, ri-i-ght? An he sais it aw grinnin like a fuckin erse.

Right then cunt, let’s git ready. At least he didnae bolt fir the door, bit ah kin see Boab shiftin as he tenses up. Ackmena’s at the bar, glaring over fir us tae pack it in. Too late now, darlin.

— Say I’ve heard aboutchoo! the boy slavers. Dae it, ah fuckin dare ye! He turns away an there it is: the left hand goes up tae his face as a distraction while the right pulls oot a vibroblade. Goat ye ya cunt, that’s enough ay a cause fir me.

It’s probably no Screel’s fault he disnae ken how fast a Trando kin move, bit even he looks surprised when ah’m oan the cunt and lampin his face as he goes doon. Ah’ve smashed his skull intae the floor a couple ay times and grabbed the hand wi the blade, the wee shite yelpin like a dug as the bones tear oot through the skin. His other hand is flailin an fir aw ah ken he’s goat a blaster, so ah’ve goat nae choice bit tae keep panellin the cunt. Ah kin see his mates comin over, but.

Screel’s done fir noo, so ah stand and front up tae his minders. Two Noghri and a Barabel. Ah’ll take the big cunt first, same rules apply. He comes over wi his palms oot like he’s tryin tae be pally, like there’s some reptilian code ay honour. Dis he think ah’m fuckin saft?

So ah’m oan that cunt right an aw. A headbutt in the pus tae soften um up, then a boot in the baws tae send’um doon. Wan ay the Noghri sees this an shites it, oaf fir the exit. Boab jist lets him go. Ah’ve crushed the Barabel’s windpipe an ah’m jist roundin oan that other Noghri cunt when ah hear the laddie makin a noise, tryin tae get up as ah slam ma fist intae the side ay his heid and he sinks like a sack ay shite again.

— Bit ay help wid be guid, likes! ah yell, bit Boab’s jist standin there. An ye ken Boab, that cunt’s no shy in a swedge. Then ah’ve goat his comm through oan ma implant, sneerin as fuckin usual.

— Y’do realise that if ye kill Screed, Jabba’ll be efter you fir the poppy he’s owed? Aye, right enough ah suppose. Still, it’s easy tae be a clever cunt when yir standin in the corner wi a bucket oan yir heid.

Then, that Noghri’s goat his fuckin blade between ma ribs - right in there the cunt - bit instead ay finishin the joab he’s jist standin there fuckin shakin, a pool ay pish floodin oot fae under his boots. Then Boab’s right ahind um, pullin away his stun baton.

— Oh, nice ay ye tae fuckin join us! ah tell’im. The Noghri’s oan the floor and ah boot the fucker in the heid as ah bleed ontae’im.

— Are you plannin oan takin this shite back, or d’ye want tae keep advertisin oor presence here? Boab sais. He’s no wrang.

Ah shoulder ma Relby, pick up Screel and drag him ootside, ma other hand oan ma bleedin ribcage. Ah’m lookin tae see where that green shite has goat tae, he’s the cunt whae started this.

Rodes is in the alcove, passed oot oan the fuckin spice. Well it’s time Screech paid his fuckin debts, ah’ll be back fir this cunt later. A big fuckin disappointment tae me that boy, ah kin tell ye…

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Bountyhunting: In Hyperdrive.

WARNING: This is a mash-up. It's Star Wars fan-fiction, written in the style of Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. I absolutely adore both so it comes from a place of genuine love, but be aware that the second of these influences means that the post contains some of the foulest language ever to appear on this blog. If the swearing will be a problem for you, there are lots of far less profane posts right here. For everyone else, strap in...

Photo credit: Electronic Arts.

Ah do wish ma bandage-faced chum The Deng Heap would just admit he's usin again. It's fuckin obvious tae everyone. When he's snortin the spice he comes up in this rash roond his face. It's fuckin mingin so he wears the bandages tae try an hide that. Daft shite hasnae twigged it just draws more attention tae it. But when he starts wi the full stim-packs - that's when his skin really takes a dive an you're glad ay those wraps jist so ye dinnae have tae look at it.

It disnae help that Dengs is a fuckin liability in that state, an'aw. Nae use havin him on a job when he cannae find his own erse wi both hands. An the fuckin smell. You do NOT want to be stakin out a target when Dengar's incoherent AND sheddin...

We don't need that radge shite cramping our shtyle with the ladiesh, do we Mishter Fett?
No Doctor Jonesh Shenior, we mosht shertainly do not.
Becaushe who do we trusht with our reputation?
Why, no one of courshe.
Not even ourshelvesh?
. . .

Dengs used tae be a fuckin player, man. An a winner an aw. We made a guid team. We still could be, but... well, it's no professional that's aw. Costin the crew money is one thing, dentin the credibility is quite a-fuckin-nother. Ah suppose aw the time ah'm hangin aroond wi they losers everyone can see how fuckin great ah am. No, onwards an upwards as young Boab goes fae strength tae strength.

Bossko's no much fuckin better. He's on a thing for Aldera brandy at the moment, thinks it makes him look classy wi the chickies. Ah mean aye, it's expensive an aw, especially since the place blew up, but that's just a marketin gimmick. They make that pish tae licence on every planet wi a distillery. Might as well drink blue fuckin milk fir aw the street cred it gies ye. No that I'd advise bringin that up wi the cunt, mind you. If Bossk's go one solid quality it's that he'll bring any situation tae a heid before ye've had time tae order a second roond. It's just managin that solid quality that's the problem.

But fuck all that. The sun is shinin, the game is on and I am in hyperdrive, hyper-fuckin-drive. A couple of gigs have just landed fae oor friends in the Empire, an ah've go some guard work on wi Jabba. It's mebbe a little demeanin fir someone as recognisable as masel, then again it's guid fir punters tae see that ah'm connected. It's a decent hourly rate, anyways.

That's no the only reason ah'm daein it, mind. The Hutt's go intel that that radge cunt Solo's back in town, right efter he flushed a load ay Jabba's gear he was carryin when the Imps showed up. So Jabba wants tae go by the dockin bays an have a word - in person likes - an needs a bit ay muscle on standby. Well ah'm happy tae help.

Why the fuck Solo's back here ay all places is beyond me, but ah'm up fir watchin the two ay them tiptoe their way around no slottin one another right aff the bat. Efter aw, Jabba disnae know it was me that put the Star Destroyer Commander ontae the Falcon's cargo, an Solo disnae know it was me that picked up the gear in a stolen shuttle efter he shited it an punched lightspeed. It's probably a good thing the famous Fett visor will be coverin the fuckin grin on ma face. A shiteload ay spice fir free, an plenty ay contacts fir movin it on at premium prices. Ka-fuckin-ching.

It's all business, of course. All product. All cashflow.

But there'sh shtill that voishe, ishn't there Misther Fett? The promishe? The Spishe?
That there ish, Doctor Jonesh, but we're better than that today.
That'sh what we shaid yeshterday...
. . .

An ah get it. Ah've been there, we aw have. Most ay us, anyways.

Spice is the only honest drug. It disnae alter yir consciousness, it expands it. You become a sortay voyeuristic parasite, able tae read everyone's thoughts, fears, dreams. And it is fucking superb. Aw of a sudden ye're connected tae everyone in the room, in the buildin, in the town. An in a town like Eisley, that's quite a fuckin thing. Every pit ay despair, every nefarious deed, every height ay ecstasy, you are THERE, you are bein those people and you are fuckin CONNECTED, man. This must be what the Force feels like.

An then last time, ah did it.

Ma consciousness drifted right out an was drawn tae some Jedi cunt, out past the dunes. An what's worse is, HE KNEW, no like aw the others. It wis like he looked straight back intae me. How the fuck is that auld bastard even alive out there? Then aw of a sudden ah'm ten years old an back in that arena, starin intae mah da's lid. He's gone. Deid. Ah've just watched ma da - ma only fuckin family - get murdered by a fuckin Jedi. Cut doon like a fuckin rag doll. Heid slashed clean off. It's there an then that ah make this vow; that I am goin tae wipe those pious shites OUT, any fuckin way ah can.

An ah think aboot that moment every day when ah put the helmet on, an it disnae go away when ah take it off. Ah dinnae need tae relive it on mah downtime when ah'm off mah box.

An that's why ah'm daein this. Ah am goin tae take every last one ay they cunts down. If ah can make a wedge ay credits along the way then aw the better, but first an foremost it's aw aboot that mission. Because that's it, ah've found fuck all else - nuthin - tae fill this screamin Sarlacc pit in the center ay ma chest, pullin me in like a fuckin black hole...

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Bountyhunting: The First Kill In Ages.

WARNING: This is a mash-up. It's Star Wars fan-fiction, written in the style of Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. I absolutely adore both so it comes from a place of genuine love, but be aware that the second of these influences means that the post contains some of the foulest language ever to appear on this blog. If the swearing will be a problem for you, there are lots of far less profane posts right here. For everyone else, strap in...

Photo credit: Lucasfilm archives.

Ah can already tell, it's goin tae be one ay those nights. Ah prefer it busier, but ah can make it work even when the diner's deid like this. Bodano's sittin lookin bored. Dex is in the kitchen, preparin food he hopes will be eaten. Ah'm jist waitin by the bar, tryin ma best tae drag it oot. It's all too easy.

Three guys come in, obviously drunk. Imperials. A Vice Admiral and two Captains. Their uniforms might say officer-class, but the way they're actin suggests the opposite. Ah'm no sure where they've been roond here tae get intae such a state, but we're happy ay the business. Not many places in the toon like their sort, not that anywhere can really '"ban" the Imps and they'd be stupit tae even try. But the grey-suits aren't shy wi showin oaf their hireys. Plus it tends tae keep oot the local trouble, so management's happy.

— Table for three, Alderaan brandy and Andoan wine, none of your piss, sais the tallest one. He's a mean lookin prick and he's a regular in here. The other two aren't quite as cocky. Younger, lower-rankin, although ah'm sure they'd be cunts in thir ain right given the chance. Bodano keeps his face Sabaac-straight and sits them far enough back fir they tae feel like they've go an swanky table, and fir us tae ken they're ootay immediate sight ay other punters walkin in.

Of course it's me that's got'tae deal wi them fae now. Nae bother, that's ma joab. And sure enough, the ranks might range but they're all cut from the same shite-stained cloth. Barkin fir more drinks, orderin things they think are outrageously indulgent even though this is a diner in fuckin Anchorhead.

— What do you call a good looking woman on Tatooine? one ay the Captains sneers.

— A tourist!! the other one chimes, leavin it a beat too late while makin sure he wisnae steppin oan the toes ay the boss man at the table by answerin. The Vice Admiral's not bothered though, he's happy feelin like he's the maist important prick in the sector.

— Oh I don't know though, he comes back at them while he's looking at me, — I wouldn't kick that one out of my quarters... what time are you finishing tonight girlie? he grins. Ah jist smile and mumble somethin aboot workin the overnight shift as there's a big liner due in before sunrise-one, but ah'm fuckin seethin by now. Ah'm keepin ma eye oan this cunt awright.

At one point they're actin like they're aboot tae send their mains back tae the kitchen. Nothin wrang wi them, they're just bein erseholes fir the sake ay it. Ah manage tae smooth things over wi a line aboot 'distinguished guests'. That seems tae work. Guid. Ah've pit too much intae this joab for it tae go wrang this late oan. They're not anglin fir money oaf the bill - that's somethin that the plebs dae - they jist want tae feel superior.

So the tall one goes tae the fresher - he's been a couple ay times actually - and he comes back lookin green as a fuckin Duros. It disnae stop him bein a prize winnin dick, but at least he's not walkin oot. More brandy. Aye, that'll see ye right. By this point his Captains are too pished to see that somethin's not right wi their man.

Then halfway through dessert, the big streak ay pish makes fir the fresher - again - and jist slaps tae the flair. Ah'm worried he's hit his heid oan the way doon but naw, he's groanin and startin tae choke on his thick, swollen tongue. The Captains are awake now. Baith Hoth-white and not knowin whae tae call. One ay them jist fuckin bolts; ah'll bet he's great oan the battlefield. Obviously, as the attentive waitress ah dae what ah can. We've a medkit oot the back, but it looks like it's too late fir that. He's tryin tae breathe through his nose but even that's nae use as his eyes dull over.

The thing is, Vice Admiral Screed - whatever the holonet will say - wisnae poisoned. Sortay. It's jist that the particular Alderaanian brandy he demands develops a reactive sediment if it's not stored correctly. And that particular bottle ah've been usin tae serve the cunt all night certainly wisnae. Ah saw tae that. The sediment's not poisonous, though. But it sure as fuck reacts badly wi Colo Claw Fish and the enzymes in the Meiloorun glaze ah managed tae swap oot at the last minute when Dex wisnae lookin.

Jist bad luck, they'll say. Naebody could ay predicted it. The diner should be fine. Not that ah'll be aroond tae find oot.

It's a bold Hutt who puts a price on an Imperial heid. It's arguably an idiot whae collects it, but a girl's gottae make a livin. Huntin's aboot patience and not all joabs need a trigger. In all the confusion ah wis able tae take a swab as well as proof ay ID, and the proof ay death will be indisputable soon enough. After that ah can collect payment anonymously - minus handlin and cryptography fees - and that should take care ay the setup fir ma next joab. Ah'll need a small crew, but Dengs'll be ma 'in' there.

See, lettin some radge cowboy shite think he's killed ye is easy. Lyin low so that everyone else thinks that is easy an'aw. Humans are everywhere in this galaxy, near-humans jist as much, so blendin in as a normal punter is a piece ay pish. But the temptation tae get back intae the game? That's the killer. And watchin liabilities like Bossk and Fett cleanin up wi all the grace ay a toddler wi a gaffi stick? That's jist fuckin insultin.

Naw, it's time Aurra Sing finally stepped back intae the spotlight.
There's work tae be done.

It's all too easy.

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Bountyhunting: Summer In Mos Eisley.

WARNING: This is a mash-up. It's Star Wars fan-fiction, written in the style of Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. I absolutely adore both so it comes from a place of genuine love, but be aware that the second of these influences means that the post contains some of the foulest language ever to appear on this blog. If the swearing will be a problem for you, there are lots of far less profane posts right here. For everyone else, strap in...

Photo credit: Sideshow/Kotobukiya.

Greedo looks well. He boonces intae Chalmun's wi a smooth jaunt that suggests while he moves quietly, there's a surplus ay energy aboot tae come burstin oot. Ah've seen it look like nerves before, bit today he comes aff like he's full ay purpose. Makes a nice change.

— Awright Dengs, he sais. There's a smile in his voice. That's unusual bit ah'm no gonnae fling it back at'im.
— Aye, ah sais. — Been up tae much?
— Jist gettin by man, tryin tae dae ma best in this toon, ken? It's no easy, likesay. His voice cracks at the end. He puts his bottle on the table and sits doon wi the shadow ay a wince.

Now ah see that Greedo doesnae look sae well. Ah've met enough Rodians tae know that their eyes shouldnae be that cloudy, even oan a disease infested shite hole like Tatooine. He's lived here since he wis a bairn so ah think ah've taken it fir granted, bit the air cannae be guid fir him. He needs mair moisture, regular swamp-baths. That skin, though. That's no the air, that's him back oan the spice.

— Jist back fae Jabba's likes, he's go'a few new joabs oan, he sais. That's nae guid either. Any pickup fae the Hutt is likely tae be the dirtiest bastard at the lowest price goin. That fat fucker didnae get where he is by bein magnanimous. Still, at least oor boy's tryin tae work, an it's definitely better than takin hits fae the Empire.

It's shite bein a boonty hunter. Some people hate the Empire. Ah don't, they're just wankers. We, on the other hand, come crawlin fir scraps from wankers. Like abused spouses slopin home wi their heeds hangin low, wonderin how 'they' can make things better and no get belted again. Fer an absolute pittance, the Imps huv goat us scourin the systems fir smugglers they cannae be ersed tae deal with, even though it's their ain slack approach tae "galactic security" that's created these channels tae begin wi. We're basically huntin oor ain until some moff pulls oor names oot ay a hat. We're the scum o'the fuckin galaxy. Cannae even pick a decent culture to be the low-paid, legally disposable enforcers of.

— There's guild joabs still comin through though, ah tells Rodes. — Go'tae be safer, man.
— Aye, they're no gien things mah way at the minute likesay. Fell behind wi ma dues last year and they've pit me aff the list, man. Bit ah've go'tae work cause ah need the poppy, ken? His eyes start tae make a pleadin look wi that last sentence. Like he's aboot tae tap me fir cash. Ah've goat tae shut that shite doon pronto.

— We can help wi yer subs man, me and Bossko ken a few people an'aw. Bit yuv goat tae keep yer action clean, aye?
— Ah ken whit ye mean Dengs. He's more quiet now, almost confessional. — Ah'm jist... daein a bit ay gear at the moment, man. Jist at nights, ken? Tae wind doon an that. It's no like it wis, though.

Like fuck it's no. The problem is that spice slows Rodes doon. No physically, if anythin he's quicker than ever when he's high, bit the decision makin behind that. He jist dithers aboot, like he's in a trance or somethin. That's no guid oan a joab, it'll get ye killed. An'if a target disnae take him oot, Bossk probably will. The Trando's a volatile bastard at the best ay times, bit get between him an'a payaff and he'll chib ye like it wis yir ain heed oan the puck. The Rodian's handy tae have aroond though. Ah mean he's slight so he's nae guid in a proper swedge, an the spice jist makes him thinner. If anyone comes inside his firin arc then Rodes is goin on his erse at a minimum. Bit he's always been shite-hoat wi guns. Pistol, rifle, rocket launcher; if it's go'a trigger, that Greedo'll get the joab done. Bit whit use is that whin he's too spaced oot tae pull it?

No, between his precarious profession and his personality problems, this will not end well for the Rodian. And wuv bin doon this road so many times it's practically named efter him. Ah like'im bit ah can jist feel it. It's a deed end this time. Greedo will not survive summer in Mos Eisley.

Aye ah cannae talk, bit still. Ah've bin known tae dabble fae time tae time, bit spice disnae affect humans the same way. Well no quite the same anyways. An'ah see the attraction, it's the simplicity. When yir oan spice, yuv only go one worry: stimmin. When yir aff it, yir suddenly obliged tae worry about all sorts ay other shite. Go'a target, too much chasin; ha'nae go'a target, nae money fir hyperfuel. Go'ay lassie, cannae get away tae work; ha'nae go'ay lassie... well, ye end up here in doontoon Mos Eisley fixin that.

Ah'm okay, though. Playin it cool wi Aurra Sing at the moment. Ah think ah'm in there, bit ah dinnae want tae move too fast an'blow it. She keeps hangin aroond'aes so ah mist be daein somethin right. No that ye can really build relationships oan the hunt. Ye can barely build acquaintanceships.

— Nae friends in this game, awnly associates, as Boab says. Mind, enough ay his associates huv been shafted over the years that ah'm pretty sure there are nae fuckers left who want tae be his friend tae start wi. He's guid tae huv inside the tent pissin oot, bit that's aboot it. Still, sooner or later it'll be mah name comin up oan an Imperial chain code an'ah fuckin know that Boab'll be first in line tae pick that'n up.

Mebbe ah can git oot. Bit ah'll need mair cash, an'ah can only dae that by stayin in. This shite's too complicated. There's all sorts ay reasons to be oot o'the boonty huntin' business, aye. Bit then, who needs reasons when yuv goat spice..?

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.