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Author	Topic: Planet Hopping – now with the Greatest Ending ever written
1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 8/24/05 10:49am Subject: Planet Hopping – now with the Greatest Ending ever written - Date Edited: 1/9 5:46pm (42 edits total) Edited By: 1Yodimus_Prime
	Title: Planet Hopping Author(s): Yes Timeframe: 'round twelve years after 'Hope, one year after the events in "On Yodimus" Characters: Yodimus, Darin, Melinworth and Rybinstall - all mine Genre: Humor, action, anarchy Keywords: Summary: This is a story about love, loss, vengance, redemption, and how much money one can make by faking those emotions. It's about wanton murder and the most fun ways to go about it. But most of all, it's about one salesman, and his trench coat. Because trench coats are awesome, and salesmen are only awesome when wearing them. Notes: This is a very interrelated sequel to "On Yodimus", which was finished a little under a year prior to my posting this. That's a long time in internet years, so I can't expect anybody to remember it. I wanted this to work on its own, but I'm a serial minded guy, so that's not going to happen. Still, I'd like to think a new reader will be able to feel like she or he understands what's happening, even when they feel a bit out of the loop. We'll see. (9/5)Pic Repository - when/if I add art during an update (or nonupdate, apparently) I'll post it here too, for easy reference. 1) Capt. Jhill Black - http://img52.imageshack.us/img52/3830/capnblack1rx.jpg 2) Opening Scene of "On Yodimus" - http://i61.photobucket.com/albums/h79/Yodimus/Yod_thief.jpg 3 Same as (2), but with the ship in the process of cloaking, just for fun - http://i61.photobucket.com/albums/h79/Yodimus/Yod_cloak.jpg If you want to see more, expect an awesome comic to be released (in serial installments) sometime this year! PS: The definition of "Greatest Ending" as "A thing I wrote to end this story" is ©Yodimus Prime 2009 now on to CHAPTER ONE ********************************** I really do despise professional salesmen. Okay yeah, I’m a salesman. By profession, I know. But I mean the professional professional salesmen. You know, the kind hired by corporations, who recite schpeels created by psychologists and sociologists in focus groups defined for fifty some odd demographics. Schpeels that are determined to be perfect for getting non-smoking male Gungans between the ages of 17 and 30 to buy Svekar Brand Skin Lotion. The sorts who feel the need to add “Representative” to their name the way doctors add “PhD”. These types of salesmen are idiots. Pompous, egocentric, overly optimistic morons who know the price of a every piece of real estate on the mid-layer suburbs of Coruscant but couldn’t tell you his wife’s birthday if it manifested itself into the corporeal and you beat him with it. To death. While yelling it to him. Oh, of course they’ll sell up a storm. Make tons of money doing it, too. I’m not jealous. I can sell up the same storm. The difference is this: The best of ‘em can sell you almost anything in the world, and you can be sure it’ll be the best almost anything you ever bought. I can sell you that too, but I can also sell you the broken, malfunctioning, and potentially hazardous. Not only that, I’ll do it in such a way that I’m able to stick around town at least a week before you realize your doohickey isn’t working right and sic your posse or perhaps the local police force after me. Now THAT’S skill, baby! But back to the point. Which is this: I hate professional salesmen with a passion, and not nobody outside the galaxy willn’t never convince me otherwise. Surrounding me for the past three days, as a constant reminder of my previous affirmation, is the triennial “Ship-to-Ship Convention Week” here outside the Durcust spaceports. It’s horrible, it really is. See, the best of them recognize me as a sort of fellow-in-arms right away. That makes them want to come over, shake hands, correspond if you will. They put on their “charming smile version 4.5.1 type B” and respond to my presence as though we’re close friends who lost track of each other after college several years ago and really, really need to catch up, right now. Then, they enter my zone of privacy, or zone of ‘Get the kriff away from me’ as I’ve come to call it, and laugh and joke and annoy the hell out of me. This makes the lower class, less-trained, and therefore infinitely more irritating salesmen take notice; of course that compels them to happen up to the growing crowd to find out what all the fuss is about, using their laughable acting skills and some poorly practiced nonchalance to successfully make themselves look like confused six year olds. All this for little old me. And all I want is to be left alone so I can concentrate on narrating. This is precisely why I’m grateful I can pawn that job off to someone else. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some nuisances to rid myself of. ****** Groggy was an understatement. Three days of triennial celebration was being capped off by a rousing game of early morning Riding-Drill races. Riding-Drills had nothing to do with soliciting datapedias no, but Durcust was financially supporting this festival with the budget of seventy-three million miners and nine hundred thousand geologists. Riding Drills were in the contract. But all Yodimus wanted to do was get some sleep. Staying up all night isn’t so bad. You’re too busy doing something so important you’re staying up all night to do it. There’s no time to notice you haven’t slept. But, sleeping three hours on the other hand, that is bad. No human accidentally sleeps three hours. No human intentionally sleeps three hours. There’s always a reason for being woken up and, no matter what the evacuation personnel or the guardian angel tells you, it’s never good enough. He tried just turning over and hiding under the covers. Shouldn’t closed, reinforced transperisteel windows be able to keep this noise out? He gargled in irritation and jammed his head under the fluffy pillow. It was no use. He threw off his covers with is feet, and lied there motionless for a couple minutes, counting each second to make sure it was real and not part of some bad dream concocted by a resentful subconscious. And his subconscious had plenty to be resentful of lately: like abhorrent sentimentality. “Longings for Long-Lost Loves,” the kind of subject matter that should be safely quarantined in bad romance novels. Not to mention the alliteration! Yodimus wished to avoid alliteration the way he avoided sentimentality, which is obviously not very well at the moment. Incidentally, it just so happened that the very reason he was here was to track down one of the best alliterators in the known galaxy. Or at least, the best to his knowledge. But at the moment, what was on his mind was not what was on his to-do list. And what was on his mind were the fond memories of an old girlfriend. A girlfriend he probably would have married if she hadn’t been sucked out of a large hull breach in mid-space flight. Not a pretty end, by any measure. Well, there. He got it over with. The moment passed. Yodimus sat up and cracked his neck, stretching out the stiffness. The sounds of sustained whirring, set in the key of ‘E’, vibrated his ribcage. It was a special kind of ‘E’ that sounded like it had been run down by rival musical notes who were currently in the process of beating the living crap out of it. The salesman rolled his eyes into his head, having no patience for this. But Yodimus was still only half awake and he forgot he did that. Thinking he’d lost his vision he panicked, wobbly hopped out of bed, and rubbed his eyes vigorously. Then he flopped back onto the mattress and tried to pretend that never happened. He succeeded. Finally, after about a half an hour of stretching and creaking of joints, Yodimus stood up. He wondered distantly why his eyes burned. Maybe cafe would fix that up, he thought, and shuffled over to the room’s little nightstand. On it rested a set of tourist mags, still in their bundle. A sign reading “Welcome to the gracious hospitality of the Cavern Inn!” was etched into a big shiny green rock with more cracks and stains than most cup holders. Legacy of a bankrupt marketing department. In front of it all was a simple, crack-free cup and saucer, awaiting use. Efficient. Economic. Simple. That marketing department could’ve learned a thing or two from the maids. The salesman picked them up hurriedly. Then he went and got his trench coat, and set the cup back down. He put on his coat, which was a touch heavier than usual. Just last night, he spent nearly an hour selling off one of his miniature repulsar lifts. So now he had one less lift helping him support the weight of all the things he kept inside. But it was worth it. Hell, for the creds he got from that deal, he could buy ten more lifts if he wanted. He didn’t, but he could. He picked the cup up again and made for the door. A huge crash reverberated distantly outside, he nearly tripped. Echoes of a perky announcer exclaimed a default winner, which was apparently the best kind from what he had gleaned of watching the competition yesterday. The news sent the crowd into a frenzy. Well…the ones who weren’t on fire anyway. Yodimus muttered something about morning people and set the cup down. He opened and closed the nightstand drawers until he found the one with his IDs inside. He pocketed them and picked up the cup from the stand’s top. He yet again set down the cup so he could pull out and count his credit chips. “Good enough.” He stuffed them back in his coat and left. The hallway was cluttered with sales reps rushing in and out of rooms, beaming in anticipation of the final day’s itinerary. Grapple Ball, Sabaac finals, kissing booths, he even heard someone mention musical chairs. Yodimus didn’t want to hear any of it.. All he wanted to do is walk down this hallway without having to smile or say hi to a single person. If he could do that, right now, that would make his whole day. He took a step, “Hey! ‘I don’t need this’ guy? From the efficiency conference? It’s Edwin! I did the talk about politeness? You threw the ripe cantaloupe at my head?” It wasn’t to be. The man who was walking square into Yodimus’s path of motion was all smiles and sunshine, acting way too joyous to be meeting someone who attempted to murder him in public with fresh fruit. Someone else in slick, herbal-washed black hair was coming up behind this guy, curious of the interaction. Yodimus felt he should know that guy too. “Eh? You remember me?” Edwin asked. Yodimus only subtly looked up at Edwin the sales rep. He didn’t want to lift his head because the glare of the hall lights still hurt his eyes. The man’s teeth were enormous behind that gaping smile. His skin was smooth but stretched, like his cheeky dimples were actually black holes trying desperately to make him implode. His eyes glinted in the dusty light. It was about nine in the morning, but the clouds diffused everything with bland white light. “No.” Yodimus said, and tried to keep moving. “Well, no bother. Hey I’ve heard good things about you!” he infuriatingly continued. “Great.” Yodimus replied, emotionlessly. His eyes were focused on nothing but the end of the hall. There, at the end, was a cafe machine, where he would quietly celebrate his victory over grogginess. If his eyes were more alert, they’d see other salesmen peeking out their doors to see what was going on. “Yes I sure have,” Edwin went on, “from many people. I’d love it if you signed up to speak at the next conference. It would be-“ Yodimus looked up. Directly into his eyes he stared. His sleepy, bloodshot eyes looked more bored than intimidating, but it had the same effect. Sales reps hated it when they made people bored. Nobody made money off bored people. Except home shopping networks over the Holonet, but that’s beside the point. The man’s glittery brown irises fluttered uncomfortably at the gaze. Calmly, without stopping, Yodimus grabbed the man by the face and flung him into the corridor wall. Edwin made an “oof,” as his body thudded to the floor. The guy behind the Rep moved away a little, so Yodimus just poked him in the eye a bit. And then again, when he realized the guy had two. Then two more times, to get the ones he missed behind the man’s head. And one last time, just for fun. Yodimus was somewhat disappointed. He wanted to finish by stamping on a third salesman’s foot. But for some reason, everyone was slamming their doors shut or running in terror. On the bright side, the hallway was clear. Ah, yes. That was Vreck Stalbik he’d just poked in the numerous eyes over there. Yodimus didn’t really know the guy enough to truly despise him, but the name just gave Yodimus a bad taste in his mouth. When he had first heard the name over the conference loudspeaker, Yodimus recalled it sounding comparable to being shot in the stomach with a slug-thrower and then getting kicking repeatedly after doubling over in pain. On the bright side, it was short. So it didn’t remind him of “Melinworth and Rybinstall”, which sounds comparable to having your skin peeled off, getting splashed with acid and then being burned to death. At least, according to Yodimus. Speaking of having your skin peeled off, getting splashed with acid and then being burned to death, here they come now. “Hey! Yod!” they said in a poor attempt at unison. Because they always hear people calling him something slightly different, thanks to his innumerable aliases, neither of them is certain what his full name really is. So they opted for this more comfortable nickname at some point in the past and stuck with it. Yodimus looked longingly at that cafe machine. It now stood there like some menacing arch nemesis, mocking him from its vile resting space just out of reach. ‘So close, yet so far away,’ came to mind. A saying he’d heard spacers use once before, back when he actually had to introduce himself and make friends in order to gain contacts. Nowadays, he no longer has to. Now he makes contacts without even realizing it. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he’s tried, he has yet to discover a way to unmake contacts. Especially annoying ones, like- “We were just about to wake you up, man!” Rybinstall, “There are these wild racing contests going on down there. We signed you up with us. Come on!” “Um.” “It seemed like a great way to enjoy the morning air, have a little fun, and make a few friends all at once!” and Melinworth, “Anyway, considering how successful you’ve become in lowering your reputation with these guys, anything you do from this point on can only make you look good! It’s win-win! Well, unless we lose. But that’s not the point anyway. Well, except for mine. We’ve…though, and as much as I wish to be humble, I’m afraid I am primarily to blame for the ingenious and beautifully simple parts,” Rybinstall opened his mouth to object, but Melinworth raised his hand, “although Ryb could be attributed to the technical bits, so don’t worry there.” “I’m not.” Yodimus replied out of rote. Then his mind kicked on, realizing that he may very well have just agreed to something exquisitely stupid, “Wait, about what?” Melinworth shrugged, holding a grin, “About the plan. We’re going to cheat. Now come on! Our slot’s coming up.” Yodimus stood his ground. He was not about put his life in the hands these two, especially when he wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying in the first place, “I’m going to have a cup of cafe.” He challenged, “Then, I’m going back to bed.” Melinworth cocked his head, more curious than taken-aback, “Seems a bit contradictory, though. Don’t you think? Drinking something that makes you wake up so you can sleep…” Rybinstall, who’d had his eyes peeled for dropped credits since their landing, when he found one in the docking bay, suddenly piped up, “Yod, by any chance do you sell cafe cups?” “No Rybinstall. No I do not. Now, if you will both please –“ “Then what are you going to use to drink it?” Yodimus was now staring down into his empty hands, his left eye making a valiant attempt to keep from twitching. Cafe machine one. Yodimus zero. ********* I'll update weekly. Biweekly if I start writing faster. -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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SilSolo Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 8/24/05 11:15am Subject: RE: Planet Hopping
	FIRST REPLY! Greatfic! Is your username by any chance a TF/SW xover? -----signature----- http://boards.theforce.net/beyond_the_saga/b10477/27517284/p1/?11 Like this quick sketch: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/32848083/ ? Then commission me. Prices are negotiable.
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VaderLVR64 Title: Manager Emeritus Registered: Feb '04	Date Posted: 8/24/05 11:48am Subject: RE: Planet Hopping
	Great start! Looking forward to more! -----signature----- R.I.P John, Alex, Jason, and Christian Never forgotten Soldiers' Angels http://soldiersangels.org/ 2114 soldiers waiting for someone to care
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 8/25/05 9:45am Subject: RE: Planet Hopping - Date Edited: 8/25/05 9:46am (1 edits total) Edited By: 1Yodimus_Prime
	Silsolo: Thanks! as to your question, all I can say is [falsetto] "You got the touch, You got the Powah!"[/falsetto] Sadly, when Yoda opened the Autobot Matrix of Leadership, the trailer-that-appears-from-nowhere crushed him to death. Vaderlvr64: Also thanks! And there will be much more, I can assure you -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 8/29/05 10:37am Subject: RE: Planet Hopping
	a new week, a new post. a little short, and not much action, but in the next one I'm completely switching gears. Things'll pick up, I guarantee it. ----------------------------- “Uh, listen…” “…We’re up next, just sign here and we can go to the starting line.” “Right, look…” Melinworth pointed over to the judge’s table, “That way. C’mon Yodimus, do you really want to be looked down upon by these guys? Of course not. Social standing is important these days.” “Yeah, but…” “It’s become very fashionable. Now if we have any hope of being at the tips of the cultural waves, we need to be on a Riding Drill, right? “Well, that’s just what…” “Right! So let’s get out there and show those sales wannabes that you can ride a drill like the best of ‘em!” “Like the best of who, Melinworth!?” Yodimus spun a slow revolution, his arms stretched out wide. “Other,” he looked around, less sure of himself, “other salesmen.” “Melinworth. The Sales Reps don’t participate in the Riding Drill races.” He moved up real close to the spacer, closing the distance fast, “The only people of merchant inclination you’ll find out on that track are miner’s interested in selling their soul to get off this rock, and they probably can’t even sell that.” With spit from “Can’t” and “That” landing squarely on Melinworth’s cheek. This short outburst was quite intimidating, since it mimicked the usual outcome of a Riding Drill race: fast, loud, and fiery. Melinworth tried to recover, “It would be fun though, right? Riding around on one of those crazy devices like maniacs. Don’t you think it would be fun at least?” All of the sudden, a thought occurred to Yodimus. Then he became very nervous. Those two things were almost completely unrelated, “You know they don’t supply you with a Riding Drill, don’t you? “Yep. We got one waiting.” Said Rybinstall, thumbing behind his back. “The natives don’t sell them, and owners don’t like parting with them, so how did you end up with…actually, never mind.” Said Yodimus, voicing his thought, “Anyway, it sounds like you intend to do this with or without me?” “You bet!” Rybinstall shouted. He shouted partly out of excitement and partly because a drill engine was roaring off to their left. The shaking body of a gleaming orange and red Riding Drill rolled past. It was about twice the height of the pilot – a big, wild man with a bigger, wilder beard – and four times as long as that. It looked like several different vehicles that had nothing to do with each other decided, one day, to position themselves at equal distances and drive full-force into each other, all at once. Later, someone insane took the heap to be something useful, added a gigantic drill to the side he decided to call ‘front’, and the fad caught on. The drill itself was a mystery. It vaguely hinted at the typical cone shape, otherwise it was nothing more than a convolution of pointy metal, several kinds, jutting out of everywhere in any conceivable direction it wished. The points were mostly independent of each other. There was an overall casing of some sort, but within, the metals were braided, weaved, knotted, tied or wrapped, coiled, barbed, welded, and lashed to anything available. Usually itself. None of the machines looked new, even with a fresh coat of paint. “And we also intend on using this to our full advantage. We doubt we’ll ever get a chance to ride one of these things again.” Added Melinworth after the machine had passed. “Ah!” Yodimus smirked, “So you’re just borrowing the thing, then?” “What? No, we bought it.” And the two walked off to sign in. This was the part that had originally made him nervous, and now it had drained some of the color from his face. The two of them were not, to put it one way, safe pilots. To put it another way: the only reason the two of them haven’t been jailed yet is that the extent of the damage caused upon their landing on this planet is still being tallied. Further, it was so devastating that no one is really quite sure what caused it yet. Just yesterday they ruled out low-yield atomics, but only because the current calculations indicate that not enough radiation was released in the original blasts. “Explosives-laden Space Station, fallen from orbit” is still on the list of possibilities. Rybinstall gives them four more days to catch on. It’s from experience that he knows that. Now to illustrate this further – just after entering the system, a small motley band of pirates attacked their ship. Afterwards, Melinworth made a comment implying that he’d rather die than see their ship harmed. If that is what they can do with things they care about, thought Yodimus has he hurried toward them, then there’s no telling the devastation the duo could wrought when in control of something they don’t. The salesman rushed his name onto the entry list, right next to two others. Participating in the trite and less-than-uninteresting events of the festival was one thing, but this was now a matter of saving the world. -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 9/2/05 2:11pm Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 8-29)
	Early update, cuz it's also a little short. A quick little "meanwhile" ************** Somewhere deep in the outer rim frontier, a world was destroyed. Its destruction was thanks to information found inside an antique. Namely, the oldest datapad in existence. It lay, moldy, bent, and cracked, on the arm rest of the captain’s chair on the bridge of a ship that shouldn’t be able to fly, manned by brutish gangsters who should be dead, and lead by the scrawniest, most chinless, longest nosed, and shortest crime lord this side of Rodia, where one of the Black Sun knock-offs is being led by a critter about the size of a squirrel. It’s the only certainty the galaxy offers: no matter how (any hyperbole) you are, there’s something that tops you, guaranteed. The datapad itself was acquired in one of the most complicated and bloody business transactions in the history of the universe…to end in a fair trade. One Yodimus Prime, going by Yordifus Perm, sold it to this crime lord and it got the salesman a ship and more creds in one place than he’s seen in his lifetime. Had he known that selling this simple device would mean the death of billions, well… Well, he’d probably sell it anyway, because that’s how he is. But he’d feel bad. He may not have a conscience, but he’s got feelings. This crime lord on the other hand, no one’s really sure what he’s got. That is, other than the key to galactic annihilation. Exactly what happened to the planet is hard to say. Its one of those odd events that are doomed to forever be told as rumor and legend, the actual facts disintegrating several seconds after the planet. The general consensus is that it was complicated. Everything else is disputed. Mostly by paranoid delusionals. But rumor is, it went like this: In the makeshift docking bay of the mob’s wretched ship, the boss’s newest hit man, Levin (that’s Léh-vin, not La-vín. This is Star Wars, not France.), leaned against the wall. He looked suspicious. He always looked suspicious though, that was practically his job. Levin was a spindly, snake-like creature, his nose a beak, who felt most at home in dark, damp corners looking at people through his peripheral vision. An odd way to describe a human, but he played the role even better than the actual snake-like, hawk-beaked alien they had on the payroll, so nobody complained. Granted, they’d be complaining about the way people were being described by a disembodied narrator, which first of all would get them locked up in the loony bin, and second of all make me really concerned. Levin was waiting for someone, because he was curious. He was also always curious, but while usually that was nothing more than the color of his mood, today he had a purpose in mind. He checked his crono. Any minute now. His eyes flicked to their corners, straining against fragile tendons. The hit man absolutely hated the idea of turning his head to look at something, and his eye muscles paid the price. Ah, here he comes. The ground vibrated a few seconds before the man appeared. It was his boss’s right hand man. Straight from the bridge, off to inspect the smaller craft. The giant man’s name was Grag Lulldock, nearly a full Lieutenant in the imperial military before being discharged for questionable sanity. Lucky thing too, since his next mission would have put him on the Emperor’s Death Star: 2, the sequel and he would’ve gone up in smoke with the rest of ‘em. Not real bright, but he was good at imbuing a bit of organization into the deal. Engrained military protocol, Levin supposed. Helped “morale” at least. Whatever. It didn’t explain the current battle scars: new prosthetic left arm, new lung, new left leg…actually, he’d say it looked like his whole left side was pretty much robot. Nobody said why. Nobody ever told him anything. That was gonna change right now, “Hello Lieutenant Lulldock.” He rasped quietly . “Uh, yes?” Grag, first of all, never felt comfortable hearing his name with ‘Lieutenant’ In it. Second of all, he’s wasn’t very good at changing his plans once he made them. Four O’clock, every three days, he inspected ships. End of story. If the dock was empty, he’d find something ship-like and inspect it. But that’s what he did, and if something changed that, it really confused things. “Mind if I call you Grag?” Grag exhaled a bit of nervous tension, “Yeah, that’d be okay.” “Grag, me an’ the boys,” this was not really an accurate opening – Levin is, and always will be, a loner. But he’d gotten in the habit of starting requests out that way because it just seemed an appropriate thing for a gangster to say, “we were all kinda wonderin’: what the frell happened out there? Where’d that planet go and was that us or just some anomaly…thing?” Grag lit up. Ever since the boss did what he saw him do, Grag had been itching to talk about it, but it seemed like a thing to keep secret. Still, the boss hadn’t expressly said, ‘keep this a secret,’ so technically, all Grag was waiting for was someone to ask him. He spilled it, “Nope, no anomaly. That was Mr. Fillish’s doin, all the way. See, what happened was, I was standin’ there, performing my guard duties –“ “Guard duties?” “Standin’ at attention. Lookin’ carefully. That sort of thing. And then we came out of Hyperspace, and Mr. Fillish runs over to the safe and takes out that old datapad that he’d bought before you all recovered me, takes it out of its transperisteel case and starts beepin’ away at the thing. Pounding practically. He was friggin’ frantic.” “So then?” “Well, my guard duties had me a clear view of some windows when we came out of Hyper. And-“ “View screens, Grag.” “-so I…huh?” “There isn’t a single window in this entire ship. You were looking at a view screen. Go on.” “Right, well so I could see the planet we’d arrived next to when we came out. And then I’d turned to see G- Mr. Fillish doin’ this thing, and then I turn back and I saw, get this, I saw, know what I saw?” “Yes, what did you see?” “I…you do?” “Do what?” “You really know what I saw? Cuz-“ “Oh! No, no, no. That’s my fault, I meant ‘no’ there. Merely an expression. Go on.” “…Funny expression. So, y’know what I saw?” “Erm, what did you see?” “Nuthin’!” Grag’s open-mouthed smile stood in solid expectation through the silence. Levin stared at him blank-faced. He blinked once. Twice. “Ah.” he said. “Did you see it too?” “NO! I didn’t see it – just like you Grag. Kriff! I’m going back to my bunk. Good luck with your ‘Standin’ and lookin’.” “Uh…thanks?” Levin stomped off, “I’d work on that ‘lookin’ part, though.” He added as he rounded the bend. Levin spent the rest of the day calling people over secure channels. He’d been given practically no useful information. Practically. At least he knew for a fact that Genny was somehow responsible. Now it was just a matter of making sure all his contacts knew it wasn’t their good friend Levin’s fault. This was, for all intents and purposes, the only moment when real, factual information was communicated to anyone regarding that event. All accounts from here on out would be, as Yodimus would say, ‘DEAD’ – Dramatized, Exaggerated, And Distorted. Needless to say, by the time Yodimus sat down upon the Riding Drill, Genny Fillish, retired munitions expert and acting mob boss, would be held responsible for either the complete destruction of a well-populated solar system, constructing a cloakable Death Star, secretly reactivating Centerpoint via some magical remote control, causing a sun to go nova through sheer will, or slaughtering a small village, depending on where in that sector of the galaxy you happened to be at the time. **** -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 9/6/05 1:54pm Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 9-2)
	Here's a roight 'n proper update then: ******************** The locals called Riding Drills “Zinfrags”. “Zin” is a Durcustian (highly dialectic Basic mixed with Late Old Correllian) word for ‘memory’. “Frag” is a Durcustian word for ‘Frag.’ You know, like ‘annihilate,’ ‘destroy,’ ‘ruin,’ ‘break completely.’ That sort of thing. See, most of the drill’s power is in its ability to accelerate. Plus, the inertial dampers are of an effectiveness some might describe as ‘completely unhelpful’. The end result is, whatever you were thinking about the second before igniting the engines, will fly right out the window the instant you gas it – equivalent to you and a friend taking your brains out and using them in a contest to see who can smash through the brick wall first. Yodimus was now experiencing this wonderful feeling. Wonderful, because all thoughts about Melinworth and Rybinstall destroying the city had just been erased from his mind. Replacing them were more sentiments for days past, dead girlfriends, and the like. In other words, his thoughts were rewound to what he was thinking about this morning. Most of this thinking was pleasant, despite my constant hinting at melodramatic tragedy. What did get him a little down though, was his own stubbornness – he’ll be thirty-two soon, and still no attempt to start over. That would be, what, nine years? More? Something. It was depressing, it really was. An arm flew over his head. The duo missed the memory-wipe boat, it looked like. Of course, the duo were used to crash-strength accelerations, so it’s not something to go be surprised about. In fact, they were having the time of their lives. There was good reason: the bar tender they ran into when they crashed through the hotel lobby had survived. So did the bar. Both were teetering atop the cockpit, which had no windshield to begin with. The bartender seemed nonplussed by this turn of events, mixing away next to the duo. The customer sitting on the stool that had managed to remain connected to the structure also continued to hover over his drink, oblivious to everything. The bar, on the other hand, looked terrified. Yodimus found this offensive once he broke out of his musings, “Drinking, guys!? Really! It’s one thing to be horrid drivers while sober, but this is absolutely no excuse!” He picked up the bar tender by the collar, “You should be ashamed, sir.” And tossed him off the side. “Discounts on the first driiiiiiiink!” he yelled as he vanished over the side. The salesman looked down at the jittering bar, hanging on for dear life. A single filled glass was left. Yodimus thought about it a second, shrugged, and replaced the drink with a couple credits. Three hours of sleep and getting dragged about for seemingly no logical purpose. Yeah, that deserved a drink. He took a sip as they passed the finish line going the wrong direction, “To be fair, the guy really did make an excellent White Nubian at mach two.” The Duo actually weren’t drinking anything at the moment, nor were they listening. They had preoccupied themselves with oncoming riding drills. In particular was the red one they had seen earlier, now headed straight for them. His was not moving to swerve. But then, neither did Melinworth and Rybinstall have any intention of doing so. There are two sorts of people in the universe one should never play chicken with: people like big, bearded miners; and people like the Duo. Yodimus, in all his trench-coated street smarts, was aware of this. He now wished he could have envisioned a situation where the two might meet without him getting a chance to be part of it. But, oh well. That’s nothing but another ‘could’ve, would’ve’ now. Yodimus didn’t so much brace himself as spit out his drink, scream himself hoarse, and go cross-eyed. Then he resigned himself to his fate and ordered another drink, which would never come, but seemed like the right thing to do in those circumstances. A funny thing about ‘could’ve, would’ve’s is that they usually get attributed to situations that involve massive amounts of luck. “I could’ve won the lottery,” “I would’ve guessed heads if it was me playing,” “I could’ve anticipated their arrival by switching rooms and locking the door, and dragging the cafe machine next to me,” &c. But when someone actually gets lucky – really truly, massively, lucky - it’s almost always ignored, and often forgotten immediately. Like so: At the last second before impact, a pebble sent them into the slightest left-tilt. The result was the two drills, instead of smashing head-on, landed glancing blows on each other’s pointy fronts. The crash brought them into a whirling dance of deadly sharp metal. Suddenly, it seemed to the other racers that the last lap was inhabited by a gigantic Rotor Blade Of Doom. They acted accordingly. This Rotor Blade Of Doom, once it scared off the contenders, cleared the playing field. In a social mood, it moved in a gyroscopic motion toward the onlookers of idle natives, celebrities, and swaths of Sales Reps. Yodimus was very glad he didn’t eat breakfast first. Not that he had a weak stomach for violence, the ensuing tossed salad of body parts and people bits didn’t bother him; he just wasn’t a big fan of high-speed centripetal motion. To randomly interject, if you don’t mind: it is not uncommon for riding drills to spontaneously explode. In fact, most do it before the race even starts. Because of this, everyone is ready for one. Not only is it not surprising, it’s expected. If the race starts with ten drills, somewhere between five and three, on a good day, might cross the finish line. Sometimes, nobody crosses and the standings are decided by which pile of wreckage got the farthest. Rules for a riding drill race dictate that a good sort of win is a default one. In other words, a win in which not only do the losers explode, but so does the winner. Even better is if the winner manages to cross prior to exploding. The best case has the winner crossing the finish while exploding. Nowhere in the rules, though, do they list a default win that includes having the exploding wreckage driving directly toward the crowd. They assumed, at some point, that nobody would be so insanely foolish as to actually drive in a direction not in line with the motion of the track. As the Duo’s and the bearded miner’s homicidal dance sowed a touch of chaos through the carnival, followed by a pinch of carnage, someone, somewhere, was sitting in shock, nursing a wound, and rewriting the rules. **** At that exact moment, about several hundred light-years away, someone was humming their pleasant way toward a fresher. To clarify: the person referred to was pleasant to look at, not feeling pleasant. This person, alien depending on your point-of-species, hummed up to a EDU (Evacuatives Deposit Unit) and – stopped short. Quite literally, about a tenth of a second short of actually using the thing for its function. It was a rather uncomfortable move, and this person’s urinary tract was thanking him for it, sarcastically. Between him and the depository unit was a sign, written in large, friendly letters, buffered on either end with a smiley face: “Out of Order.” And of course, there was no other ‘Unit’ in this fresher. Slave facilities only ever carry one. Now, I say “him” but this is sort of, though not quite, a misnomer. We are looking at an unhappy, and now even more unhappy, female Twi’Lek. She wasn’t really all that happy prior to events-leading-up-to-but-not-including-those-just-stated, but had learned to live with her born-in slavery and be “pleasant” as they say. But then she left, spiritually speaking. Now, “he” is there, out of technically no fault of his own (in as much as he can control where he ends up), really disappointed about his new position and thinking very hard about who was responsible for sending him out of his perfectly decent and socially powerful body and indirectly dropping him into this one. Oh, and the constipation. Outside, Gratuba the Hutt was waiting. The Twi’Lek grumbled something about trench coats - trying to connect a meaningful picture. Nothing. The entorage was waiting. ‘He’ sucked it up, figuratively and literally, and went to get it over with. -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 9/13/05 12:40pm Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 9-6, roight 'n proper) - Date Edited: 9/14/05 11:25am (1 edits total) Edited By: 1Yodimus_Prime
	Another small one. A hold over till next week when I'll slap up a real biggie. 'pdate! ______________________ Finally, they righted themselves. Then, they rolled over again, and slid another fifty meters on their side. They righted themselves yet again, this time for good hopefully. Yodimus dared to look behind. The main yard was a mess. It looked like the landscaping company decided to cut the grass with a turbo laser. That wasn’t the only thing mowed down. If a passerby happened to walk by, they’d think an all-out war occurred here, what with the sheer quantity of blood, gore, moaning casualties, and burning items. That wasn’t too far from the truth, either. Once people realized that the Rotor Blade Of Doom was acting in a homicidal fashion, everyone carrying a weapon – a scattering of the most paranoid Sales Reps and every available miner – pulled one out. The result was a firefight the likes of which Durcust hadn’t seen since the Clone Wars. It was the sort of battle where there was a faction of intelligent and well-armed but terrified life forms taking on a small number (in this case, one) of non-intelligent but nearly invincible machines. Battles of that sort were good at killing everyone on both sides. The life forms were all dead, yes. That was a given. But how it was that they: Yodimus, Melinworth, Rybinstall, and the bored drunk, were still alive was a question one could only ask whatever god happened to be available at the time. The other Riding Drill sadly did not survive the onslaught. A quarter of its smoldering carcass still dragged behind the Duo’s, but the rest of it was victim to a well placed blaster bolt – single blaster bolt – that managed to hit it at that perfect spot which may have been specifically designed to cause the machine to explode. Whether the bearded miner inside survived was still up in the air, but the several tons of sharpened metal that had flown directly through the famously unprotected cockpit from every direction, in the about same way a large group of uncivilized assassins might go about killing a political leader within a confined space, pointed toward a “no.” Then Yodimus turned back around. Then he wished he hadn’t. Before him rose the solid stonewalls of a Durcustian city. They rose quickly and angrily in that way only solid stonewalls can. It was all offset by the “yeehaw”s and whooping of his two copilots. It made Yodimus terrified and furious at the same time. It was an boiling fury. A fury tempered by years of pressurizing irritation. If it had occured while Yodimus was armed, the Duo would be dead by now. Instead it just turned his a sharp red, ground his teeth, burst a vein in his eye, and caused him to growl. Then he did something horridly stupid. He took the controls. Melinworth and Rybinstall shut up and stumbled back from the shove he gave, looking more surprised and quiet than they’d ever looked in their lives. Yodimus couldn’t appreciate that. He wasn’t paying enough attention. He was too busy taking over and ending the whole fiasco. This was it. Show’s over. Fun’s fun, but this had gone on quite long enough, thank you very much. Now it was time to pack it up, shut it down, and go home. Now if only he knew how it worked. At that very moment, to his horror, it dawned on Yodimus that he was piloting a NICEVUB. In his clever little jargon, this was code for “NonIntuitive Controls, Engine Volatile, Uncooperative Breaks” and it only applied to machines Yodimus couldn’t fly. He wasn’t even sure what the steering wheel was. Melinworth would have gladly explained the whole deal if he wasn’t gaping at him like a startled mouse. So instead, Yodimus nudged all the levers to the left a tad, so they’d be aimed generally toward the glass buildings instead of the looming stonewalls, and then curled up into a ball and cried. Yodimus, crying in the corner of a doomed Riding Drill, was not actually the most pathetic thing on the green that day. A little earlier, after being face-planted in a hallway, Edwin decided to join the other spectators at the races. When all out war broke loose in the stands and on the field, poor Edwin freaked out. Unscratched, but reduced to a blubbering pile of whimpers, he shoved his dimple-cheeked way in front of small wounds, large wounds, lost fingers, dismemberment cases, internal injuries, and the many levels of brain damage, toward the front of the medical booth and demanded to be treated for mental anguish. Needless to say, when he got to the front the lady at the desk smacked him upside the head and tossed him in the area they roped off for whiners. So he took that prize. Rybinstall was a tiny bit less surprised than Melinworth, if only because he was generally too dense to understand just how serious Yodimus was being. So when it all came to crying in the corner, Rybinstall took control of the situation. It was time to implement Plan ‘C’. “C” for “Cheat”. And it involved activating a switch that should not be activatable, so he did it with great pomp and capped it off with maniacal laughter. The immediate front end of the drill - the drill part - began shaking. Then moving. Then rotating. Then spinning. The whirling. Soon it was abuzz and shuddering with terrifying speed. Riding Drills are fine enough for races, but they must be useful or there would be no need for them. Therefore, as a compromise, before a race all drills are deactivated. Somehow, Mel and Ryb had found some way around this. “Great!” yelled Yodimus, over the noise and his own sniffling, “Your big plan for winning was to drill our way to the finish line! Excuse me if I don’t bow before your genius! I think my spine will be in pieces in a few moments anyway!” he went on like this for a while. Now Rybinstall, who was either not paying attention or unable to hear the ravings, was in full pilot mode. He had currently jumped upon the task of finding something to run into which would both stop the drill and not kill them. Taken separately, this was easy. Running into a mountain of pillows would not kill them. Running into a solid steel fortress surrounded by a field of force pikes and mines would stop the drill. Finding a “happy medium” would not be quite so simple. Melinworth was still gaping like a dying fish. The city could no longer be described as “up ahead” as most of it was beginning to pass by them. Lowering his expectations, Rybinstall began looking for a “less-than-content medium”. He searched for the softest looking building in the area. Parked speeders were crushed, pets were run down, traffic signs were shredded. Vehicle owners were shaking their fists, pet owners were trying to give chase. Nobody really cared about the traffic signs. “Ah, here we go.” He said cheerfully, and rammed them headlong into an old brick wall. -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 9/14/05 11:27am Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 9-13, roight 'n proppah)
	Bumpers! Not a thing I do often, but...dang...page four in less that a day. That's impressive, even for me. Something had to be done. -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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amidalachick Registered: Aug '03	Date Posted: 9/14/05 2:07pm Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 9-13, roight 'n proppah) - Date Edited: 9/14/05 2:07pm (1 edits total) Edited By: amidalachick
	That was great! I love it so far! -----signature----- "So I can open my own can of pudding, can I? Shows what you know, Marge!"
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 9/15/05 11:04am Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 9-13, roight 'n proppah)
	amidalachick- sweet! thanks! Hopefully I'll be dragging even more laughing icons out of you in the future -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 9/19/05 12:35pm Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 9-13, roight 'n proppah) - Date Edited: 9/19/05 12:47pm (3 edits total) Edited By: 1Yodimus_Prime
	Thar she blows! ****** “Darin? Mr. Darin Lightpad?” a finger popped out over the crowd of heads in response, “Your Triple-Café-Latte-Mucha-Lucha-Soda-Chino is ready, sir.” Came the sound of a bored kid in a black hooded robe, graced with a natural set of neon orange locks. The concoction, oozing smoke and smoking ooze, was crowd surfed over to the finger. The finger snaked around the handle of the bubbling, trembling cup, and brought the prize before its master – a set of lips. The lips were happy though unwilling to accept the drink, but the eyes above them were darting and restless. They couldn’t decide whether to close up for the rest of the day, or just frell it all and jump out of the adjoining face now while they had the chance. The face itself was acting about as stoic as could be faked, aside from a tick that twitched now and then. The owner of all these bits and pieces would bring something up right about now. Specifically, he would note the interesting fact that (without using a single one of those words. Mercenaries are neither eloquent, nor known for talking in third person) the phrase “tick that twitched” is silent illeration, in that “th” is not often associated with the ‘T’ group by many people, because the sound is different. Such a nerd remark could only belong to one ultra-deadly mercenary in this galaxy: Darin Lightpad. And as we heard out of the bored Sith impersonator’s mouth, Darin is not afraid, unlike a certain salesman we know, to use his real name. He tugged on his vest. It was one size too small - way too loose for his tastes. He gave a lanky spacer a good sneer for glancing at him too long. The guy jumped and then shakily pretended nothing had happened. That was why Darin was even sitting in so painfully hip and trendy a place: angry looks target practice. Improving his intimidation skills had been a goal of his lately, and places like the “I’m Not a Sith Cafe House and Grill,” a hive of grossly overstated and blatantly self-aware irony, held great fodder for that sort of thing. It all started last month when he revealed himself to one of his queries, a Gansha cheese smuggler. Upon realizing that Darin was about to take him in, the bubbly snake laughed so hard that he choked on a quada raisin and had to be revived at the orbital police station. Yeah he caught him, but at what cost to his pride? He sniffed his cafe-esque drink and took a look around. The cafe house had spent a great deal of money to make their upscale, first floor, class-A property imitate a run-down dive. Everything was dark save the hovering menu behind the counter. Imitation haze hung against a ceiling with imitation water stains painted on. The walls were all brick interior, some even had cracks and chips in them, or were misspackled to add to the effect. It was really quite impressive considering the guy at the door told Darin the place just moved in a week ago. It really did look just like the actual run down dive two blocks away. Or at least it seemed like that now. This gave Darin the idea that maybe he should do a quick comparison. Walking out of the place, holding his long winded beverage, his first impression was, “Good Force, I can breath again!” and after greedily sucking in deep breaths, his second impression was, “What the frell is that noise?” The sound of crashing walls is extremely easy to identify. They are the sole reason the word “crash” even exists. Walls are, as a rule, the only thing that, when crashing, actually sound like “crash”. Problem is, if you spend most of your life in space, shooting at and bringing down high-flying nutsos, crashes will usually sound like “boom” to you. Darin was at a loss when placing the odd sound, but knew that it must be both bad and catastrophic. He picked up his pace toward the dive, careful not to spill his over-priced cup of steaming dark stuff. He warily crossed the empty road – most of the populace was attending that strange festival – fully aware that the crashing sounds were getting louder. The dive was just across the way, wedged into the corner building. It looked like a small vein of mold crushed inside an enormous, twenty-story block of cheese. That seemed about right. Closing the green wooden door behind him with a “clack”, he got a good look at the shady dive’s patrons: three big angry men packing heat, a bartender with one eye patch and one cybernetic eye, and four poisonous looking creatures in the corner. They had all stopped what they were doing to glare at the newcomer. Darin breathed a sigh of relief and got comfortable at the bar. Surrounding him was a smokey haze and gloom, far too thick and stifling to be hip. There was no way he'd be able to compare the walls without lugging in a very large spotlight. Still, he was able to conclude that the ceiling did have water stains: it was dripping on him. The dangling wood plank with the menu on it was not lit up. Not that it mattered. All it probably said was "Beer." He sat his dark, questionable liquid on the sticky surface and called the no-eyed bartender over with a twitch of that finger. The man’s electronic eyepiece got a suspicious glow in it as he stepped near the amiable mercenary. He looked reproachful. There was a clear sign over what used to be the bar’s mirror: NO MERCS, NO BOUNTY HUNTERS. The three outlaws, for that’s likely who they were, kept their hands gripped tightly upon their many weapons. Neither of the bartender’s hands were where Darin could see them. One of the creatures in the corner hissed something that was either an insult, a death threat, or a request for the saltshaker he was next to. Darin stared most at them. He wasn’t about to give up his saltshaker. But before anybody had a chance to start dying, a crash louder than all the rest shook the small, smelly room. While the poor lighting was busy flickering back to dimness, the whole lot of them took the opportunity to look out the squat windows next to the creaky door. At first, they didn’t see anything at all. That was good enough for Darin, who turned his attention back to the quasi-cafe in front of him. He’d have to drink it sooner or later. He lifted the cup, everyone gasped. He watched the steam rise one last time, an eerie silence fell. He brought the cup near for a final whiff, everyone screamed. He touched it to his lips, the ground shook. “Hey, wait a second…” he said. His head darted up from the wordy liquid. The eye parts of his face came in line with the sharp parts of an enormous toothy juggernaut, and Darin realized that nobody in the room had been reacting to him. As several tons of psychotically arranged drilling equipment exploded shards of glass, steel, and green painted wood toward his person, he took that moment to put the lid back on his drink. Blood curdling screams, shrapnel of every conceivable size, concrete, various metals, and headless furry critters littered the room. Dust began to settle all around Darin, who had been too concentrated on carefully capping a colorless cup to get hit with anything. The centerpiece to all this sat disappointingly off-center, smoking even more dust, which would just have to wait its turn to settle. The entire drill front had dislodged itself and had rammed headlong into the beings in the corner. They’d been pureed. Their blood was now eating through the furniture. All four of the big angry guys had lost something that had been important to their physiology, and possibly their continued existence. Somehow, though not quite the most surprising detail, there was now a second bar sitting directly on top of the first. To Darin’s bewilderment, a tired drunk raised a glass in his direction, two feet above him. Unable to think of anything else to do, he raised one back. Then, from the obliterated cockpit rose three figures. They were clearly human, and clearly idiots. Worse, they looked familiar. Still, Darin had to squint to see any detail in the smoky air. They were moving a lot in that tight space. Probably, they were checking themselves to make sure they were all there. At least, that’s what Darin would be doing. Then, the one on the left satisfied, he whacked the other two and began yelling. It looked like, but Darin couldn’t be certain, that that one was wearing a trench coat. Darin’s heart sank, and his anger rose. That combination usually gives him indigestion, but he hadn’t eaten anything in a while. He was supposed to be cutting a swath of jobs away from that wacko, not toward him. No, Darin thought, there’s gotta be a logical explanation. How many humans were wearing trench coats at this moment throughout the galaxy? Was it enough of a fashion statement to be common anywhere? What are the chances of seeing someone fitting that guy’s description? Have I started seeing his face in other people now? All his hopeful musings were dashed the second that man caught sight of the onlookers (Now down to two. The bored drunk had walked away) and waved his hand eagerly. The figure hopped out of the cloud and onto the mess that used to be a level surface. “Darin, right?” asked Yodimus, breathing hard. His eyes looked a little red and baggy. He stretched out a hand. “Of all the people wearing trench coats who I could have met today, it had to be you.” Darin stepped toward the salesman, but didn’t shake the offered hand. After an awkward silence, it dropped. “Okay, I know this is a bad time.” Yodimus began, then he took a moment to think it over, “Actually, It would always be a bad time. But you have to understand, I wasn’t really planning on meeting you this way.” “You know I hate you, right?” “OH yes. I’m fully aware of that. Really, I would have done this meeting in a more subtle fashion, but …things…have come up.” He gestured a thumb back at the wreckage, where the two other figures were busy arguing over, at least it sounded, where the breaks were. “I may not have time to track you down again tomorrow. So, Darin…um,” he stared carefully at Darin’s face, “It is Darin, right? You never said.” “Do you have a death wish?” “Hey, I just want to know if you’ll help me out, just this once! I know for a fact that this will be mutually beneficial! And…I’ll pay you.” “I’m going to walk over there,” he said, pointing quite clearly to a large weapon strung over a dead patron, “and pick up that blaster. If you are not out of my sight by the time I turn back around, I will then unload,” he took a breath, “the whole thing at you!” “We aren’t going to make any progress if you keep being so negative.” He replied, suddenly acting very scholarly. Darin said nothing. He simply turned his back and began a slow, meaningful walk. Yodimus decided, after a moment’s pause, that Darin’s back was better than nothing, “This is BIG, man! I’m talking about the mother lode of treasures, here. No, no: the grandmother lode! I’m talking about early retirement. I’m talking about the riches people like us have only dreamed about! Get it? Darin spat over his shoulder, “No. I don’t. And frankly, Yodeling Palm, or whoever you are…” “It’s Yokilese Pritolney today.” “…you may be talking a lot, but you haven’t said a word. Just like you always do, damn it. And when you do talk, you act like we’ve been friends for years. Let me tell you something…” he stopped where he was, “…friend,” He shot the word out of his mouth like it was a weapon in sarcasm warfare, “I came here to visit an uncle. He fought in the civil war and now he’s a little funny in the head. When he saw me walk into his room the other day, he didn’t recognize me. A man who’s known me since I was a toddler can’t even place my voice, while you…YOU don’t know an atom’s worth of puke about me and you’re talking to me like we’re married.” Yodimus wasn’t sure how to take all this. He expected something like it, but it was starting to get decidedly too personal, “Um, but…” he reached for words, “…but the riches. Of our dreams.” Darin shook his head, and stooped down to pick up the blaster. When he turned around, Yodimus had the good fortune to be flanked by the Duo. He braced himself anyway. Darin lowered the blaster as he squinted, trying to place the faces. Then his eyes lit up, “You two! Good hyperdrive, what’ve you guys been up to, huh? What’s it been, like six months or something?” “Ever since you blasted your way out a sealed hanger in a stolen ship.” Said Melinworth, stepping forward to shake Darin’s outstretched hand. “Stolen my shiney steel hull. I practically build that girl. And that was a year ago anyway. We worked on some query in Imperial space didn't we? Four runaway slaves or something?" "Oh yeah." offered Rybinstall, "It was three, but there could have been four at first. There's no way of knowing who we were shooting at once that flash bomb went off. Maybe there were even six! Man, that would have boosted the bounty to what? Like, almost twice as much maybe!" "Uh...yeah. But really, what’re you two doing hanging around losers all the time?” Rybinstall now stepped forward to shake Darin's hand, leaving Yodimus behind to twiddle his thumbs. “Losers?” Rybinstall asked, “You’re not talking about Yod, are ya? He’s cool.” “…d…dream riches?” pleaded the salesman. “He's cool and I’m a droid. Listen, I’d love to stick around, but if I want to make the evening –“ Melinworth was glancing nervously back at Yodimus while the two of them were talking. He looked uneasy, tapping his foot like he was trying to make up his mind. He inhaled, and took that very second to interupt, “We’re on to something that’ll blow your boots off. You’re seriously going to flip.” “Well I’m sure-“ “And I don’t mean that in a literal way. Some people actually expect their listeners to do a backflip after they’re given good news, but us two, we’re not like that. You won’t have to do anything, actually. Anything except give us a ride.” “Well, that sounds-“ “And work under an assumed name.” “That-“ “And get us into the center of certain criminal organizations.” “Oh, um-“ “Now, it won’t be anything shady. We aren’t even doing this for a police force, so you won’t have to worry about your history.” Yodimus spoke up, “Yeah, in fact it’s probably less d-“ “I couldn’t imagine a reason you would say no, Dee. Me and Rybinstall...or rather, Rybinstall and I, have personally overseen the plan, and I can say without fear of being insincere that it is the best plan I have ever seen in my life.” “Ah, I think,” Yodimus tried again. When Melinworth was on a roll, collateral damage was to be expected. “And since I and Rybinstall…or rather, Rybinstall and me, effectively speak for each other, that’s really two lives you’re dealing with. What do ya say, hmm?” At this point, he bothered to open his eyes and actually look at Darin, something he hadn’t been doing during his talk. Darin was standing there, gun holstered, eyebrow cocked, and looking impatient. Melinworth blinked, “What?” “Shut up. I’ll come along. But I get his half” he pointed at Yodimus. “Great!” jumped Yodimus, “This way!” he sent everyone out the door with no attempt on his part to debate shares. On the small section of the bar that wasn’t broken, a cup balanced. It smelled supiciously like cafe. Yodimus had been inconspicously eyeing it since he touched firm ground. Now he was alone with it. He picked it up – it looked like cafe. He brought it to his nose – it did in fact smell correct, though a bit on the complicated and spicy side. “Thank the force.” He mumbled. Darin tapped him on the shoulder. He spun, and the cup was released from his hands by the spacer’s firm grip. “Thanks, I almost forgot about this.” He said, giving the salesman an insincere smile. The twinkle in Darin’s eye said, ‘screw you’ but the man himself simply nodded. He looked down at the drink and just barely grimaced. Then he looked back up at the salesman, who was trying very hard not to look like he wanted it. “Well, come on,” said the merc, and he chugged the cup. He dropped the empty styrofoam on the floor between them, smiled again, and stomped on it. Twice. Then ground it into the ragged carpet for good measure, “We have a treasure to catch, right?” Then he walked away without another word. Cafe two. Yodimus zero. -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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amidalachick Registered: Aug '03	Date Posted: 9/22/05 1:57pm Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 9-19) Now with more sodium!
	That was awesome! Then, from the obliterated cockpit rose three figures. They were clearly human, and clearly idiots. Worse, they looked familiar. Ah, yes, the dreaded "they're familiar-looking idiots" feeling. I love this line. Actually, I love this chapter. Keep up the great work! -----signature----- "So I can open my own can of pudding, can I? Shows what you know, Marge!"
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 9/24/05 2:45pm Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 9-19) Now with more sodium! - Date Edited: 9/24/05 5:04pm (1 edits total) Edited By: 1Yodimus_Prime
	"Muchas gracias!" as they say in Spainese. I'm glad you liked. I think this is one of the strongest chapters I've written so far. Darin's character is growing on me. I think that's what's happening. Next update: Monday!...? <cough>or tuesday or wednesday or thursday</cough> actually, you want me to just PM you when I post the next segment? -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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amidalachick Registered: Aug '03	Date Posted: 9/26/05 1:29pm Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 9-19) Now with more sodium!
	actually, you want me to just PM you when I post the next segment? Sure, that'd be great! -----signature----- "So I can open my own can of pudding, can I? Shows what you know, Marge!"
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1Yodimus_Prime Registered: Mar '04	Date Posted: 10/1/05 6:37pm Subject: RE: Planet Hopping (updated 10-1) now a Paint-By-Numbers!
	Today we update with: Boasting! Death! Violence! Donuts! enjoy... ********* You know, I don’t screw up a sale very often. In fact, the last time was, no lie, seven years and four months ago. But you really can’t blame me for not catching an inflection made outside the audible range. Well regardless, it’s a trade-off. Plenty of salesmen screw up lots of times, becoming proud of something as sad as a sixty percent turnover, but there aren’t any consequences with their screw ups. Me? Every time I screw up, I end up losing big time. Last time, it was a foot. Hear that clinking? That’s flexisteel. And don’t listen to those medical holodocuus. Artificial nerve links suck. They’re only useful for letting me know when an angry native’s spear has it pinned three feet into a nearby tree. Woopeedoo. That’s why I do masochistic things like following The Duo around. While they’re annoying to me, the people who are friends with them are very much friends with them. Deep down, I knew if I screwed up my sale to Darin, I would end up losing something else. Probably gray matter. They were my only chance. See, while I’m born to win, I can’t afford to lose. I have to make sure it happens every time or I’ll end up worse off than the idiot selling cronos in the alley. And believe me, he’s got it pretty bad. Thankfully, that ordeal is over. Now, we are all taking a nice breezy stroll down a Durcustian Main Street, on towards the private transport depot that will take us to the highly guarded hanger that’s holding Darin’s prize ship. Things are going well. I won’t be surprised when the angry mob shows up. There are three locations for their arrival: from the east, where the carnival was ruined; from the south, where the public hangar port was ruined; and from the southeast, where both mobs might meet up, share a couple stories, and come after us together. Shiny happy people looting stores. Not my kind of party, but I keep getting invited anyway. Here they come. I hear the shouting. They actually sound far too alive to be from the triennial celebrations we made a mess of. In fact, I can see them just ahead of us. That’s north. We didn’t piss anyone off up north. Must not be for us. I’m gonna let The Duo know to just ignore them. Which reminds me, here’s a helpful tip: When you find yourself accidentally walking toward an angry mob, always pass on the right. This way, they see you first and I can slip by un-maimed on the left. ***** He got it over with. It felt like déjà vu, and probably for good reason. There was no doubt in his (now her) mind that she had murdered a large room of people before. She stepped carefully over the sack of meat that once was a Gamorrean. Yet, one couldn’t blame her for being surprised she was still alive after all that. There had been well over six guards in that room, at least three bounty hunters lounging together in the back, and umpteen guests, all hyper and armed. And a Hutt, not that it mattered. It was hard to believe it, but it was true: nobody in the room actually expected a Twi’Lek dancer to know that many barehanded killing moves, or to be so bold as to begin using them in the middle of a routine. For some reason, this idea was having trouble fitting into her worldview. Evidently, whoever she was before, he had been extremely suspicious of attractive slaves dancing in the middles of ballrooms. Well, it was possible that, when she started by murdering the other dancers, most of the audience just assumed it was part of the show. But nobody reacted for a full five minutes once she went after the people in the front. Maybe they just couldn’t see? That didn’t explain why she wasn’t shot out of the sky when came twirling a good half a foot over the Trandoshan, stabbing him through the head as she passed. Or the second she followed through the momentum to bounce high enough to close line two helmet-heads with her legs, only to land on their throats. ‘Not seeing her’ didn’t explain her survival after she stole a grapple gun to get up to the hovering light ball, which she proceeded to both drop and use as a diving board, the half-ton sphere breaking its fall over most of the audience, the dancer breaking her fall over the Gamorrean. ‘Not seeing her’ didn’t explain everyone’s dumbfounded non-action when she sheered off a bounty hunter’s arm with her teeth and threw it into a young kid’s face, or when she played trampoline with Grutuba the Hutt’s stomach, or when she sprayed them all with a swiped carbine like it was a fire hose of death, or when she called that one guy a mean name. And it was really mean, too. The whole thing just didn’t make any sense. These thoughts troubled her as she made her way out the hanger-sized door. While she stood in the open doorway, allowing the fresh breeze to dry the gore she was coated in, someone behind her moaned for help. She tried to put it out of her mind as she contemplated who and where she was. She stood there and thought hard. Nothing. Her brow creased daintily under someone else’s blood. She began counting with her fingers, as though her past lives could be called up through the magic of basic arithmetic. “….p-please.” The only thing that came immediately to mind was that “Eleven” was a cool sounding number, and also a prime. That wouldn’t be any help. “…hheh….hhhel..” This wouldn’t do. She took a hold of the shoulder strap and swung the carbine into her arms, turning back to train it on the victim. “…help?” the poor creature asked. She gave him some. He shut up. For some reason, he was dressed in a pin-stripe business suit. Seeing this immediately threw a face into her mind’s eye. Then a scene: someone doing the exact same thing to her as she yelled for help. Apparently, her former life ended the same way. Good. Progress. Maybe, if she started killing random people, other scenes from her past life would get called up. So far, all she had do go on was a man in a trench coat splashing cafe in her face, and the blurry image of her killer. She sighed and started waving for a hover cab. It would be so much easier if she simply recalled some moment when her former self was looking into a mirror or, even better, signing something. How many times did that probably happen? Why was it always the vague, one-time-event memories that get recalled and not the stuff that happened after possibly years and years of routine? It made about as much sense as being able to acrobatically kill an entire room of well-trained murderers. Or as much sense as the fact that she knew, by heart, the preferred social lifestyle of every alien plus their native planet’s primary cash crop just by looking at them. What didn’t surprise her was that she knew the number eleven was a prime number. I can’t really explain this myself, and it was never brought up by her mind again. All she was sure of was that she needed to find this trench-coated man. The salesman. She didn’t know why she was assuming he was a salesman. On second thought, maybe the impression was ‘pirate,’ and she was just reading the memory wrong. Or maybe he was a pirate salesman. That would be especially easy to find. Oh yeah, of course! My same is Zelloa! Why am I worried so much about past lives all of the sudden? Maybe all this stuff about pirates and me dying was just a very elaborate dream… Zelloa was getting frustrated. Nobody was stopping. The wait stretched on. She hurled insults and curses as hover cab after hover cab hovered by. Finally, as dusk began to set, a vehicle pulled to a stop behind her. It was flashing. She turned to get a good look. A very thin human wearing a dirty officer’s uniform leaned out the window of the police craft. Next to him, filling up the driver’s seat, the back seats, and both side windows, was a T’landa Til, looking very bored and fat. While T’landa are smaller than Hutts, their pudgy faces make them seem fatter. He wasn’t even bothering to look over. The man raised his right hand in mock surrender. The other hand was clearly holding a blaster, “Hi miss, Ylesia police. Would you mind lowering your weapon, please? How’s about you just set it down real calm, come take a ride, and talk about it?” She looked down at her arms. They still cradled the carbine. “No wonder nobody stopped! Damn it.” Oh well. She shrugged and laughed at the officer, who feigned a smile in return. She squeezed the trigger. -----signature----- Rule 12: A soft answer turneth away wrath. Once wrath is looking the other way, shoot it in the head. --- http://boards.theforce.net/b/b1/26481069 - The Wise http://boards.theforce.net/B/b1/21283317 - Planet Hopping
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