Star Wars: A Twist of Fates. (compiled version)

Well, this is my SW fan fic....I had it on SSLF, but few people looked at it...


For most sentient beings, regret is a common emotion. In fact, there are no documented species that do not experience some sense of remorse at the consequences of taking actions that have unwanted outcomes. Fortunately, most beings capable of higher brain functions have the innate ability to predict and avoid these outcomes by altering their actions. Humans in particular seem to realize the risks that may lie ahead in dangerous situations and often change their plan of action to avoid this danger. This is casually referred to as “having second thoughts” about whatever the matter may be. Many non-human species also have this ability, to varying degrees, of course, constituent to their level of sentience. For Gamoreans, however, having “second thoughts” is quite a rare event, maybe as frequent as once in a lifetime. This may be due to the low occurrence of Gamoreans experiencing any thoughts before they take action.

Today had been He’rrukk’s once in a lifetime.

He sat in the “medical bay” of the guards’ quarters, if it could be called that. In reality, it was nothing more than a hastily constructed extension jutting off of the side of the old, military surplus, portable bunker serving as a home to the guards hired to protect his master’s cantina. This “health facility” was run by a fierce old Rodian mercenary field medic who went by the name of Paludo. He had lost his legs from the knee down to the Imperial army when they conquered his home world almost a decade ago, an injury which still made him bitter to this day. He’rrukk would have gladly put up with the Rodian’s attitude, rather than place his health in the cold steel manipulator arms of Paludo’s schizophrenic assistant droid, Hands.

H-4ND/S, or Hands, had been craftily assembled from semi-useful parts scrounged in the local junk shops and trash alleys. Needless to say, his performance was equally as semi-useful, in more ways than one. The primary problem was the droid’s lack of a vocabulator that could speak basic or Rodian. Paludo therefore required a translation device to communicate with the droid. Secondly, and unbeknownst to Paludo, the droid had a severe problem with its behavior core that only arose when the Rodian wasn’t around. Hands, upon entering a manic depressive state from fear he had been abandoned, would progressively begin to make mistakes while dealing with patients. These “accidents” increased in severity the longer Paludo was away, and could become fatal to the patients if the Rodian took excessive leave.

He’rrukk sat on the treatment bed and waited for Paludo to come out of his office. Instead, Hands emerged and hovered over to diagnose the patient. When He’rrukk inquired as to where Paludo had gone, the droid replied that his master had gone to the cantina to meet with an associate of his employer, regarding the outdated biomechanical legs that Paludo had fashioned for himself from more used droid components.

“Apparently,” Hands stated, in perfectly fluent basic from a hidden secondary vocabulator, “this ‘associate’ is an expert in bio-robotics who has offered to replace my master’s perfectly fine legs with brand new, custom tailored prosthetics, thus increasing his mobility….Oh dear! What if, with these new legs, my master decides to leave me forever?”

The disguised voice box wasn’t the only thing the droid had secretly installed onto himself. H-4ND/S was also equipped with an astrogation computer, thermal targeting sensors, an electric winch, electromagnetic catapult, and a sonar mapping system. The droid could have been a mercenary scout, mining foreman, or even a search and rescue spelunker if not for the permanent twenty foot tether that attached him to the guard house’s medical database computer mainframe. Many of the guards had encouraged the droid to sever his tether and strike out on his own, but to their dismay, the droid refused, claiming that much of his programming was stored on the computer, including his surgical reference guides, allergy identification charts, prescription protocols and his ethics programming. The guards even tried severing his cord for him, but he just shutdown into failsafe mode. It had taken Paludo a week of painstaking labor to repair the cables within the tether enough to make Hands operational again. The droid had come back to life, and performed his job as well as, if not better than, before, so Paludo saw no reason to call in a technician to find out if the five or six wires he’d failed to fix did anything important.

He’rrukk was just beginning to wonder if one of those wires had been to Hands’ ethics circuit, when he suddenly felt the pain in his right arm increase then subside as the droid applied a numbing salve to his injuries. As the Gamorean sat observing the medical automaton wrap a bandage around the stub where his right hand had once been, he reflected on the series of events that had transpired to put him here….

It had started like every other day before it had for the last two years. He’rrukk woke up, stretched, and sniffed his armpits. Satisfied with the odor he had accumulated from weeks without bathing, he got dressed, picked up his vibro-axe, and went to get breakfast at his favorite place: the cantina dumpster. It was a particularly bountiful harvest this morning, with plenty of half eaten food from the night before, including a roast nuna that looked like it had barely been touched.

After filling up on this nutritious breakfast, he assumed his post at the Cantina entrance. Many beings came and went, and he did turn away a few that were on his list not to let in, but somehow one managed to sneak past while He’rrukk was distracted by an extremely delicious looking (and tasting) booger that he had plucked from his left nostril.

The culprit, a shady looking Duros named Baranamos Druchek’ta, had been caught last week with a skifter in the sabaac den. He claimed that it wasn’t his, and no one had proof that he’d used it. Baranamos had, in fact, lost every hand of sabaac he’d played that night, and consequentially, all the credits he’d bet on those hands, which was quite a large sum. They had no evidence that he’d cheated, but he was caught with possession of the skifter, so the cantina management banned him until they could investigate further. Baranamos kept sneaking in, however, to get away from his wife, who was quite upset that he had lost so much money gambling fair when he could have cheated and made them rich.

The inner security guards, after chasing Baranamos off, scorned He’rrukk for neglecting his duties, and warned him not to let it happen again, or he might get fired. He’rrukk, not realizing that the cantina’s owner didn’t expect him to do more than stand there and look intimidating, took their word for it, and began to scrutinize everybody who came to the door. Unfortunately, this caused a line to build up, a line of frustrated customers just trying to escape the pressures of daily life. Their sarcastic responses to his questions, and unwillingness to submit to a full body search with cavity check, frustrated the Gamorean in turn.

Finally, with the lunch hour over, business had slowed back down, and He’rrukk could return to his daily inspection of his nostrils. Lost in the task at hand, which demanded the vast majority of his attention, He’rrukk had failed to notice the human who was standing in front of him, asking questions, until the man tried to get the Gamorean’s attention by slapping He’rrukk’s hand. That, He’rrukk thought, was when things goed poodoo. He had just plucked the most perfect booger of his career. It was the perfect greenish brown color, with specks of pollen and dust, with three hairs stuck to it. He’rrukk had been admiring his masterpiece as it clung to the tip of his left index finger, when suddenly, the human had slapped his hand, launching the booger directly toward a storm drain. He’rrukk could only watch helplessly as his precious booger tumbled through the air in slow motion and flew straight into the sewer.

“NOOOO!!!!!” He’rrukk squealed, but alas, his beloved one was gone forever….and this made He’rrukk mad. He turned to face the poor sole who had just sealed his fate.

“Do I have your attention now?” The man asked, “Tell me, where can I find your employer….I need to speak with him right away.”

He’rrukk took a good long look at the man. He looked to be in his late thirties, with a broad, but short trimmed beard. He wore a dark blue uniform with medium blue trim, a black trench coat, hat, and a bandana tied around his neck. The man was wearing a black glove on his right hand, and his left hand was black too. He’rrukk did a triple-take. The man’s left hand, and whole left arm, for that matter were robotic! The Gamorean stood there, mouth agape, staring for ten whole seconds until the man spoke again.

“Don’t just stand there, answer my question!” The stranger demanded, “Sith’s blood, are all the Gamoreans on Nar Shadda this slow and stupid?”

And that was the straw that broke the bantha’s back. He’rrukk was completely outraged by this human’s behavior, and he wasn’t going to take it any longer. He’d let out a can of porcine whoop-ass on this insulting antagonist so bad that maybe even his worst enemy’s ancestors would say ouch. He’rrukk raised his mighty vibro-battleaxe in his right hand and swung with all of his power down upon the human, but he somehow dropped his weapon mid swing. When he reached down to pick it up, he realized that his hand was still holding it, but had fallen off of his wrist. How strange, He thought, that doesn’t normally happen. Two seconds of pondering later, and the pain finally registered.

He’rrukk shrieked in pain, flailing his freshly amputated limb wildly about, then froze and fell silent when he saw that the human was now pointing his disruptor pistol at the Gamoreans head.

“I’ll ask again,” he said evenly, unaffected by what had just happened, “Where’s your boss? Where is Lando Calrisian?”

He’rrukk pointed into the cantina, and somehow managed to spit out the right room to find his boss in; the door marked ‘Private Lounge: Admittance by invitation only’.

“Thank you,” the man said, “now get that hand on ice, and I’ll put it back on for you later.” And with that, Kylith Plore walked into the Calrisian Cantina to find its owner. He had a very interesting business proposition in mind, and Lando was the right man to hear it.
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Chewbacca was on Nar Shadda for a reason, one reason; revenge. The Wookie had a personal vendetta to fulfill, one that had consumed all of his effort for the last decade. He was going to avenge the deaths of his family by killing the one who was responsible. For now, however, he had to wait. He’d need the right equipment to get to the human that had murdered his father. In order to afford that equipment, Chewbacca had gotten a job working as a bouncer at a local cantina.

It had taken a very long time for Chewbacca to get even this far. First he had escaped from the Imperial slave camp, then he had made his way through endless kilometers of jungle to the nearest non-military star port, evade detection and hope to find a captain who could sympathize with the Wookies pains and smuggle him off-planet. It hadn’t worked; the Imperial customs inspection team had found him, returned him to slavery, and arrested the freighter captain who had been foolish enough to help an escaped convict.

Chewbacca slaved away for five more years before he was able to escape again. This time, however, there was nobody willing to stick their neck out for him. Desperate not to be captured again, the Wookie had resorted to the unthinkable; he had snuck aboard the private vessel of a Trandoshan bounty hunter named Bossk, and hidden under the fresh corpses of four Wookies that the lizard had come to Kashyyk to hunt. Chewbacca had remained motionless for the duration of the trip to Hypori, where Bossk stopped to stock up on supplies before heading off toward his next bounty.

On Hypori, he was able to begin tracking down the Imperial Lieutenant who had shot Chewbacca’s pregnant wife in the head while he was restrained by storm troopers and forced to watch. Chewbacca would never forget the evil smirk that flashed on the man’s face as he re-holstered his blaster, would never forget the smell of his wife’s blood mixed with her burnt fur, would never forget the rage that had empowered him to rip the storm troopers’ arms from their sockets, would never forget the last thing he saw after being hit by the following stun blasts; that evil smirking face hovering over him, staring into his eyes, and laughing.

Chewbacca now knew everything he needed to know about his enemy. Chewbacca knew the human had been top of his class at the Imperial academy. Chewbacca knew he had been a Lieutenant, but had quickly risen to the rank of Captain, then a few more promotions to Admiral, and had recently become a Moff. Chewbacca knew about his infamy among non-humans for his extreme prejudice against aliens. Chewbacca knew that he was placed in command of operations in Imperial-Hutt space due to his ability to keep the gangster slug, Jabba, under his thumb. But best of all, Chewbacca knew his enemy’s name. With this knowledge in hand, the Wookie set out to Nar Shadda to enact his revenge.

Tomorrow, Chewbacca’s employer, Lando Calrisian, had arranged him a meeting with a business associate of his, a black-market weapons dealer named Kylith Plore. The man was also a pirate, a fact which made the Wookie uneasy (pirates usually doubled as slavers), but he was also rumored to be an alien sympathizer who had allied himself with the CIS, and frequently aided them with stolen technology. Chewbacca was eager to lay his hands on some powerful new weapons, maybe a stealth field generator and some security tunnelers to sneak into the Imperial palace on Nar Shadda, and perhaps some pain inducing poisons for his enemy.

But for now, he had to wait, and plan for the day when he would take away all that his nemesis held dear, make him suffer, as he had done to Chewbacca. And finally, when the man could suffer no more, Chewbacca would kill Imperial Moff Han Solo.

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[flashback]
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It was a hot day, too hot a day on Tatooine. Tekel didn't so much mind the heat, and would have welcomed it, if not for the humidity that always seemed to tag along with it. Yet the Mandalorian couldn't hate the "wet" air, as it was all that sustained life on this desolate rock. It didn't even matter anyway; he wouldn't have to remain here for long.....provided that all went as planned.

Tekel, of clan Plore, had fallen so far from whence he came, that it astounded him to this day. Clan Plore had once been held in high repute on Mandalore, and had constituted enough honor to have its sons serve in the Mandalore’s elite most guard unit. The Empire had changed all of that when they took the planet by force. Their leader, the great Mandalore, had been captured and retained by the enemy, a fate far worse than even the most dishonorable death. The Mandalorians, or what was left of them, had been broken. Held together by fragile inter-clan alliances and regional councils of Chieftains, the people of the planet Mandalore had little hope of regaining their former glory.

Clans had been wiped out entirely during the long, bloody campaign, simply flattened by the sheer overwhelming numbers of the Imperial army. Clan Plore was among those that had almost been completely eradicated. Tekel was, as far as he knew, the only surviving member, however, and had very little hope of repopulating his clan. After all, what kind of Mandalorian woman would have a crippled man, the last of his clan, with no honorable part left to him, as her husband? Tekel had truly lost everything in the war, lost all of it at once. He’d lost his honorable name, his position of rank, and both his right eye and leg from the knee down; all from taking the initiative to pursue a retreating enemy officer. As Tekel reflected on the events of that day, he began to appreciate the irony of his current situation.

After the Empire conquered their planet, the Mandalorians were left with few career options. Their new dictators put a military service draft into effect, eager to have such effective warriors at their disposal, legislating that nearly all Mandalorian males be conscripted into the Imperial army. After a long tour of duty, twice as long (and dangerous) as that of a normal recruit, they were allowed to return to their home world and pursue lives as ordinary citizens. Needless to say, the mundane life of an ordinary citizen was rather unappealing to the fierce Mandalorian warriors, and many grew restless for greater glory. Many decided to go off world seeking adventure and battle, such as their ancestors had always done when boredom set in, and found work as mercenaries, bounty hunters, and thugs for hire.

Tekel had first found work on Dantooine, where he had been paid to hunt down and exterminate the monarchs of many a “killer kinrath” (a.k.a.: Onderonized kinrath) hive, effectively driving them away from settlements. This had been challenging initially, but as the months went by, Tekel became too good at his job, and the kinrath began to flee at the slightest waft of his odor drifting across the plain. Effectively put out of his job by his scent, Tekel looked for a more promising and lasting line of work. He found such on Alderaan. The once neutral planet had signed on with the CIS, but only on a political standpoint. The Alderaanians wanted no part in the military aspect of such a terrible civil war that spanned the galaxy. Unfortunately, the Empire didn’t care for such ideals, and didn’t hesitate to invade a defenseless planet. Surprisingly, the Alderaanians had repelled the first attempt by the Empire, but at a severe cost of lives. In order to better prepare themselves for the next invasion, they sought out the instruction of more militarily successful cultures.

Out of all who answered this call for warriors, the Mandalorians answered loudest. Here was a world, untrained in combat but seeking to become so, in need of their help to defeat the Empire. Many brave Mandalorian ex-soldiers flocked to the planet and the opportunities it presented. By teaching the Alderaanians the ways of battle, and subsequently fighting along side of them as brothers against the evil Empire, they could both regain their honor and exact revenge on their oppressors.

The Empire showed it’s intelligence by resisting the urge to just build a super-weapon that, although securing an immediate victory, would inevitably be destroyed by some hotshot pilot who happened to score a lucky hit on some overlooked weak spot. Instead, the Imperials thought back on their heavy losses from the last time they had faced Mandalorians in battle. They decided to send down their elite-most troops to squash the enemy with as few expended legions as possible. What they didn’t take into account, and what ultimately caused their defeat at Alderaan, was the fact that most of their elite troops were Mandalorian conscripts, whose loyalty lie first to their own kind before the Empire. Nearly all of their first deployment turned to side with the enemy, as did wholly all of their second deployment. Tactically defeated, the Empire turned to strategic warfare, and began plotting which cities to bomb first. While they sat mulling this over in orbit, the Mandalorians launched a counter-offensive by boarding and seizing Imperial starships. The Empire then executed its first recorded strategic withdrawal from an enemy other than the Confederacy.

The victory at Alderaan had paved the way for the Mandalorians to re-seize their home world and reclaim their independence. Soon after, the Mandalorians joined the CIS and had recently begun providing the Confederacy’s navy with their powerful warships. Mandalore was once again a planet to be reckoned with. Tekel, however, was not at home there anymore, and had set out alone to make his way in the galaxy. He was a Mandalorian only by his blood now, having lost his lust for battle and hunger for victory, essentially a spiritless remnant of what had once been a great man. Thus Tekel had little hindrance at accomplishing his new job: Imperial assassin. Such a foul line of work would be most dishonorable, and morally difficult, to a true Mandalorian, but Tekel had long ago abandoned his identity with his honor, and had not, officially, been “himself” for the last two years, having assumed various aliases to complete his missions.

This time was different, however. The objective kill was an old friend of Tekel’s, a fellow Mandalorian known as Jango, of Clan Fett. Fett had been spotted on Tatooine, and so Tekel had gone there to find the man. For this mission, Tekel would have to be himself in order to get close enough to his target. He would have to lure Jango into a false sense of security, make him believe that his old squad-mate was on his side, and then, when Jango’s trusting back was turned, kill him swiftly and silently.

Tekel was able to gain Jango’s trust within a week, and had worked out the perfect scenario for the kill: he took Jango hunting for a krayt dragon.

{The hunt itself is another story, which I will write, but for now is left out. The results, however, are that Jango saves Tekel’s life, Tekel comes clean when they are trapped in the dragon’s cave, they fight the dragon and manage to hold it off, but have trouble when another one shows up. Tekel tells Jango to escape while he holds the dragons’ attention, and Jango later assumes Tekel dead. Tekel lives, however, and somehow escapes the dragons’ lair, wanders the desert for a few days, then passes out near a moisture farm….}

Tekel knew this was the end. He wasn’t ready for death, but it was ready for him, and he could accept that. He was at peace, and had few regrets left to him. His would be an honorable end, having saved his fellow Mandalorian and by doing so, reclaiming his personal honor. He lay there on the verge of death, the twin suns of Tatooine beating down upon his face, drifting in and out of consciousness. Finally, sensing his imminent departure from the realm of the living, Tekel smiled back at the blazing suns that sucked every drip of moisture from his body. It was a nervous smile. Tekel realized that he wasn’t ready for death; he wanted to live, to dedicate his life to a more noble cause. It was in this moment of despair that Tekel heard the most wonderful sound in his life.

“By the stars, it’s a man!” The sweet voice of a young woman exclaimed, “Droid, fetch some water immediately…..you certainly are grinning hard there, buddy…must have gotten drunk and crashed your swoop somewhere nearby, judging by how tore up you look.”

Tekel opened his eyes and looked into the face of the woman standing over him. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her head was backed by the sun, illuminating the edges of her sandy brown hair and causing her to appear angelic. Her round face was unblemished by any defect, despite having lived a hard life in the desert. But what really captured his mind were here eyes. They were such a vibrant shade of turquoise that they appeared to glow from within like a rare gem stone.

“What……is your…..name?” He rasped.

“I am Dama Whitesun,” She spoke, “And who might you be?”

Tekel couldn’t respond, however, as he had just slipped back into unconsciousness.
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[/flashback]
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As his eyes beheld the Calrisian Cantina for the first time in years, Kylith wasn’t surprised that it failed to meet his expectations of what any good cantina should be. Its furnishings, as well as its clientele, were nowhere near as filthy as those of a proper drinking establishment. Kylith noticed, as his gaze swept the room, that there were no signs of enacted violence, either recently or not so. No carbon scoring on the walls, no blood stains on the floor, no broken chairs or tables, not even so much as a chipped cup on the shelves at the serving bar. This was a place for those of higher repute than the common scum that walked the alleys of Nar Shadda. Lando had made an oasis for beings like himself that sought a good time, and were above making petty squabble with those that took offense to them in an establishment which to both parties were mutually welcomed as guests. Lando had established the first cantina on Nar Shadda with any class.

This did not imply, however, that the clientele were all a bunch of cowardly rich folk who couldn’t defend themselves from a gizka. To the contrary, most of the cantina’s customers were more than capable of staving an attack from a whole gang of Gamoreans. Many of them were honorable war veterans who had come to Nar Shadda to start a new life. Some were nobility of the truly noble nature, the kind that trained their sons as expert duelists, by blade or blaster, and whose leaders were always the first to charge into a battle. There were also a few of the galaxy’s more reputable bounty hunters, the ones who did not double-cross their employers, nor did they harm the innocent who unknowingly might hazard into their way in the pursuit of a bounty. Kylith respected them all. He realized that this was a rare occasion on which he could say that he was in a room of more than thirty people, and did not have thoughts of killing a single one of them.

Kylith waded across the packed cantina floor, making good effort not to bump anybody in passing, and to those he did jar, quickly apologized. This was not the place to make enemies. He made it to the serving bar in good time, and waited patiently to be asked what he would like to enjoy this afternoon. Kylith then politely requested just a single glass of Juma juice, which he was quickly served, before inquiring where he might find Lando’s private lounge. He had to ask twice, because the waitress couldn’t hear him the first time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “Do you have an authenticated invitation?”

“I can not say that I do, but be assured, Lando knows I’m to meet with him today.” Kylith told the waitress. She must be new here if she didn’t recognize who he was.

“If you give me your name, I could see if he has you on his list of appointments.” She offered. Kylith could sense a bit of impatience in her tone. She obviously didn’t believe him, probably thought he was some kind of solicitor trying to rally Lando, or more specifically, Lando’s wealth, to his cause.

“My name is Kylith Plore, I’m a good friend of Lando’s.” he informed her, knowing full well that Lando wouldn’t have put his name on the list, but some seemingly irrelevant phrase, probably meant to be of great insult to whoever it indicated.

“Mister Calrisian has down an appointment tomorrow for someone named ‘Tangd-Clusp’….whoever that is, they must be important because their name is fully capitalized.” She remarked.

Tangd-Clusp, or rather TANGD-CLUSP was one of Lando’s oldest nicknames for Kylith. It was an abbreviation of what Lando thought of Kylith after they’d had a minor conflict of interests back in the early days. That Awful No Good Double-Crossing Lying Ungrateful Space Pirate. Lando had gotten tired of having to address Kylith with such a long title, and had shortened it to the first letter of each word. Kylith had grown so fond of the title he’d even used the name Tangd-Clusp as an alias on a few occasions.

Kylith tried to explain this to the waitress, but she thought he was lying, and in a moment of panic, thinking Kylith must be some sort of assailant, alerted the populous of the cantina to Kylith’s presence. At which, the patrons glanced away from their drinks and cards just long enough to discover who she was referring to, then went back about their business as if nothing were wrong. The puzzled waitress turned to the security guards, who hadn’t moved in to escort the offender outside.

“What are you doing?” she asked frantically, “Kick this guy out of here!”

The guards looked at each other, and then began laughing at her for making such a request. This was Kylith Plore, the near mythical space pirate responsible for the mysterious disappearances of several small fleets starships on patrol in the outer rim. Kylith Plore, whose own mercenary fleet of pirate (and mostly pirated) ships were known as the Bane of the Galactic Empire. Kylith Plore, the man whom even the Hutts couldn’t catch in space. Kylith Plore, owner of a vast many other such reputations that had been blown out of proportion in their retelling.

“Look, gorgeous, I’ll give you another chance to point me toward your boss before I decide to recommend he fire you.” Kylith threatened. Normally he wouldn’t revert to so base a level of communication, but he could tell that this woman was only to be affected by such. Thusly the ends justified the means. Kylith liked it when ethical issues, such as this, were so clear cut.

Finally, having made his way down a dimly lit hallway, Kylith arrived at a rather heavy looking blast door labeled ‘Private Lounge: Admittance by proprietor’s invite only.’ He knew the door was just for show, that Lando’s enemies would never get close enough to touch it. He was about to knock on the door, when it unexpectedly slid open with a suppressed “whoosh” of air. Kylith was suddenly in a haze of steam and cigara smoke, which quickly cleared to reveal a sight which reminded Kylith why his visits were so infrequent. Lando was sitting in a Jacuzzi that was sunk into the floor of a large lounge room. Accompanying him were four very attractive women, two of them humans, one a Twi’Lekk, and the other a Zeltron. They were all naked, including Lando.

“Still as lecherous as ever, huh Lando?” Kylith asked.

Lando, who until then was too distracted to notice Kylith’s entrance, immediately sprang into action. He was out of the hot tub in a flash, much to the dismay of his female compatriots, quickly donning a pink velveteen robe before confronting Kylith.

“You got a lot of nerve, coming back here Plore.” Lando growled. “After all that you put me through, then up and leaving without a word? That almost angers me as much as the fact that you took all the loot we collected with you.”

“I’m quite happy to see you too, pal, considering that after I left you told the Hutts about half of my fleet re-supply bases!” Kylith replied.

“What do you mean half of your bases? I told the Hutts about all of them!” Lando said.

“All that you knew of. Did you seriously think that I would entrust the location of all my bases to scum like you?” Kylith asked.

“Scum? Me?” Lando yelled, “You’re the one who double-crossed me, that makes you the scum, you scum!”

“Maybe I thought you were smart enough to realize that I wouldn’t risk crossing you unless I had a good reason! A mutually beneficial reason that could have made us both a fortune!” Kylith yelled back.

“Maybe I thought you’d think I thought that, and would use the time before I caught on to get as far away as possible!” Lando explained. “But I don’t care to find out what really happened anymore. I was planning a trap for you tomorrow, but, alas, here you are today. No matter, I can still kill you! Security systems, register the human Kylith Plore as a hostile.” The security system console beeped, indicating it had done so. “Fire!” screamed Lando.

Before the ceiling turrets had fully rotated to point toward him, however, Kylith stopped them by speaking the safety over-ride code he’d hardwired into the system back when he had installed it for Lando.

“Wise men don’t gamble.” Kylith spoke evenly. The turrets stopped, and retracted into their hiding compartments. “Lando, I really would have thought you better prepared than this. You should have known I’d have over-ride capability on a system I put together.”

“Oh, I knew you had it.” Lando said, smiling as his real plan fell into action. “So I hired a few guns you couldn’t give orders to. Ladies, why don’t you show our guest a good time?”

“Of course, Mr. Calrisian.” The four voices said in unison from directly behind Kylith. He wheeled around, drawing his disruptor pistol, to face this new threat. They stood in the wide doorway, now fully clothed in form-fitting battle suits, weapons drawn, all pointing at Kylith. One of the humans had two blaster pistols, the other a bowcaster. The Twi’Lekk held a sinister looking vibro-blade in each hand, standing in a well trained fighting pose. It was the Zeltron that scared Kylith. She had in her hand what looked like a lightsaber handle with a braided cord of metallic fibers coming out of the emitter: a laser whip. This kind went by some exotic name that Kylith couldn’t remember, but he knew it was more powerful than the kind used by Trandoshan slavers, which meant it was more than lethal.

“Look, ladies, I’m sorry I didn’t join you in the Jacuzzi when I got here, but you see, I just got this new arm-” Kylith lifted his left arm, activating the directional sonic stunner hidden inside it. “-and I didn’t want it to get rusty!” He yelled.

Both of the humans and the Zeltron fell to the ground, clutching the sides of their heads in pain, but the Twi’Lekk lunged in for the attack. Kylith saw now that she was wearing what could only be sonic nullifiers. They had saved her from the incapacitating sound blast he had used on the others. She was swinging both blades down at once, an attack which he blocked with his robotic arm, and activated the magnetic accelerator on the bottom of it at nearly full power. The accelerator was used for propelling metal objects, such as grenades and darts, at enemies. In order to increase the range, all Kylith had to do was increase the power input. He had never needed to use more than half power. Half power could lob a heavy grenade almost a kilometer. At nearly full power, it ripped the vibro-blades from the Twi’Lekk’s hands and embedded them up to the hilt in the adjacent wall.

The other women were recovering from the sonic induced disorientation, and began to get up and rearm themselves with their recently dropped weapons. Kylith seized the moment and grabbed the Twi’Lekk while she was still surprised from being so abruptly disarmed. He clamped her wrists together behind her back with his robotic left arm and pulled her up close to him, using her as a living shield. He held the muzzle of his disruptor pistol to her right temple.

“If you don’t want to loose your friend here, I suggest you give up now. That sonic blast will have you uncoordinated for about another hour; you’re in no condition for such a challenging fight. I’m offering you a chance to surrender.” Kylith stated, with more than a slight hint of stress in his voice. “In fact, I’ll double whatever Lando is paying you if you drop your weapons,” He smiled, “and your clothes, and get back in the hot tub and leave me to my business with your former employer and host.”

The ladies looked at each other, and then, smiling playfully, complied with his demands, stripping once again to the nude, and slipping back into the warm and relaxing waters of the Jacuzzi. Kylith turned his attention back to Lando, who was slinking along the opposite wall towards the door Kylith had entered through. When he noticed that Kylith had spotted him, he hurried over to where the Twi’Lekk’s vibro-blades were embedded in the wall, and pulled one out, turning back to face Kylith’s inevitable assault. Kylith calmly strode across the room to Lando, who was trembling in anticipation of the butt-whooping he knew he was about to receive.

Lando held the vibro-blade out in front of him, closed his eyes, and charged defiantly at Kylith while screaming a list of profanities that could have made Grand Moff Solo cry. Kylith grabbed the weapon by the blade with his robotic hand, then twisting, wrenched it from Lando’s grip, side-stepping, and sending the man crashing to the floor. Kylith then grabbed hold of the back Lando’s shirt (He had wasted his time changing while Kylith was fighting the female assassins, wanting to look his best for the victory he had planned.) and hauled the man to his feet, spun him around and made as to punch him. Lando flinched and closed his eyes again, bracing for the pain that didn’t come. He peeked through his eyelids and saw that Kylith was offering him his hand. Lando cautiously reached out and accepted it, shaking weakly at first, but then more firmly when he found that Kylith was being sincere.

“Lando, if you had truly wanted to kill me, I would be dead right now.” Kylith said, “You’ve obviously played me for a fool here, and I admit that.” He was being very generous by offering Lando an escape from trying to explain why he had just attempted to kill his former best friend.

“Yeah…” Lando said. Then, recovering his usual sharpness, realized that Kylith was giving him an out, and decided to play along, “I really had you going there for a minute, didn’t I? What, with the actresses I hired to play assassins, and the old ‘activation of the security systems which your enemy has an over-ride to and pretend not to remember’ gig. That’s one of the oldest tricks in the holo-book, and you fell for it.”

“That I did, such an easy sap to fool, I am.” Kylith continued the charade.

“I mean, not even a blind Gamorean would have fallen for that one! You really have lost your edge, you old pirate, you. Why, you’d have to be one truly dumb son of a Bith to fa-” Lando was cut off as Kylith set his hand on his holstered disruptor, a silent hint that Lando was pushing his luck, “But…..never mind about that. I assume you’ve come here because you need my help. Well, I’ll tell you: I don’t come cheaply.”

“I’m not here to hire you,” Kylith explained, “I’m here offering to let you in on a deal that could shift the balance of power in the galaxy to your favor.”

“Oh no!” Lando moaned, “Another one of your hair brained-err….I mean brilliant ideas? What’s it this time? Blackmail Grand Moff Solo? Rob the tombs of the ancient Sith? Setting up a black market with the Ewoks?”

“Hey now!” Kylith shot back, “Those Ewoks chuck a mean sharp rock. And have you seen them use those spears? They can take down an Imperial storm trooper in one hit!”

“Yeah, yeah…..maybe that wasn’t such a stupid idea, but it never panned out….what makes this scheme any different?” Lando asked.

“Its fool proof: we are going to take down the Hutt Cartel.” Kylith said, matter-of-factly. “Once they’re out of the way, we control the majority of illegal imports and exports throughout the galaxy.”

“And just how do you propose ‘we’ take down the Hutts….their freaking Hutts! You can’t even get within a system of them before they know what you’re up to!” Lando exclaimed.

“I’ll explain later.” Kylith promised, then turned away, “Why don’t you go lose money at a few hands of sabaac up stairs,” then smiling, “I’m gonna take a dip with the ladies!”

“Won’t your arm ru-” Lando began, but was cut off by Kylith.

“Just get out of here, Lando.” Kylith said, “I’d like to….interrogate these assassins you’ve hired." At that, the ladies started to giggle amongst them selves. As Kylith began to shrug off his trench coat, the blast door whooshed shut just as Lando walked through the door way.

Lando was now locked ouside of his own private lounge. He began muttering to himself as he made his way up to the sabaac den. “Comes back after years away….over-rides my security systems…..defeats my assassins...who turn on me, the losuy schuttas….then forces me in on this damn idea of his….then, he has the nerve to take over my harem lounge....that awful, no good, double-crossing, lying space pirate!”

“So, really now Kylith, what’s this all about?” inquired a now very curious Lando. Kylith had told him of his plan to take out the top figures in the vile Hutt Cartel, but he had of yet to elaborate on just how this would be accomplished.

“Well, Lando, as you know, the Hutts are in a pretty sweet deal right now, although they fail to capitalize on it.” Kylith said, “You see, even though they’re under the sometimes watchful eyes of the Empire, they can still carry out their operations with minimal interference. Grand Moff Solo is willing to turn the other cheek when they break Imperial laws, so long as he gets a cut of the profit. Right now, he’s making more money from them in a month, than twice his ‘official’ annual salary.”

“I fail to see where this is going……so what if he’s a corrupt ruler? He’s protecting his own interests before those of the people he governs.” Lando stated pointedly.

“Exactly!” Kylith exclaimed, “If something were to threaten him, he’d focus all of his attention on chasing it off…..”

“…Leaving nobody here to guard the Hutts?” Lando concluded. “I don’t know….they took care of themselves before the Empire, I’m sure they could do so again.”

“Well don’t be so sure then. They might have some defenses, but they are still just gangsters. They aren’t strong enough to stand against an entire army.” Kylith said as he reached into his trench coat pockets.

“But where do we get an army?” asked Lando. “That fleet of yours was almost completely wiped out while you were being detained by the Imperial authorities.”

“Ah…my fleet would not have done us any good; this will be a land battle against a deeply entrenched enemy.” explained the pirate, “And contrary to popular belief, my fleet has hardly been diminished at all….they’ve merely separated to create the illusion of disbandment.”

“Supposing we do get an army-” Lando was cut off

“Oh! I already have one.” Kylith mentioned, “Did I neglect to inform you of that? I have, at my disposal, an entire legion of CIS battle droids currently being refit for active duty.”

“Battle droids?” Land laughed, “I should have known. I’m guessing you commandeered the latest shipment from Mechis III?”

“Nope, these are vintage B1s and B2s.” Kylith said with pride. “I tried to get some droidekas too, but they aren’t ready to part with them.”

“You are some kind of crazy, Kylith.” Calrisian remarked, “Taking on the Hutts with the most obsolete war machines in existence. What did they do to you in Imperial prison?”

Good, his plan was working. Kylith was no fool, he knew that B1s and 2s were considered useless due to the advent of sophisticated jamming equipment capable of disrupting the command signal from the control ship. But when he was done with them, they’d put even the best armies to shame. For now, however, there was another matter to attend to: introductions.

Kylith pulled a single item from each pocket. The first item, from his right pocket, was a small black and gray metal box with what looked like a wide variety of sensor probes on the lateral sides and expansion ports and plugs at the ends. The other item was of the same dimensions, and one half of it bore the same coloration as the first, but its later half was made of a semi-clear plasteel alloy. Kylith turned the boxes so that the ports of the first met the plugs of the second. He made as if to connect them, and then hesitated. He made some adjustments to one of the knobs on the first box, and then proceeded to connect them. As he leaned over the table, he rest his chin on his right palm, and extended his left out over the box. He spread apart the two “fingers” of his arm’s hand/claw until they formed a flat palm. From the fingers deployed a radial array of plates, much like those of a collapsible sensor dish. As soon as the plates had formed a complete dish shape, an odd looking ray shield appeared over the boxes in the form of a dome.

“Some kind of jamming shield?” Lando inquired.

“You might call it that.” Kylith replied. “Lando, this could become volatile, you may want to sit back a little.”

Lando complied. The activation delay timer Kylith had set on the device was ticking down to zero. Kylith grabbed the butt of the cigara he’d been smoking earlier from the ashtray next to him. He drew on the little bit that was left, and blew the smoke into the shielded “chamber” he had created. The air in the dome grew hazy as the smoke lost its momentum. The timer reached it’s end. Suddenly, the air in the bubble grew very clear as all of the smoke in the field condensed into a tiny sphere.

“You are growing too predictable, Sigil.” Kylith sighed, “Maybe you aren’t such an ideal candidate as I had thought.”

Lando was confused. As far as he was aware, he and Kylith were the only occupants of this room. Before he could question this, however, the box spoke.

“Wherefore will thou not die? Surely the breath
Hath been forced from your body, has it not?
What ho? But I cannot detect your being,
As many a time I did so before,
When mutual captives were we, sir Kylith.
Why do you hide your thoughts with servant dumb?
You had then not a cause to press you hide,
What cause withholds you now reveal yourself?” The voice of Sigil began.

“I’d no reason fear you then, dear Sigil,
As I knew you an honorable Shard,
For then that is what you were. It is now,
Rejoined you to your better half, I cower.” Kylith mimicked. Sigil spoke in the classic iambic pentameter of the Iron Knights. He was, according to himself, a master of speech, with few or no equal throughout the galaxy.

“What’s all this about a dumb servant?” Lando asked Kylith, “Is the damn droid implying that I lack intelligence? That you’re my master?” then to the voice, “Listen here, you little smart box, I’m no slave of Kylith’s. You better watch your mouth,” Lando continued, ignoring Kylith’s hand gestures signaling he do the contrary, “or I’ll have you melt down and cast as an ashtray.”

Kylith braced himself for the inevitable backlash, but it never came. The Sigil Kylith knew would have destroyed Lando for calling him a droid, but this Sigil did not. Kylith realized that the droid must be having internal conflict. The only time he had that was when he’d been bested in a game of words. Kylith had seen it once before, on Alderaan, when Sigil had had the chance to meet another Shard who had been enmechanized in a droid like himself. That Shard, Adegan, had bested him in conservatory pentameter easily. So ashamed was Sigil, that he avoided speaking as much as possible for weeks thereafter, and never once said anything in his classic iambic pentameter.

Kylith then realized what had happened. The force shield had cut Sigil off from his favored sense, the Force. Made to rely on his hearing alone, Sigil had not known of Lando’s, or Kylith’s, physical presence. The “dumb servant” didn’t mean an unintelligent slave; it meant a droid, one who is dumb to the Force. Sigil had tried to compress all of the air in the room into a tiny dot, thus rendering its occupants without air. The bubble had stopped that from affecting the whole room, but Sigil didn’t know that either. He thought that he was locked in a remote room with a droid, and that Kylith wasn’t brave enough to face him. When Lando spoke, it had taken the Shard completely by surprise.

Furthermore, by lucky happenstance, Lando had subconsciously metered his speech to replicate the iambic pentameter spoken by Sigil. If Lando had been off by one more non-conjunctable syllable, Sigil would have struck at him, dragging Kylith across the table. But, by an even luckier coincidence, Lando’s words had struck home with Sigil. The Shard assumed that Lando knew him for what he was, and by calling him a droid, and speaking down to him, had so firmly asserted his dominance over the situation, that even Sigil’s Jedi level of alacrity had been fooled. Kylith thanked the stars for their grace in this encounter. Now it was up to him to keep it from falling apart.

How darest thou question my-”, Sigil began, but then gave up, “Ne’er mind, I would be dead of now if I knew not when I was beaten, sir. Pray tell, whom have I had the honor of being so quickly bested by? That I may address him proper.”

Lando looked to Kylith for advice. The expression on Kylith’s face was the one he had whenever they had been on thin ice. It told Lando to play to Sigil’s tune, continuing to exert control over the situation. “I am Lando Calrisian, Baron of Cloud City.” It wasn’t a full lie. Lando had once held that title, but had grown weary of such a limited pursuit, soon leaving for better things.

“Alas, I know not of such place, but if it’s name bear any significance, it sounds like a most grand kingdom indeed.” Sigil commented. He knew not of Cloud City because it had been constructed after his self imposed exile on Dxun began. That’s where Kylith had found him, his droid body stuck rusted in a crippled heap, overgrown his vegetation from years of immobility. Kylith had rescued him, and built him a “host” computer, similar to the positronic processor he now inhabited, and had promised to build Sigil another body. Then, Kylith had gotten involved with that plot with some gambler, who, like the majority of his untrustworthy kind, turned on Kylith, ratting him out to the Hutts, who in turn, revealed him to the Empire. Kylith had removed Sigil from his computer, and smuggled him along, by means often grotesque, all throughout his detainment, communicating with Sigil mentally.

Sigil was eternally grateful, and vowed to serve under Kylith’s command for the rest of his operational life. He had been horrified as of late, when he’d lost his mental contact with Kylith, assuming that he’d been captured by the Empire, thus his violent response after being reactivated. He had remained weary of his hosts until Kylith had spoken to him in the old fashion that Sigil traditionally preferred. All of a sudden, his senses seemed to clear, and he could see farther. Sigil did the equivalent of a Force “ping” of the newly expanded room. He immediately detected Lando’s mind, and began trying to read into his thoughts. It quickly became clear that this mind was vastly different from Kylith’s. Sigil had a hard time trying to map out its thought impulse patterns. During his exile, Sigil had only been able to sense the minds of the Mandalorians on Dxun, grown used to their inherent brain rhythms. Kylith’s brain rhythm was very similar, probably due to his father being a Mandalorian, but his thoughts were very different. They weren’t as straight forward as the warrior Mandalorians’ had been. Kylith’s thoughts were…skewed. That was the best way Sigil could put it. Strangely enough, it had turned out that it was this very difference which made it easier for Sigil to read Kylith’s mind so readily. It was such a natural connection, it seemed so familiar, but Sigil couldn’t figure why.

“I’ve shut down the Force-shield now, Sigil.” Kylith informed the Shard.

“Yes, I noted a shift in the size of the room. But now my scaling perspective has been recalibrated based on the distance between the great Baron Calrisian and I.” Sigil replied.

“So, Sigil, I assume that you are one of the fabled Shard Jedi, or Iron Knights, as it were?” Asked Lando.

“Indeed I am. The great Ilum was the source of my initial bud. I was separated from her as a shardling during the great Jedi purge. I was placed in a droid body and given instructions to seek out a suitable location to hide until it was safe for my training to beggin. I chose the moon Dxun, remote enough not to be noticed, and wild enough not to be found. On my way there, I encountered an ancient holocron on Onderon. All of my training came from that artifact. I did have a long time to study and decode its volumes of content, after all.” Sigil recounted.

Just then, the room’s door slid open, and revealed a Wookie and a Rodian standing in the hallway. The former looked on the rather lean side for a Wookie, and smelled as though he hadn’t bathed in months. The later looked like most typical Rodians, aside from his lower legs, which appeared to be cheap prosthetics.

“Chewbacca and Paludo, I presume?” Kylith asked rhetorically, “Just a moment, Lando and I will join you in the hall and we will all move to a more secure meeting location.”

“I’m not even going to bother asking what your doing bossing around my employees.” Lando sighed, “I’ve learned to expect that much from you already.”

Both men got up from their chairs at the small table, and made for the door, Kylith grabbing Sigil along the way.

<Where are we going?> Growled Chewbacca, in his native tongue.

“Yes, I too am ve’y cu’ious” Asked Paludo in his slightly mangled basic.

“We’re going to the most secure spot on Nar Shadda. A place where no prying eyes can see us, and no suspicious ears hear us: my ship.” Kylith told them, and with that, they made their way for the Cantina exit.

The last few minutes of twilight were passing by. All over the planet, dozens of night clubs were preparing to open, welcoming the hordes of beings looking for a good drink and a better time. As the temperature began to drop into its nightly norm, winds began to gust from the deep parts of The Smuggler’s Moon. Flowing from the long, straight alleys, merging to form swirling tributaries of moving air, and finally, raging torrents among the upper city towers. The sound of the wind was drowned out, however, by the constant thrum of more than a million repulsorlift vehicles moving through the sky lanes. Those who had lived on Nar Shadda for a good while more or less ignored the droning background noise, and went about their lives unbothered. For non-residents, however, the endless hum was a nightmare. Darkness finally descended on the Imperial Sector of Nar Shadda’s surface, and with the day over, the Empire went to sleep.

All except for Grand Moff Han Solo. He lie awake in his bed, something on his mind kept him in the realm of consciousness. Han Solo found it difficult to rest when he knew he was safe. For some reason, he didn’t feel compelled to sleep unless there was a chance that he might not wake up the next day. A little morbid, perhaps, but Han Solo was not the kind to sit idly by and let the galaxy slip past him. He was the kind who seized the galaxy by it’s reins and rode it into submission. He was the kind who lived for conquest, and war. He was the kind of leader who rode at the front of the cavalry and was the first into the fray of battle. He wasn’t Grand Moff material.

He got up from his bed, careful not to make any sounds, lest he be suspected of insomnia, and made his way out to the balcony. He let the brisk updrafts blow by his face as he leaned out into the night. He closed his eyes and imagined he was in freefall. He looked out over the city, bustling with all sorts of night time activity, and longed to be a part of it. He wished to go back to his days as a lieutenant, or as a captain. Back when he'd had real adventure, when things were challenging. It was worse now. His battles were often fought with paper rather than starships, with pen rather than blaster.

Solo hadn’t requested any of his promotions ever, nor had he taken action specifically to increase his rank. He had simply done what he was told, and took the initiative where there were no orders to guide him. He had fought his enemy and won countless times, and for that had been commended greatly. He had not turned down the recognition he’d received, and in fact welcomed it. Han basked in the attention of his superiors whose plans he’d accomplished, and at the parties of rich beaurocrats whose world’s he’d saved. Word had spread quickly through the command structure, that if you wanted something done right, you’d do it yourself, if you wanted it done better, you’d get Han Solo to do it.

He’d always had a way with following through on everything he started, by any means necessary. As a child, he’d always worked until he got his way, not matter what. Later, he’d gone to the Imperial Academy on Corellia, graduating in the top of his class. He’d joined the military as a lieutenant, worked for a few years on his first promotion, then everything else fell into place. As soon as he was noticed, he never stopped being noticed. Why, the Emporer himself had attended Solo’s promotion to admiral, and given him a special gift: a prototype Super Star Destroyer, the Emulsifier.

At five kilometers in length, the Emulsifier was nearly half the length of other SSDs produced around the same time. But her size was not all that set her apart from any other Star Destroyer. The Emulsifier combined archaic and cutting edge technologies to become one of the most unusual ships in the Imperial fleet. Her crew numbered less than what was considered a skeleton crew on an Imperial Class Star Destroyer, even though sh was four times as massive. Her hull was shaped like an assault corvette, long and narrow, presenting a minimal target from the front, and consequently, a large target from the side. The bridge was located at the front of the ship, putting her captain as close to the enemy as possible. It was no ship of the line, it was a extra-tactical weapons platform. It served as a long range combatant, relying on smaller ships to call in firing solutions for it’s deadly kinetic magnetic acceleration cannon (K-MAC). Solo hated it for what it was: a giant sniper rifle.

Solo was raised to confront his enemies face to face. To prove that he was a better warrior than his enemy, not just better equipped. Han Solo could never be satisfied with a distant kill. He wanted to be there, to watch his enemy die. Han wanted to look his victim in the eyes, see them in agony, and finally, watch them slip from the realm of the living forever. If he didn’t he couldn’t be sure that they wouldn’t come back to haunt him. The Emulsifier was everything he didn’t want in a warship.

He was almost too happy when it was captured by the CIS while being refit over Kuat. They had swept in and rid him of his trouble that day, and he felt happy for the ship….at least now it would be used. He’d commissioned his next flagship within a week. It was built around the hull of a standard Imperial Class SD, but the whole rest of the thing was a custom job. First and foremost, he had beefed up the engine array. The three standard drives were replaced by three triple clusters of high output ion drives salvaged from scrapped Venator-class destroyers. The main reactor had been replaced with two smaller, more efficient reactors, located farther back in the hull, whose combined output was half again the original's. This gave the ship speed and power, but it also made room for the ship's most novel feature.

The vast majority of the underside of the ship was hollow, from 200 meters rear of the prow, to 100 meters shy of the main reactors. This left a conveniently triangular 950 meter hole, perfect for parking a Victory class Star Destroyer in. Solo was all about versatility, and he wanted to have the ability to fight wherever his enemies hid, be it in space or on the ground. The customized Victory Class that he had built reflected this want of versatility. The bridge and whole upper section was shaved down to a flattened control deck, enabling the ship to fit snuggly up under the skirt of the larger Star Destroyer. All of the Victory's pectoral weapons were stock, consisting primarily of turbolaser turrets and batteries. It's ventral weapons were replaced for better performace in long range ground artillery roles. There were energy mortars, and A-MAC guns (Artillery MAC), as well as AA turrets and a wide area shield projector array, capable of projecting a two kilometer wide shield. This gave Solo the option to fight in space until his enemy retreated to the ground, and follow them the whole way.

The host ship, due to the removal of the majority of its interior decks, did not have fighter facilities when in standard configuration with the ground command ship, and would therefore be vulnerable without support from carriers. Solo came up with an ingenious solution of converting another Victory class into an all-space combat vessel, stripping it of landing gear, and adding a large new hangar to it's underside. This ship could then dock with the host ship, giving it fighter protection, while the being protected from larger threats. The host ship could also accomodate two Dreadnaughts or various other combinations of smaller ships.

Holy crap. I'll find a very very rainy day to read this.

Yeah....I got a little carried away, I guess.....but it's a good read for even a partially cloudy day, where the sun is kind of blotchy, and you think it might rain, even though the weather man said it wouldn't......so you end up staying inside and being bored all day....yeah, just perfect for one of those kind of days....