Zeto climbed out of the pot that had once held some prized plant the estates owners had once nurtured and cared for. It was now as dusty from debris and as stained as the rest of the mansion. Except it was stained with his sweet and droll. Not dashed with blood and other formerly internal bodily fluids.
Yet still the night lingered towards dawn with the moon giving way to a fiery sky. How wonderful the puddles looked in that magical glow. It inspired a yawn and a scratch of his bruised belly.
Zeto stretched as he strode through it. There was something magical about a fresh kill before bed that turned his dreams from screaming nightmares of fairies and Jedi to the calming march of Imperial legions laying waste to those soft individuals who couldn’t understand law and order were code words.
Law meant my way.
Order meant my way.
It wasn’t that hard. Was it? Sure. He had gotten a little excited. It had been four weeks since he last touched solid ground. Who could blame him from letting go of his regal bearing to purge those dark desires on people who dared play both sides in this lost uncivil of galactic wars? The heir to some title long forgotten had no reason to hold back and age was sneaking up on him. This was a great workout.
So Zeto slipped the vibro-blade into its sheath and let out a little gas. He felt so much better. Clearer. Pointless violence always helped clear the mental fog up. Pointless because what company didn’t profit from both sides in this foolish war?
It was why Zeto cared about only that lovely chap in the mirror. The one who constantly interrupted him but did so in the most dashing and splashy ways. How could he hold a grudge against such a fellow?
He stripped himself down to his looser than it should be birthday suit and pranced up the stairs to take a shower. A quick one later he put on a clean set of casual clothes, combed what was left of his hair, and brushed his teeth. The last was far from the least important. Bad breath always got in the way. Never helped.
Down the stairs one last time he went. Everything was in a disorder. A few credits worth of trinkets were in his sack by the door. The charges were primed. Adventure awaited.
Zeto picked up his bag and clicked the remote. Across the mansion fires broke out. Fires born from a wonderful accelerant that’d make quick work of the area, and if unlucky, spread to the other rich fools. Backwater worlds were never so lucky to not have a few dozen of those working the local folk to their bones.
This had been a short visit. Grander things awaited. The craving would come again in a few short weeks, but these wonderful displays were ever so rare. Such sanity could only be arranged far from the prying eyes of drunken guards and officers of ineffectual law. No. Next time he’s have to settle for a rebel or a fanatic. It made him a little sad on the inside.
A little. Nothing a hearty drink on the next ship offworld couldn’t ease.
A Pun Worth Punting
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Zeto Tirel
- Registered Member
- Posts: 41
- Joined: Wed Jan 01, 2020 2:19 pm
Re: A Pun Worth Punting
The independent in what sense it mattered transport Zasoobi was what looked like if someone took a Marauder Corvette and tried to mount it on a Correllian YT. Except all the interesting parts were lopped off for safety reasons. Which didn’t make sense to Zeto considering all the multi-faction marquee bearing pirate groups out there looking for a quick score and maybe some loot.
It did have a bar. A large one for a ship this slapped together. A droid staffed bar worse still, but it was a bar. Zeto could easily put aside his distrust of the heartless fanatics long enough to allow one to pour him something strong. Or two. Or three. And he did. He could always simmer its circuits in molten slag later. There was no need to be rude when it still could fetch him a bottle.
The bar stool kept him propped against the cold metal bar with the floor just out of toes reach. A hint of dried blood remained under the tips of his nails. The drink a shadow of the good stuff of his youth back on… He couldn’t remember, exactly. So many names. So many worlds. So many manys. It all blurred together at a point. How easily dreams flowed into memory and memories lost.
He wasn’t sure what rock, station, or otherwise between territory the ship was bound for. It was a fairly neutral one for sure. Some conflicted one it had to be for a ticket so cheap. Not that it mattered at all. He had survived passage through the Corporate Sector once, and they had a habit of taking debtors and turning them into indentured workers. He took another sip of his drink and kept a toe on his bag on the floor.
The bar was busy full of noisy chatter and the occasional release. Zeto felt at peace amongst the chaos. A calm from the thrumming of wagers and pints. A brawl broke out like a lullaby summoned forth by the dark gods to ease him to sleep.
He closed his eyes and could almost see the red sky of his youth. The thunder of falling flames. Clangs and whimpers. The quakes of mighty beasts. The songs blasting through the air and crescendoing into silence. Oh the wonders brought forth in their hazy detail. His pumped again with such haste he could almost dance and sing.
It did have a bar. A large one for a ship this slapped together. A droid staffed bar worse still, but it was a bar. Zeto could easily put aside his distrust of the heartless fanatics long enough to allow one to pour him something strong. Or two. Or three. And he did. He could always simmer its circuits in molten slag later. There was no need to be rude when it still could fetch him a bottle.
The bar stool kept him propped against the cold metal bar with the floor just out of toes reach. A hint of dried blood remained under the tips of his nails. The drink a shadow of the good stuff of his youth back on… He couldn’t remember, exactly. So many names. So many worlds. So many manys. It all blurred together at a point. How easily dreams flowed into memory and memories lost.
He wasn’t sure what rock, station, or otherwise between territory the ship was bound for. It was a fairly neutral one for sure. Some conflicted one it had to be for a ticket so cheap. Not that it mattered at all. He had survived passage through the Corporate Sector once, and they had a habit of taking debtors and turning them into indentured workers. He took another sip of his drink and kept a toe on his bag on the floor.
The bar was busy full of noisy chatter and the occasional release. Zeto felt at peace amongst the chaos. A calm from the thrumming of wagers and pints. A brawl broke out like a lullaby summoned forth by the dark gods to ease him to sleep.
He closed his eyes and could almost see the red sky of his youth. The thunder of falling flames. Clangs and whimpers. The quakes of mighty beasts. The songs blasting through the air and crescendoing into silence. Oh the wonders brought forth in their hazy detail. His pumped again with such haste he could almost dance and sing.
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Zeto Tirel
- Registered Member
- Posts: 41
- Joined: Wed Jan 01, 2020 2:19 pm
Re: A Pun Worth Punting
The bar echoes of egos worth slicing into fine pieces and served to their masters in a spitty stew. Glory to the Empre this! For the Alliance that! I shouldn’t have eaten that cheese! It made Zeto take forever to sip his drink. Slow. Steady. It was a practice in patience. In control.
It brought him back to his younger days. Before things became complicateder. Back when did that dirty dance in the stars. In an old TIE-Fighter against pesky rebels who thought they knew better. History had proven them plenty wrong. What republic or alliance were they on now? 6th? 10th? And yet the Empire still stood, more or less.
He almost choked laughing at the thought. Still, there was nothing like frying another fool in the dark. Narrowing the distance. Tightening your grip keeping your trigger finger at the ready but waiting ever waiting for just the right moment and boom. The spark of green. The flash of light. The gentle flame toasting a traitor to life amongst their screams. Oh the joy of it all!
Back then, the Empire didn’t have those fancy shield things on their fighters. It took real madmen to be TIE pilots. Took guts to spill them. The insanity of it all! The fun!
Then everything else happened. A not a moon blew up. Then another. This throne went that way. Another came around. Rises and falls. Medications for those who didn’t take it so well. Medals for past glories smelted to make ends meet. It wasn’t like the “good guys” were into taking care of the “bad guys” and the “bad guys” were in no shape to take care of those with… Special talents. Or at least certain individuals who preferred to… fly off.
It was all blur though. Some came back crystal clear in moments. Like went he first stepped onto a ship with halfway decent air filtration. Oh. That took him back to his first star destroyer days and those lovely pilot suits. That nice clean sterile air. Where every fart and laugh got filtered back on ya. Where your life was a thin hull away from popping, and it took real guts to take a life, no damn droid to ease the burden and bear the blame.
The rest of the time today, yesterday, and tomorrow all slept together between that thing stuck between the top of his skull and his rear end. It was a mess. A mess his drink helped sooth. Glory to it all. For whatever. He definitely shouldn't have eaten that cheese. It did smell funny and made his tummy angry.
The bar echoed the past. The bar echoed into the future. Zeto wasn’t entirely sure where the ship was taking him, but he let out a mighty yawn. It couldn’t get from nowhere to somewhere fast enough. He needed to rewet the blood under his nails.
It brought him back to his younger days. Before things became complicateder. Back when did that dirty dance in the stars. In an old TIE-Fighter against pesky rebels who thought they knew better. History had proven them plenty wrong. What republic or alliance were they on now? 6th? 10th? And yet the Empire still stood, more or less.
He almost choked laughing at the thought. Still, there was nothing like frying another fool in the dark. Narrowing the distance. Tightening your grip keeping your trigger finger at the ready but waiting ever waiting for just the right moment and boom. The spark of green. The flash of light. The gentle flame toasting a traitor to life amongst their screams. Oh the joy of it all!
Back then, the Empire didn’t have those fancy shield things on their fighters. It took real madmen to be TIE pilots. Took guts to spill them. The insanity of it all! The fun!
Then everything else happened. A not a moon blew up. Then another. This throne went that way. Another came around. Rises and falls. Medications for those who didn’t take it so well. Medals for past glories smelted to make ends meet. It wasn’t like the “good guys” were into taking care of the “bad guys” and the “bad guys” were in no shape to take care of those with… Special talents. Or at least certain individuals who preferred to… fly off.
It was all blur though. Some came back crystal clear in moments. Like went he first stepped onto a ship with halfway decent air filtration. Oh. That took him back to his first star destroyer days and those lovely pilot suits. That nice clean sterile air. Where every fart and laugh got filtered back on ya. Where your life was a thin hull away from popping, and it took real guts to take a life, no damn droid to ease the burden and bear the blame.
The rest of the time today, yesterday, and tomorrow all slept together between that thing stuck between the top of his skull and his rear end. It was a mess. A mess his drink helped sooth. Glory to it all. For whatever. He definitely shouldn't have eaten that cheese. It did smell funny and made his tummy angry.
The bar echoed the past. The bar echoed into the future. Zeto wasn’t entirely sure where the ship was taking him, but he let out a mighty yawn. It couldn’t get from nowhere to somewhere fast enough. He needed to rewet the blood under his nails.
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Zeto Tirel
- Registered Member
- Posts: 41
- Joined: Wed Jan 01, 2020 2:19 pm
Re: A Pun Worth Punting
Booze came over the bar from a toppled mug like blood for a cut throat. It flowed around the rim of Zeto’s plate of pickled meats. He dipped a piece in it for good measure and chewed it into a thin paste before swallowing. One man’s loss was another’s mess and an even other’s gain. Would have been nice if it was a nice ale over whatever cheap drippings this was, but dippers couldn’t be pickers.
“What was it my CO always used to say?” Zeto looked around at the nobodies minding him. “That’s right. ‘We don’t let yellow mellow here, boy!”
The bartender droid hovered over. Its arms displaced by a serving tray and a claw for grabbing. It was a fate worse than death. Servitude with an end only when parts ran out. “Amused: my master has a similar remark about me.”
With a slight confusion as to why the droid thought he cared to converse with the blank faced trashcan, Zeto sat his glass down and tapped it. The droid refilled. He… He gave into the booze. “Sarcastic: isn’t that nice.”
“Depressed: only on Tuesday.” Its lights blinked and tray fell.
Zeto spitting a bitterness into his cup and got up. His cabin called to him. The droid’s use was now an ashtray for the burning guts of a braver man. Well, maybe. Cowards had a similar worth. They also tended to have better “giveaways” after their crossing and dance. The occasional gold plated droid gave him extra fun removing its rear plate and using the rest to start the fireworks remotely.
Droids. It was one good thing about the Empire. Droids had their limited place. The battlefield was for the living. Droids took out themselves with the trash. Who needed a droid to fly a fighter? Who needed a droid for fire a blaster? To polish a knife or cook a stew? To wipe their… Rebels.
The clangs. The bouncing without a trampoline. It sent a razor down Zeto’s spine as he swayed down the dim corridor. Off one bulkhead and to the other. The ground felt more uneven than laws. 213? 690? Nerf? He couldn’t remember which cabin was his.
Numbers weren’t meant for men. That was one thing the Empire could learn. TZ-123 was a terrible designation for a soldier. It took so much longer to say than Lt Jerkface. The rebels weren’t much better with their colors and numbers. Jerk was easy to remember. Twinkle 7 was so much harder with Shimmer 5 also on the line.
His was… CUD-113? MO-00…?
Bah! Zeto cleared his throat as he tried his keycard on the first door. It barked at him. The next 6 did the same. One almost seemed to fancy him, but the second an third swipe proved its advances were just to get his attention.
Why was nothing ever as easy as cutting a throat, splicing a spline, and covering a room with colorful expressions? Glory be the door that’d say hello. The rest could seal themselves like an airlock.
One finally did with a beep and hiss, and Zeto collapsed onto his bed. Or so he thought. The door had been a droid sweeping and cleaning the corridors. The bed was luggage at hadn’t made it into someone’s cabin yet. It worked all the same for a quick nap to take the edge off the whatever time it was.
“What was it my CO always used to say?” Zeto looked around at the nobodies minding him. “That’s right. ‘We don’t let yellow mellow here, boy!”
The bartender droid hovered over. Its arms displaced by a serving tray and a claw for grabbing. It was a fate worse than death. Servitude with an end only when parts ran out. “Amused: my master has a similar remark about me.”
With a slight confusion as to why the droid thought he cared to converse with the blank faced trashcan, Zeto sat his glass down and tapped it. The droid refilled. He… He gave into the booze. “Sarcastic: isn’t that nice.”
“Depressed: only on Tuesday.” Its lights blinked and tray fell.
Zeto spitting a bitterness into his cup and got up. His cabin called to him. The droid’s use was now an ashtray for the burning guts of a braver man. Well, maybe. Cowards had a similar worth. They also tended to have better “giveaways” after their crossing and dance. The occasional gold plated droid gave him extra fun removing its rear plate and using the rest to start the fireworks remotely.
Droids. It was one good thing about the Empire. Droids had their limited place. The battlefield was for the living. Droids took out themselves with the trash. Who needed a droid to fly a fighter? Who needed a droid for fire a blaster? To polish a knife or cook a stew? To wipe their… Rebels.
The clangs. The bouncing without a trampoline. It sent a razor down Zeto’s spine as he swayed down the dim corridor. Off one bulkhead and to the other. The ground felt more uneven than laws. 213? 690? Nerf? He couldn’t remember which cabin was his.
Numbers weren’t meant for men. That was one thing the Empire could learn. TZ-123 was a terrible designation for a soldier. It took so much longer to say than Lt Jerkface. The rebels weren’t much better with their colors and numbers. Jerk was easy to remember. Twinkle 7 was so much harder with Shimmer 5 also on the line.
His was… CUD-113? MO-00…?
Bah! Zeto cleared his throat as he tried his keycard on the first door. It barked at him. The next 6 did the same. One almost seemed to fancy him, but the second an third swipe proved its advances were just to get his attention.
Why was nothing ever as easy as cutting a throat, splicing a spline, and covering a room with colorful expressions? Glory be the door that’d say hello. The rest could seal themselves like an airlock.
One finally did with a beep and hiss, and Zeto collapsed onto his bed. Or so he thought. The door had been a droid sweeping and cleaning the corridors. The bed was luggage at hadn’t made it into someone’s cabin yet. It worked all the same for a quick nap to take the edge off the whatever time it was.
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Zeto Tirel
- Registered Member
- Posts: 41
- Joined: Wed Jan 01, 2020 2:19 pm
Re: A Pun Worth Punting
When it came to life the people you could count on you could count with one finger. It made waking up strapped into a transport with reenlistment paperwork wrapped around your neck like a bib… Extremely awkward. Doubly so with a bunch of wide eye wanna-be stormtroopers sitting around you smelling up the place. It’d only be worse if they were in their white cans.
Right there was a huge benefit of being a TIE pilot. Your uniform came with an air filter. Let it out, and you’d never smell it. Air was always had that cool crisp smell of the weather changing towards winter. Don’t eat the red snow.
Zeto wiggled his jaw. A bitter moist taste felt stuck to every surface of his mouth. It almost tasted like… Rebel.
“Good morning, my most balding dude,” a trooper in training said. A soon to be dead trooper most likely with his wide eyes and far too excited look.
He reminded Zeto of so many rookie pilots who forgot TIEs, back then at least, didn’t have shields or infinite range. That was how real men flew, but it took some respect for your TIE. You had to suit up. Give it a little love and blast away. If you jumped in it without giving it its due, well… There was always another rookie to take up the unnamed splat’s spot.
“What?”
The trooper poked him. “It’s the start of another great day to pew pew some rebel fun.”
Zeto let out a yawn. “Scum. You mean scum.”
“No. Fun. It’s fun to pew pew them.” The trooper to be took on the smile of a Jedi who was about to get lucky. Lucky enough to stumble out the airlock.
This was what he didn’t miss able the old days. Chit chat on a destroyer would have met a cold reception in such tight quarters where one should be practicing staring at the wall. Then again, it could have always been his units. There was always an air of seriousness to them that made carving things out of rebel gear to give the kids of the next loyal world frown worthy, but it didn’t stop him.
One time he had taken a rebel helmet and made a child’s potty out of it. Another a blaster he turned into a toy sword. And best of all? Many times he took an X-wing and made it fireworks. Oh how the kids loved those. The bad guys dying and putting on a show. It was so grand.
The trooper nudged him. “So. What brings an old timer out here?”
The transport shook like orbit was being broken. Zeto’s eyes narrowed. His hand accidentally took flight and bumped into the trooper’s throat. Engines roared muffling… everything.
Zeto leaned a little closer to him. “Do shut up. The to be departed shouldn’t speak so much. You might scare the reaper.” He put on a senile smile.
So. He was a TIE again. He didn’t see that coming. It’d make the killing easier. It’d make the blood hiding easier. Space was so clean. It would make some things harder. The whole being your own man thing. The rampaging through town on a speeder and a sack full of charges. Privacy.
Then again, he’d get to start his arts and crafts back up again. Maybe this time he could add more rebel red to it fresh from a vein.
Right there was a huge benefit of being a TIE pilot. Your uniform came with an air filter. Let it out, and you’d never smell it. Air was always had that cool crisp smell of the weather changing towards winter. Don’t eat the red snow.
Zeto wiggled his jaw. A bitter moist taste felt stuck to every surface of his mouth. It almost tasted like… Rebel.
“Good morning, my most balding dude,” a trooper in training said. A soon to be dead trooper most likely with his wide eyes and far too excited look.
He reminded Zeto of so many rookie pilots who forgot TIEs, back then at least, didn’t have shields or infinite range. That was how real men flew, but it took some respect for your TIE. You had to suit up. Give it a little love and blast away. If you jumped in it without giving it its due, well… There was always another rookie to take up the unnamed splat’s spot.
“What?”
The trooper poked him. “It’s the start of another great day to pew pew some rebel fun.”
Zeto let out a yawn. “Scum. You mean scum.”
“No. Fun. It’s fun to pew pew them.” The trooper to be took on the smile of a Jedi who was about to get lucky. Lucky enough to stumble out the airlock.
This was what he didn’t miss able the old days. Chit chat on a destroyer would have met a cold reception in such tight quarters where one should be practicing staring at the wall. Then again, it could have always been his units. There was always an air of seriousness to them that made carving things out of rebel gear to give the kids of the next loyal world frown worthy, but it didn’t stop him.
One time he had taken a rebel helmet and made a child’s potty out of it. Another a blaster he turned into a toy sword. And best of all? Many times he took an X-wing and made it fireworks. Oh how the kids loved those. The bad guys dying and putting on a show. It was so grand.
The trooper nudged him. “So. What brings an old timer out here?”
The transport shook like orbit was being broken. Zeto’s eyes narrowed. His hand accidentally took flight and bumped into the trooper’s throat. Engines roared muffling… everything.
Zeto leaned a little closer to him. “Do shut up. The to be departed shouldn’t speak so much. You might scare the reaper.” He put on a senile smile.
So. He was a TIE again. He didn’t see that coming. It’d make the killing easier. It’d make the blood hiding easier. Space was so clean. It would make some things harder. The whole being your own man thing. The rampaging through town on a speeder and a sack full of charges. Privacy.
Then again, he’d get to start his arts and crafts back up again. Maybe this time he could add more rebel red to it fresh from a vein.