Title: Woosh, Woosh Author(s): Valairy Scot Timeframe: Clone Wars Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hondo Ohnako, Mace Windu, Anakin Skywalker with a dose of Ahsoka Genre: Drama, comedy, mainly a character sketch in several parts. Short story. Keywords: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hondo Ohnako, Mace Windu, Anakin SKywalker, pirates, clone wars, TCW, Summary: Obi-Wan swooshes, Anakin grumbles, Hondo gleefully narrates Notes: A character sketch based on the episode Revival in the show The Clone Wars, told in alternating POV's. A couple of sentences came from Ruth Baulding: thanks Ruth! Woosh, Woosh "She's...she's dead." And Kenobi's voice breaks, just a little as he reports to his Council. By my dear sainted mother’s pyre, how’s a law-skirting pirate who’s supposed to laugh “ha ha” at death supposed to tip a drink and wipe his hand across his lips after that? “Ha. Ha ha.” Ha…I think not as my glass settles, untouched, on the table before me. Those horny headed crazies did this, on my planet, to one of my dearest enemies, welcome here anytime and of course welcome to leave unaccosted as well – one I would and have thrown an arm around whilst the other rifled his pocket. And what did Kenobi do then? Mind trick, me, Honda Ohnaka, planetary head – okay, pirate boss. No, no, no. Threaten me with his woosh woosh? Not Kenobi. He treats me as I treat him, ho hah, I am so honored, with disdain and tricks, not his super-duper wave-his-fingers Jedi powers. No, not Kenobi. He did the honorable thing, the sneaky thing: he stole back what I had appropriated from him in a game of chance, all without batting an eye and matching me drink for drink. Fine fellow, Kenobi. You gotta admire a man you snore side by side with, slumped on a sticky table, pretending to be equally drunk. Or maybe he was: hard to tell with a Jedi, although I suppose that normally he wouldn’t be wiping his mouth with his sleeve or slurring his words. A trickster, no? But yes? Sneaky and devious as they come: Kenobi fits right in with this motley, rowdy gang – can’t trust a one of them but you can drink and wench right along with them – well, except Kenobi, of course. The wenches, I mean. Hoo ha, such a gentleman he is. In a pirates’ den, still a gentleman, no pinching, no slaps, no stolen kisses. On his part. Not that the wenches didn’t try to get into his lap. “Thank you, but no.” Ho ha. No fondling of his lightsword thingie allowed. Ha. I don’t think it was his woosh woosh weapon they wanted to get their hands on. Just his woosh woosh. But I digress. My base is in shambles; shambles I tell you, courtesy of General Grevious. Tables overturned, chairs crushed – my liquor stores empty. How did I know it was trashed? A fine thing to ask; a man knows his shambles from another’s. It may look the same to an outsider, but to me, Hondo, it is an affront. It will take forever to clean up. Ha ha. A wet slap of a dirty rag and I’ll call it clean. But again I digress. Kenobi; I was speaking of Kenobi. A good man, I, Hondo Ohnaka, proclaim to my sorry band of reprobates and bandits. Men after my own heart; hah, too true this is, I have the scars to prove it. Not the dirty scoundrel, though; I sent him to me mother’s metaphysical side where he’ll be slapped to death for all eternity. Mother was one hell of a pirate with a backhand second to none. Ah, Kenobi, yes. Take the goody-goody “one must do the right thing, Hondo” attitude, take the fastidiousness, fill him full of liquor and I’d claim him right enough. Maybe tone down the honor, too, too much of that and a pirate one can’t be. He’s a fighting fool, though; I’ve seen him woosh woosh wooshing with my own eyes. Not just once, either. Just earlier this day. Imagine my surprise at uninvited company dropping in. Only Kenobi was welcome. Repel the invaders! Ha ha, I always wanted to say that, even if I didn’t think of it ‘til now. The two horny-skulls who co-opted some of my men – may their deceiving hearts burst in their chests – tore off after what I soon learned was Kenobi and another Jedi. My men and those who once were mine exchange “I’ll conquer you’s” and “The hell you will not’s.” It’s a grand melee, a frantic cacophony of blaster bolts and insults. Mayhem, my favorite sport, abounds. Woosh woosh and blades of light dance above on the rocks, then down amongst us. Grunts and groans, screams and shouts, it’s a symphony of unholy violence. I give ground; a trap, not a retreat. “Kenobi,” I call. And he comes with a mighty leap, not one hair out of place and not a wrinkle in his tunics. I am impressed. And confused. “Where’s the other Jedi?” I see her not. Kenobi pauses; hangs his head. “She’s, she’s dead.” “Dead? She’s dead? They’re too powerful even for you!” I am aghast; I am semi-speechless. These horny-headed seducers of my men are not good men, they are bad men – okay, they’re not men, technically, but Zabraks. Maniacs. Bearing whoosh whooshs in red. Jedi gone rogue? Pirate-stealing thieves! And stronger than Kenobi? This is not good; Kenobi needs to be good, better than them. He needs to kick their sorry horny spikes right off my planet, these horned crazies who stole my men before I stole them back. Yes, yes, and killed Kenobi’s companion. That, too, is not good. “You should lead your men away.” Kenobi’s voice is clipped. He is on his honorable high steed, I tell you. Too honorable, perhaps, risking his own life for others when retreat is the prudent option – the survivor’s option. “I’ll take the brothers, Hondo,” he tells me, shooing me and mine back into a cross corridor from the laser-wielding maniacs who dare oppose me, me, Hondo Ohnako, in my own home. “Okay,” I shrug. I don’t want those maniac crazies; Kenobi can have them for free. Off he leads them; I hear “woosh, woosh” and the clash, such a clash. Thump, woosh. Thump, thump. Woosh, woosh. Then I hear no more, for it is time to face my traitorous scum and gather them back into my bosom with a cannon aimed up their – ahem. But it worked. I am so proud; my traitorous men are my loyal men once more. Reunited, our numbers large once more, we seek riches – riches used to bribe my men. Ha. I bribe them right back; we will plunder the horned maniacs’ ship. Out we run from the tunnels, out into – Them. Those painted spawn, tattooed menaces. And they dare – dare – to think my men are again theirs to command. Again. My men. I think not; I swagger up and look into those crazy yellow eyes. Hah. My cannon pointed up my men’s’ pleasure zones assures my men’s loyalty for now. “They flee from Kenobi,” I inform the red-tattooed maniac as Kenobi erupts from my caves, his woosh woosh wooshing in his hand. It’s a scary sight all right. The two maniacs take off like a – a – Kenobi is after them. Ha ha, what a sight. I laugh, hands on my knees. Kenobi owes me; I don’t hand out endorsements for free, now do I? He glances at me and grins, okay, smirks a bit like he knows what I’m thinking before he’s all back to business, whoosh whoosh whooshing away in hot pursuit. Have I said I like that man? He makes me proud, I, Honda Ohnako, proud to fight at his back, at his side, or get-the-heck-out-of-Kenobi’s-way if so ordered. My dear departed mother would smack his rear, kiss his cheek, and slip her hand where I think Kenobi has never had any woman’s hand, or man’s either – maybe try to sneak a peek at his woosh woosh as well. Mother, bless her soul, was a saint, but a woman with a good feel for the finer things in manhood. Kenobi wouldn’t stand a chance unless he unleashed his woosh woosh, the weapon that is. My men swarm like a lovesick hoocha alpha male in the midst of rut; the air is thick with bolts, zing zing, and with swoosh swoosh swooshing and the rumble and crash of – that’s a fine trick, call Hondo Ohnaka taken by surprise – Kenobi’s ship comes tumbling down. Boom, boom and boom. Splat, thud. If it wasn’t a heap of junk before, it is now. Perhaps – but no. Kenobi won’t stay. Disdains violence, he says, although he’s left more bodies in his wake than I. The liquor won’t do it, either. The crazies are hobbling, one minus an arm – I salute Kenobi for that – the other, yes, that’s it, hobbled by the loss of one of those mechanical legs. And what’s this: green mist? They escape into their ship, but escape – hah! “Bring the cannon,” I call. Down goes the ship, spiraling in smoke, thump onto the desert floor. “Riches falling from the sky,” I exalt. It is a good day. I lost some men, pfft. I have gained a fortune. I celebrate. But Kenobi does not. He reports to his Council. I am disconsolate. ‘Tis a day of betrayal, reconciliation, and death. Of death, deceit and destruction, or as my dear departed mother would say, “Hondo, time to lift a glass and drain it dry. Then laugh and count the coins, not the bodies.” Instead, I count the beat between syllables. “Dead?” That’s Baldy in the hologram, staring at Kenobi with astonishment evident in the voice. I don’t even think of making a pitch to sell hair tonic to him until later. My eyes roam over these Jedi, curious. So this is the vaunted Jedi Council: short, tall, hairy, bald. Green, one even, sleepy-eyed and solemn. Open-mouthed with shock despite the firm lips. Eyes, yes I, Hondo, has eyes to see what they wish not to be seen. Sleepy blinks, Baldy glances down, Pointy-head flicks his eyes sideways. Mask-face stirs. I’ve lost men, too, some today. My men. They’ve been at my side and my throat for a long time; my traitorous bunch of senseless drunkards splayed over the long tables, worn out from betrayal and reconciliation with visions of coins dancing in their heads. Mine, all mine to bribe, coerce and dominate. Oh, I’m not fooled. They’re my men; mine as long as I promise them more than the next man. Then - Hondo, they’ll slur while sticking a shiv in my ribs. So I make sure I’m “Boss” and purchase their loyalty with love: love of booze, love of riches, love of the wenches. My discipline is strict, but fair: I pass them a bottle, they pass out. End of rebellion. You can’t buy Kenobi. But even he can be sucker-punched; the rest of them Jedi, too. "Dead? Master Gallia?" Baldy scowls at Kenobi. Oh my, my, my, my. With a look like that, Baldy would make a good pirate; that look could kill. Probably has, too. Kenobi's partner, Skywalker speaks up; his voice hard and taut. “I should have been with you!” Kenobi is stung – his lips tighten. “You were on assignment, Anakin. You cannot be everywhere.” “If I’d been there –“ Kenobi’s shoulders droop a fraction. I scowl on Kenobi’s behalf and thrust a tankard at him. Drown his sorrow, at least, since we can’t drown Skywalker. He waves it away. Waste not, want not. I swallow, but it is bitter in my throat. I spit it out. Kenobi’s fingers tighten on his knee, then relaxes. By the horny six-sexed god, can’t the man – boy, really – see he is sticking his own shiv into the man? I should be so proud; just like one of my men. But Kenobi is not, nor is Skywalker. As my dear departed mother always said, no one can stick it to you like someone who loves you, so keep a careful eye on your pop and me, sonny boy. If only she’d taken her own advice, hah. But I digress. I intercede, because this is Kenobi; I throw an arm around his shoulders, friendly like. I can be touchy-feely, sometimes; it is a useful tool, enabling one to slip a shiv in the ribs or establish solidarity. “Listen here, Kenobi fought like a horny he-devil spurned by his mate –“ Kenobi turns slowly, raises an eyebrow at me. “Hondo, you’re not helping.” “Obi-Wan…?” Skywalker stirs, an apology of sorts in the name. “My ship is trashed.” He brushes aside Skywalker’s words; he’s in no mind to hear whatever he meant to say. Ha. I don’t blame him. Ha, as well, for the comment: Kenobi’s ship is flying scrap metal, well, scrap metal. “With the Council’s permission, I’ll pick you up.” “No need, Anakin. Hondo is loaning me a ship.” Kenobi waves a hand at me; I am? “You mean you’re appropriating one of his ships.” A grin teases Skywalker’s lips as his padawan speaks. “Mmm, borrowing,” Kenobi concedes with a wry grin at me. Steal; he is going to steal one of my ships? I am offended; I am proud. I am vexed and affronted, as well. But a trade? Kenobi’s junk for – ah ha. Kenobi’s ship won’t fly without some heavy repairs. But it is worth more than the junker I’ll let him steal. That’s a fair swindle, right, one that all parties benefit from – Kenobi gets to leave; I get to make a profit. Win win for all. I hide my pleasure with a sniff and a hearty slap on the back. "If you ever need anything, Kenobi, remember – don’t you dare call me." And later, as he leaves, our little adventure complete: “Bring my ship back in one piece, Kenobi,” I shout. “Keep yourself the same – oh, and next time you drop in, come alone will you. No horned maniacs.” “I shall do my best, Hondo.” And, pfft, like that, he was gone.