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| - What monsters lurk in shadows, Forever veiled in black? What mischief, pain or sorrow, They seek to play or act? Yet escape is not the answer, To fend of the unavoidable fear. For some songs as vile as cancer, Land deceptively sweet on the ear. Look now, I urge you, upon the King of the Landing Pad. None deny His Majesty the domain that is his by right of conquest. There at its center, while passerbys zigzag to avoid or ignore his most magnificent presence, is none other than Deleterious A. Cahoot -- upstanding gentleman of civil society. He moves very little except for his dancing tail and eyes that watch with utmost curiosity the comings and goings of his subjects. Nar Shadda, cesspool of scum, hive of villany, den of the wretched, home of some of the best wool in the Galaxy. Supposedly, a dozen wookiees died for a single yard. So illegal, so fine in quality, and naturally, a requirement for a knitting aficionado, especially for one catering to those of odd tastes. And so, despite previous terrible experiences on the filthy planet, 'Princess Pipilups', golden, beaded collar and all, scampers its way underfoot, trying to avoid getting its long, floppy ears stepped on. The King is bored. He demands entertainment. This must be amended by his loyal subjects. "Gnyah!" he declares, wide eyes fixed on Rodian. No, that will not do at all. Yet behold! Now comes something new. Who is this that visits the lands of His Most Royal Highness? First a single hop, then another, and soon Deleterious A. Cahoot is on a course towards the bunniform alien. A masked man slips out of a GR75 freighter, in a plain white blast armor with splotches of red and char marks and makes his way to the Tyrrian Spire bridge. Pip halts in its scurrying, taking a kick to the tail, stumbles, and huffs up in protest to the offending large creature - a tall, armored human. How dare they. Could they not appreciate its fine coat? Did they not know how long it took to groom just right? It tosses an ear to the side, and takes a sniff of the air. Nar Shaddaa, a mix of unpleasant scents, has started smelling particularly worse since Pip's last stop here. Gand ambles out of a freighter, breathing mask hissing a puff of ammonia. Ah, but such sweet odors! The stench of decomposition, of rotting matter. A more refined sense of smell could surely appreciate it. The King of the Landing Pad certainly seems pleased with the state of his kingdom. Not that one could tell by the blank expression in his face. The Kowakian monarch comes to a stop in front of this newly arrived alien of matching size. What follows is a silent study, the awe of something unexpected filling his heart. The only hint of this is perhaps the slightly fallen state of his jaw. The man in the armor stops, and takes a moment to regard the bunniform creature. He tilts his head - the left side of his mask having an opening wide enough to reveal the prosthetic, red orb that locks upon Pip. "Princess, huh?" The man inquires, noting the nametag. Pip's antenna twitches on reflex on encountering the monkeylizard king, taken aback by the creature's appearance. For, clearly being a princess of fine rodent breeding, the white rabbit has never laid eyes on such a display. Large eyes blink inquisitively, then it performs its usual greeting ritual, reaching out with its long antenna to touch the esteemed pooh bah of landing pads, forgetting about the larger sentients around them. FORCE: You establish telepathic contact with Deleterious and transmit a thoughtful feeling and a vision: The white-furred rodent before the Kowakian bows its head, ears flopping. A hollow voice rings out, apparently out of no where. "Greetings, odd creature! We are Pip, of the Hirruk Tribe." What do we become without manners? No more than vile creatures. Etiquette is more than a set of rules: it is the guidelines by which we tell apart the unwanted elements from the properly civilized individuals. Deleterious A. Cahoot -- upstanding gentleman of society and King of the Landing Pad -- responds accordingly. He does exactly the same thing he always does and is expected of him in the face of new acquaintances: he just stands there and takes a dump. Unable to respond in the same fashion as he has been addressed, the Kowakian's own greeting is issued verbally: "Negh!" He does not appear to be interested in stepping away from the steaming pile of poo now resting behind him. When in Rome applies in most cases, however, as Pip seems to lack both ends of the digestive tract, its attempts come up short. But, one must always attempt to be diplomatic, even when noses curl at unfamiliar customs. The white rodent puts forth one pink-painted claw and points to the mess at the Kowakian's side. FORCE: You establish telepathic contact with Deleterious and transmit an alarmed feeling and a vision: A steaming pile of feces at the monkeylizard's side becomes more prominent, and a hollow voice calls out, "Your youngling! Should you not care for it?" All stories have secondary characters. Plots must have subdivisions that complete the picture as a whole, even if they are only distantly related. While the King of the Landing Pad and the Princess -- a fairy tale indeed if ever one has been told -- carry out their greetings, somewhere near the microscopic level of existence on the Kowakian's fur -- in a place that few would know as the Empire of Ribtiki (the actual wording and pronounciation is beyond our comprehension) -- an adventerous tick decides the time has come to leave home. So it hops off, past the Crevice of Intriguing Scents, across the length of the Great Elongation and finally reaches the end. Still unsatisfied, this tick leaps off and starts scurrying across the ground... toward Zamir. Clearly intent on meeting new friends. Meanwhile, Deleterious A. Cahoot's jaw widens as he glances between Pip and the steaming pile of feces. How baffling this idea may be! His offspring? Why, he never thought of that! All this time to him it was just entertainment. Abashed, ashamed to no end, the monkey lizard scoops the poo in his arms and holds it lovingly in the ratbunny's direction. Deleterious gives his Tick Carrying Rodian Sucker-Plague to Zamir. What a marvelous meeting of minds is to be had! Tick and human, monkey and rabbit, gand and potential dinner. All in a universe far too grand for its own good, blocked out of view by the thick, putrid clouds of Nar Shadda's sky. The beauty of this planet is entirely more than skin-deep. In fact, it's actually suggested to avoid barring too much skin. Recent pest infestations and acidic rain and all. Probably nothing to worry about. Now, Pip, faced with a rather curious conundrum, being a proud father of six hoojiblets itself, knows the difficulties of parenthood. Therefore, it is the creature's rightful duty to offer advice. Its antenna quivers. FORCE: You establish telepathic contact with Deleterious and transmit a loving feeling and a vision: Images of various parental techniques flash by, from species large and small. Some of them eerie, some comforting. None particularly detailed or informative. What the normal, human eyes cannot see, a prosthetic one can. The poor tick is magnified a hundred times before it is flung aside by Zamir's hand, then stomped upon with a nasty sound. "Well, that's one nasty parasite less." the Commander comments to himself and, regarding the Princess and the King of the Landing Pad, he fishes for something - a bar of candy- and tosses it to the latter. Seconds for the likes of sentients such as those visibly gathered on the landing pad is an eternity in the realms of the microscopic. Before Zamir had a chance to be rid of the tick, the hero of our story managed to meet a bacteria and fall in love. Such a union could not be, of course -- it defied all genetic logic. As such, they parted ways. Among its many adventures, the blood-sucking traveller also encountered a tribe of quarrelsome ants who had insectist inclinations and were very outspoken about their segregationist views. The battle was fierce... but ultimately favorable for main character of our tale. Ah, a fine life indeed. Many friends were made, many affairs were had... before death came in the shape of a boot. Rest in peace, little tick. Rest in peace. Now, back to the Kowakian. Many claim the monkey-lizard kind are not intelligent. Oh, but they are, at least more than they are given credit for. Deleterious A. Cahoot knows what offspring mean. Deleterious A. Cahoot may be an upstanding gentleman of society, but he is also a male. He was not asking for advice. He was offering what he believes are the fruit of his loins to Pip. The monarch does not want them. He has his whole life ahead of him. "Gyah!" he states, his shrill voice filled with the anxiety of an unsuspecting parent thrust into fatherhood. What to do? Oh, what to-- oh, look, food! Dropping the feces, the King of the Landing Pad catches the bar of candy and stuffs it whole -- wrapper and all -- into his mouth. Death and drama, tragic romance, unrequited passions in grungy streets. The lifeblood of the planet famed for gluttony and sin. But, Pip knows not of such things. Cleanliness is next to Jediness, as any good sentinent would tell you, and a rodent like Pip is very keen on keeping its person in pristine condition. What a world it misses! However, even /more/ tragic is a father's treatment of his offspring! How vile! How inhumane! A product of one's loins, so eagerly tossed away, for sugary treats?! Pip's tiny claws shoot out to attempt to save the Kowakian's smelly child. Shhhwaaap! Terror of terrors! The newborn falls apart in the hoojib's paws, leaving its amniotic fluids all over white fur. FORCE: You establish telepathic contact with Deleterious and transmit a fearful feeling. Deleterious A. Cahoot finishes gobbling down the offered food in seconds. Done with dinner, he turns to look at Pip, now smeared with poo. "Mm-nah! Gyahahahaha!" The high-pitched fit of wild cackling is cold and succinct. After all, mockery should always be to the point. "Ohhhh." The beak opens and closes in awe of this glorious image. Even a King is entitled to hold some things to great esteem and few hold more importance in the eyes of the monarch than the sanctity of poo as a tool for entertainment. The fecal matter now destroyed, the situation is in need of rectification. The monkey-lizard's visage takes on the form of deep concentration, the look of a wise being contemplating a problem that plagues the most remote boundaries of his soul. Yes, deep focus... deep... deep... and then the sonorous escape of gas. Apparently the King is all out of offspring, yet the smell of the fart lingers... like a memory... the memory of his lost younglings. No greater a loss for a parent than the life of a child. Emotions flash in the large eyes of the white rabbit, a whirlwind of distress, regret, and the sorrow of losing its own in a series of unfortunate events. Music hums to life in the background. Fortunately, budget cuts and poor casting spares others of what could otherwise be a well-timed flashback. It is just some spiced synthguitarist trying to win his girl's heart with a clumsy melody over the din of the spaceport. What an odd monster, this monarch is, to laugh at the death of a child. But wait.. it was never alive! As the monkeylizard tenses again, Pip realizes his mistake. Not a child, at all, but prebirth. Clearly the other creature was still in contractions! Behind that mask, Zamir's expression is concealed, but one can never be sure whether it'd be one of disgust. There's a bit of snickering, at first, then it breaks out in laughter. Hysterical, insane laughter. There are occasional stops for taking a breath, but still, the scene strikes him as so much more than amusing that one might wonder whether the Commander has his screws in place. Not many know this, but among the Kowakian the escape of gas serves many purposes depending on the specific tribe one belongs to. The King of the Landing Pad, His Majesty Deleterious A. Cahoot the First -- before becoming ruler and monarch of All That Can Be Seen in Any Direction While Sitting in That Crate Over There, many years prior to this glorious time of conquest -- was actually fluent in flatulence. An expert, if you will, in the art of expressing emotion through the release of tainted air. The new reaction displayed by Pip seems to pointedly hint at a common understanding of wills and as such, the kind and gentle Overlord of the Here and Maybe Over There chooses to open greater channels of communication by regaling his guest with a recital. Oh, if I could tell you of the gestures and movements of claws and how gracefully the Kowakian now performs... but such things, even the beautiful quality of the sounds and delectable smells, are best left to the imagination. An expert of gas could appreciate the finer delicacies of each note, of each minute fluctuation in the air. A true master, however, would be able to reply in turn. Yet, Pip, owner of but a nose, and little of butt, finds himself, for once, speechless. Not that it could speak. The aroma of conversation simply overpowers its mind, as well. Filthy claws still stretched out in a sad attempt to offer midwife assistance, the rodent takes one sniff... and promptly drops in a dead faint. The madness of genius plagues the passionate mind as it dives into the grandest expression of its art. No longer is there a King of the Landing Pad. Even the monarch has taken a bow and stepped aside. Now there is only the virtuoso performance of the Maestro of Gas. Each sound is more than a note: it is a word, a phrase, a feeling. Were the audience composed of the natives of Kowak, they would be brought to tears in the face of such beauty. Nothing can break such concentration, such devotion, such fierce determination, such-- oh, look! More food! So ends what promised to be the greatest concert in the history of the Maestro of Gas and his Orchestra of the Bum. As Deleterious takes the time to once more gobble down the snack with wrapper and all, it watches the fallen Pip with pride. It seems he has mistaken the reaction for uncontrollable awe. "Gyeh!" he thanks, beak full of food, wide eyes upon his one fan. "Nyah, gyu, gyahahahaha." Far, in the distance, the faint sigh of applause. Clap. Clap. Clap! A whistle. No, wait, there also happens to be a young Rodian lady in a dangerously tight skirt at the far end of the spaceport. Her presence could not have drawn the same attentions as this amazing concerto of winds, could it? Could the audience not appreciate the finely-tuned instrument of a rectum? No, no they cannot. A great shame, for those who follow the bodily music scene, to miss such a spectacle. The curtains close, flowers fall, wilted and dead. Nar Shadda concert, after all. In the end, only a tick remains, plucking tears from its eyes. Entertainment is ever so fleeting, it seems. With the symphony of gases ended and his newly acquainted fan sleeping, the King of the Landing Pad is at a loss. Yet let it not be said that he is unkind! Deleterious A. Cahoot takes a few carefuly steps towards Pip and watches the ratbunny in silence. The Kowakian is not without a sense of duty and as such, chooses to honor this guest which both amused and fawned upon him. The monkey-lizard in unable to put this gratitude into words, but there is one thing he can do to convey his thankful emotion. He squats over the bunniform alien's face and lets loose with the most magnificent and poetic of gases. Yes. Sleep well, good vassal. Sleep well. That said, the Kowakian's attention is immediately drawn to some rotting fruit a distance away. "Gnyah! Gyahahahaha." A leap, two leaps... and he is gone.
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