Friday 30 April 2021

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…

• ^^^ 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.