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were_lemur! Who challenged me to write something in some way inspired by the awesome Star Wars & Pants Game, wherein you replace key words from Star Wars quotes with the word "pants"! This actually isn't a silly story (well, not really, though it might be daft). The first line is a "pantsed" quote, and I took it from there.
Disclaimer - not mine! No money being made! Don't tax me!
Like Pants & Taxes.
"You came in those pants?" Zebon sneered, seating himself. "You're braver than I thought."
Zebon was a tall man, human, and his ash-blond hair camouflaged the encroaching grey handsomely. Han Solo leant even further back into his chair, lifted his crossed legs an inch, and then set them back on the table with satisfying thud. His pants were brown, and had small bars of red stitching like a ladder along the outside of each leg, from hip to boot-top.
"These are Corellian Bloodstripes," he said. "First class. And if the Imperial Navy couldn't stop me wearing 'em when they kicked me out, you sure as hell aren't gonna."
Chewie roared in agreement and Zebon turned to stare at the two-metre, dark-and-tan, shaggy mass of Wookiee, leaning casually against the wall behind Han. "I forgot you kept a pet," he said.
Han was no longer stretched across his bar-chair and the table. Quick as a sandpanther, he had moved, curling his legs underneath his seat and leaning forward, elbows braced against the table, glaring. "Careful, pal," he said. "Or you'll find out, first-hand, how I got my second class Bloodstripes."
Zebon didn't move. Han postured, he postured; it was all part of the dance. "You know, Solo," he said. "The only way those stripes'd mean anything to me is if they were painted in real Corellian blood."
"Well," Han said. "I'm sorry I can't help you with that. But you know, you guys had your chance, and you blew it," he shrugged. "No need to take it out on my pants."
Zebon was from Tralus, one of the twin planets that orbited each other further out from Corellia's sun than Corellia herself. He'd been a Captain in the Talus-Tralus Liberation League's brief, but bloody, insurrection twenty years ago, back when the whole galaxy was tearing itself apart and "Separatist," was about as bad an insult as "Gravel-maggot", before the Empire up and stamped on everyone just the same and made the whole thing seemed kind of pointless in hindsight.
"You got nerve, kid," Zebon said. "But you're stupid. Marching in here and showing guts isn't going to impress me and there are a dozen more freighter captains out there begging for work since the Imps cracked down on this planet and impounded half of everything. Why should I hire you?"
"I made the Kessel run in twelve parsecs. You think any of these cantina rats are going to do better?" Han eased himself back into his chair, dropping his confrontational posture, and gestured around the bar. There were a two dozen sentients representing a dozen species in various states of intoxication. A few, like that sour-faced off-duty Imperial, were watching the duo warily, but most were unconscious or trying to get that way as fast as possible.
"And if it was a race, I'm sure that'd be a real useful skill. But I need security, Solo. You know what I mean?"
"Sure."
"I don't think you do, kid, because I need someone who understands when he ought to shut up and lie low, and when it's a good idea to strut into a cantina and put his Bloodstripes on the table for everyone to see."
"I'll get your cargo where it needs to go. I run for the best. I've run for Jabba before."
Zebon's eyes caught Han's, tracked to the off-duty Imp, and then back. "And for that," he hissed. "You just lost five thousand credits. For the Bloodstripes? Another five. I'll pay you ten thousand, or I'll pay someone else."
"Ten thousand? Oh, come on! I'll be lucky if that even covers my fuel expenses!"
"Yeah, well, think about that next time you insult your boss and spill things you shouldn't in polite company," Zebon pushed his chair back from the table and stood. "Take it or leave it. But if you leave it, you won't find another job on this dirtball and then you'll have to pay for your own fuel."
Zebon started walking away. Han stood and called after him, "This is robbery!"
Zebon turned instantly, striding towards Han in great, heavy, threatening steps. He grabbed him by the shirt front and pushed him back against the adobe wall of the cantina. All the air left Han's chest. The end of Chewie's bowcaster entered his field of vision, pushed roughly against Zebon's temple. There was a click as the Wookiee released the safety.
The entire cantina was staring.
"No, Solo," Zebon hissed. "Robbery is leaving my world a wasteland of bomb-sites and our coffers hollow from reparations. Robbery is when you take a man's gods-given right to self-rule and give it to other men. Robbery is asking for twice as much as I can afford because you have pretty pants."
There was a low rumble in Chewie's throat.
"I'm leaving," Zebon muttered, releasing Solo with a shove that winded him again. "And when you can talk, if you still want the job, comm my secretary; she'll give you the details. But don't let me see you again."
He stalked from the cantina, and the patrons went back to their drinks. The Imp tossed his glass back, and left.
Chewie rumbled a question.
"Nah," Han said. "Don't worry. He wasn't really mad. Well, okay, maybe a little. But that's what we needed, right?"
Chewie shrugged and gestured to the seat the Imp had been sitting in.
"Of course I know he's the head of the Garrison! That's why I said it! Look, he doesn't care we're smuggling for Jabba. We're in the middle of nowhere. Chances are he's had a dozen kickback offers to relax this embargo already. And the fact no one's been publically arrested since it happened means he's accepted. But for appearance's sake, he can't do anything too soon, so..." Han shrugged. "We get paid a little extra to get a headstart on things. Make sure the shipments keep moving."
Chewbacca seemed unconvinced.
"The best lies are the ones that make you look bad. Now he knows we're smuggling scum, but he figures we're stupid smuggling scum who messed up a business deal. He's not going to come down on us for running for Jabba because Jabba's about to make him a rich man. And now he's not going to wonder why we're doing this for a fraction of our profit-margin either."
Chewie made a moaning sounds and took a gulp from his tankard and Han nodded. "Yeah, you said it, Chewie."
The only reason a minor crackdown on a backwater planet would include the necessity for the Imperial Garrison Commander to authorise all credit transactions would be if the Commader was a greedy little sleemo looking to make some profit on uncollected taxes, either for his personal account or to show off to his superiors.
"This way," Han said. "He's not immediately going to assume it's show-pay and the real profit is our cut of the cargo."
Chewie grunted.
"Yup," Han said. "Untaxable."
He finished his drink. Things were good. The meeting with Zebon had gone off without a hitch. Now all he had to do was get this spice to Jabba, unload his share, and he'd be a rich enough man to pay off the last of his debts, refit the Falcon, maybe even take a vacation, go to Kashyyyk with Chewie so he could visit his family. Things would be on an even keel again.
Long as he didn't run into any Imperial cruisers.
***
Authorial Ramblings, ahoy!
The writing in this one isn't stellar; I know that. It's functional though, and it was fun to write. I think I got Han's voice right and if I treated Chewie more like a walking exposition carpet, I apologise but it's...kind of what he is, effectively, in the films. :(
I'm also reasonably pleased with the vaguely smugglerish "plot" that's going on, especially since I'm not great at coming up with scenarios and the "prompt" was so weird. But then, it made me think, so that's good.
I'm probably the only person reading this who's actually aware just how much I screwed around with continuity - i.e. Talus and Tralus didn't try to defect from Corellia during the Clone Wars; that was much later - about fifteen years after the movies, and even when they did it wasn't viciously violent, but I wanted needed to work the pants in somehow and magically Han DOES have special pants, so I needed someone who'd be pissed off with the Corellians and I figured, feh, I'll AU it. Also, Han's second-class Bloodstripes came from an incident where he helped some Wookiees - so me bringing it up there wasn't just a case of it sounding good with the "first-class, first-hand, second-class," stuff.
Also I think that Han losing the shipment that pisses of Jabba has already been chronicled, but it was too fun an ending not to include. So yeah. There was no serious attempt to keep this in continuity because...it's Star Wars. Keeping anything in continuity is probably a less worthwhile excercise than trying to keep your head from exploding.
But because I'm a massive geek, I thought I'd explain all that anyway... ;)
Next up, a story fortiniago, and if you've read her prompt(s), you'll know why I'm a leeeeeeetle nervous... ;)
were_lemur! Who challenged me to write something in some way inspired by the awesome Star Wars & Pants Game, wherein you replace key words from Star Wars quotes with the word "pants"! This actually isn't a silly story (well, not really, though it might be daft). The first line is a "pantsed" quote, and I took it from there. Disclaimer - not mine! No money being made! Don't tax me!
Like Pants & Taxes.
"You came in those pants?" Zebon sneered, seating himself. "You're braver than I thought."
Zebon was a tall man, human, and his ash-blond hair camouflaged the encroaching grey handsomely. Han Solo leant even further back into his chair, lifted his crossed legs an inch, and then set them back on the table with satisfying thud. His pants were brown, and had small bars of red stitching like a ladder along the outside of each leg, from hip to boot-top.
"These are Corellian Bloodstripes," he said. "First class. And if the Imperial Navy couldn't stop me wearing 'em when they kicked me out, you sure as hell aren't gonna."
Chewie roared in agreement and Zebon turned to stare at the two-metre, dark-and-tan, shaggy mass of Wookiee, leaning casually against the wall behind Han. "I forgot you kept a pet," he said.
Han was no longer stretched across his bar-chair and the table. Quick as a sandpanther, he had moved, curling his legs underneath his seat and leaning forward, elbows braced against the table, glaring. "Careful, pal," he said. "Or you'll find out, first-hand, how I got my second class Bloodstripes."
Zebon didn't move. Han postured, he postured; it was all part of the dance. "You know, Solo," he said. "The only way those stripes'd mean anything to me is if they were painted in real Corellian blood."
"Well," Han said. "I'm sorry I can't help you with that. But you know, you guys had your chance, and you blew it," he shrugged. "No need to take it out on my pants."
Zebon was from Tralus, one of the twin planets that orbited each other further out from Corellia's sun than Corellia herself. He'd been a Captain in the Talus-Tralus Liberation League's brief, but bloody, insurrection twenty years ago, back when the whole galaxy was tearing itself apart and "Separatist," was about as bad an insult as "Gravel-maggot", before the Empire up and stamped on everyone just the same and made the whole thing seemed kind of pointless in hindsight.
"You got nerve, kid," Zebon said. "But you're stupid. Marching in here and showing guts isn't going to impress me and there are a dozen more freighter captains out there begging for work since the Imps cracked down on this planet and impounded half of everything. Why should I hire you?"
"I made the Kessel run in twelve parsecs. You think any of these cantina rats are going to do better?" Han eased himself back into his chair, dropping his confrontational posture, and gestured around the bar. There were a two dozen sentients representing a dozen species in various states of intoxication. A few, like that sour-faced off-duty Imperial, were watching the duo warily, but most were unconscious or trying to get that way as fast as possible.
"And if it was a race, I'm sure that'd be a real useful skill. But I need security, Solo. You know what I mean?"
"Sure."
"I don't think you do, kid, because I need someone who understands when he ought to shut up and lie low, and when it's a good idea to strut into a cantina and put his Bloodstripes on the table for everyone to see."
"I'll get your cargo where it needs to go. I run for the best. I've run for Jabba before."
Zebon's eyes caught Han's, tracked to the off-duty Imp, and then back. "And for that," he hissed. "You just lost five thousand credits. For the Bloodstripes? Another five. I'll pay you ten thousand, or I'll pay someone else."
"Ten thousand? Oh, come on! I'll be lucky if that even covers my fuel expenses!"
"Yeah, well, think about that next time you insult your boss and spill things you shouldn't in polite company," Zebon pushed his chair back from the table and stood. "Take it or leave it. But if you leave it, you won't find another job on this dirtball and then you'll have to pay for your own fuel."
Zebon started walking away. Han stood and called after him, "This is robbery!"
Zebon turned instantly, striding towards Han in great, heavy, threatening steps. He grabbed him by the shirt front and pushed him back against the adobe wall of the cantina. All the air left Han's chest. The end of Chewie's bowcaster entered his field of vision, pushed roughly against Zebon's temple. There was a click as the Wookiee released the safety.
The entire cantina was staring.
"No, Solo," Zebon hissed. "Robbery is leaving my world a wasteland of bomb-sites and our coffers hollow from reparations. Robbery is when you take a man's gods-given right to self-rule and give it to other men. Robbery is asking for twice as much as I can afford because you have pretty pants."
There was a low rumble in Chewie's throat.
"I'm leaving," Zebon muttered, releasing Solo with a shove that winded him again. "And when you can talk, if you still want the job, comm my secretary; she'll give you the details. But don't let me see you again."
He stalked from the cantina, and the patrons went back to their drinks. The Imp tossed his glass back, and left.
Chewie rumbled a question.
"Nah," Han said. "Don't worry. He wasn't really mad. Well, okay, maybe a little. But that's what we needed, right?"
Chewie shrugged and gestured to the seat the Imp had been sitting in.
"Of course I know he's the head of the Garrison! That's why I said it! Look, he doesn't care we're smuggling for Jabba. We're in the middle of nowhere. Chances are he's had a dozen kickback offers to relax this embargo already. And the fact no one's been publically arrested since it happened means he's accepted. But for appearance's sake, he can't do anything too soon, so..." Han shrugged. "We get paid a little extra to get a headstart on things. Make sure the shipments keep moving."
Chewbacca seemed unconvinced.
"The best lies are the ones that make you look bad. Now he knows we're smuggling scum, but he figures we're stupid smuggling scum who messed up a business deal. He's not going to come down on us for running for Jabba because Jabba's about to make him a rich man. And now he's not going to wonder why we're doing this for a fraction of our profit-margin either."
Chewie made a moaning sounds and took a gulp from his tankard and Han nodded. "Yeah, you said it, Chewie."
The only reason a minor crackdown on a backwater planet would include the necessity for the Imperial Garrison Commander to authorise all credit transactions would be if the Commader was a greedy little sleemo looking to make some profit on uncollected taxes, either for his personal account or to show off to his superiors.
"This way," Han said. "He's not immediately going to assume it's show-pay and the real profit is our cut of the cargo."
Chewie grunted.
"Yup," Han said. "Untaxable."
He finished his drink. Things were good. The meeting with Zebon had gone off without a hitch. Now all he had to do was get this spice to Jabba, unload his share, and he'd be a rich enough man to pay off the last of his debts, refit the Falcon, maybe even take a vacation, go to Kashyyyk with Chewie so he could visit his family. Things would be on an even keel again.
Long as he didn't run into any Imperial cruisers.
***
Authorial Ramblings, ahoy!
The writing in this one isn't stellar; I know that. It's functional though, and it was fun to write. I think I got Han's voice right and if I treated Chewie more like a walking exposition carpet, I apologise but it's...kind of what he is, effectively, in the films. :(
I'm also reasonably pleased with the vaguely smugglerish "plot" that's going on, especially since I'm not great at coming up with scenarios and the "prompt" was so weird. But then, it made me think, so that's good.
I'm probably the only person reading this who's actually aware just how much I screwed around with continuity - i.e. Talus and Tralus didn't try to defect from Corellia during the Clone Wars; that was much later - about fifteen years after the movies, and even when they did it wasn't viciously violent, but I wanted needed to work the pants in somehow and magically Han DOES have special pants, so I needed someone who'd be pissed off with the Corellians and I figured, feh, I'll AU it. Also, Han's second-class Bloodstripes came from an incident where he helped some Wookiees - so me bringing it up there wasn't just a case of it sounding good with the "first-class, first-hand, second-class," stuff.
Also I think that Han losing the shipment that pisses of Jabba has already been chronicled, but it was too fun an ending not to include. So yeah. There was no serious attempt to keep this in continuity because...it's Star Wars. Keeping anything in continuity is probably a less worthwhile excercise than trying to keep your head from exploding.
But because I'm a massive geek, I thought I'd explain all that anyway... ;)
Next up, a story for
tiniago, and if you've read her prompt(s), you'll know why I'm a leeeeeeetle nervous... ;)
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Date: 2008-01-02 04:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-02 09:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-03 03:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-03 10:20 am (UTC)Besides, EVERYONE needs to know just how "special" Han's pants really are... :p
Also, the prompt reintroduced me to the pants game - which I did know about, but had forgotten. "Aah, it's Han. I really thought he'd change his pants." "I cannot teach this boy. He has no pants."
Awesome!
I enjoyed this.
Date: 2008-01-23 02:50 am (UTC)Re: I enjoyed this.
Date: 2008-01-23 09:34 pm (UTC)Like you, I'm somewhat overpleased with myself for managing to write this as something other than crack!fic and I'm glad it kept you entertained from start to finish which was really all I was going for. :)