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.
They centre ay Eisley is really mobbed oot, man. It's too hot fir a green-skinned punter likesay, ken? Some Lothcats thrive in the heat, but the likesay me, ken, we jist cannae handle it. Ah've gottae try tae rehydrate sharpish. The proablem is ah've goat a bit ay a tab situation at maist ay the places here, likes.
Ah pass likes this awnin back fae the street an there's this old gadge slumped in there lookin at aes. He's a right mess and he stinks ay pish and fuck knows what else, bit he's lookin like he kens aes.
— Huv ye goat twenny spare credits son? he asks.
— Ah hannay, man, sorry old timer, ah sais. He disnae react, he jist keeps starin wi a faint smile. An ah feel pure shite cause ah've goat mair than he needs awright, bit no mair than ah need, ken?
— No tae worry son, he grumbles. — Yoo tek it easay, ye're a guid lad Rodes! An that pure rattles aes man, cause aa reputation isnae aw that roond these pairts an it means he dis ken aes.
Ah jist sortay gies im a wave an mooches aff. It wis only twa streets later that ah realised that wis auld Cradossk. Fuck man, ah've done a couple ay jobs wi him back when ah wis stertin oot. Noo ah wannay go back and chat tae the cat likes, bit ah'd be too embarrassed.
Ah spoat some ay ma pack headin intae Chalmun's cantina and figure ah can try ma luck there. As long as the old Wook hissel isnae oan the bar ah should be okay. He's a sound old dude, bit he kens ah'm back oan the spice an he disnae pit up wi that. Ah eywis reckoned he wis overreactin, then the gang telt is maist ay his family goat taken tae that Kessel an died doon the spice mines, man. Ah mean nae wonder he disnae dig it, that's some heavy shite awright. It's okay though, Wuher's oan the bar the day, an he disnae care aboot anythin other than makin sure each punter's spendin money, likesay.
Dengs is hengin oot oan is ain near the bar. A heads over tae um an we hae a chat fir a couple ay minutes aboot shite, likes. Ye ken he's a deeper cat than meets the eye, man, bit he hides it aw behind thae bandages and armour platin. Ah'm sure he shouldnae be in this game, tae much ay a soul tae him fir the killin, bit he keeps oan.
Then Fett comes saunterin in.
— Alright girls? he croons, even though he's talkin tae us.
— Aye, Boab, ah nod. He stops, turns roond and looks us square oan.
— Whit wis that? he whispers.
— Ah sais aye, ah croaks. He's caught aes oaff guard there likes, an ah'm backin' doon noo jist fir bein pleasant, likesay.
— Boab? he goes. I can feel him squintin through the visor, like he's hae'n a shite day and blamin me fir makin it worse.
— BobA, I comes back, hopin ah can play it aff like he jist didnae hear me proper. — Y'awright ma man? If he's no fooled maybe some ay the guys will be. Although ah doubt it.
He jist walks ower tae the table an'the others. Ah could dae withoot this today, man. As he goes closer, Bossk stands up and bellows tae the room.
— Boab!! Get ower here ye shiny heeded cunt, ye! Fett disnae say anythin likes, jist sits doon wi them.
The Bossko's fuckin a psycho, man, pure bad vibes. He's aw — First rule ay the game, ye look efter yir mates! Aye right enough, but what he willnae tell ye is that it disnae apply to him because he hasnae goat any mates. Spent twa years steppin ower every poor bastard tae get intae the guild, then once he's in he acts like he's better than aw ay it. He left IG-88 in fuckin bits oan the flair jist fir gettin in his way that once. He's costin us joabs as a crew, ken?
Bit ah've been over tae Jabba's this mornin, seein if he needs any "ends tyin up" likesay. He eyewis pays well, bit yuv goat tae be careful cause Hutts count in base eight. That means that fir every thoosand credits they say thae'll pay, ye'll actually get eight hunner. Seems like thur bein sneaky cats bit it's likesay a cultural thing, so ye cannae really complain. Besides, if ye work it oot in advance there's nae problem, it's jist complicated likes.
An then like cool, cool karma itself man, ah sees that Nexu cat Solo stretchin oot against thae back wall. Fuckin result. He wis guid pals wi Jabba until jist recently when he lost a load ay the gear he wis carryin. Sais he dumped it cause he wis bein tracked by the Impdicks bit Jabba thinks he might ay jist sold it oan fir hissel. The Hutt disnae even care if the boontay's alive or no. That makes things a shite sight easier awright. His co-pilot's a big bastard, bit ah'm sure ah can shoot faster than either ay them.
Aw the other cats in ma pack huv slinked oaf so its jist me an Solo and a short walk through this bar tae payday. An even if Jabba starts negotiatin doon once ah bring him in, ah can stash everythin Solo's holdin before ah take him there. Fae the way he's lookin ah'd say he's jist finishin up some business. Even better man, he'll have a few advance credits ready tae slide oot ay his poacket as ah'm carryin him oot.
This is it, man. Thae wan. All in, ma ticket tae better times. Goin clean. Retirement oan a quiet moon wi a Naboo princess or a Twi'lek girl, complete wi the head-dress, ken? Aye, goatay be complete wi the head-dress...
Right. Solo's oan his ain. Pit them drinks oan ice, Greedo's goin in...
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.
