Chapter 7: Masters of the Universe
When I was living on Tatooine, I had thought that my life was in order. Now that I was residing in Liberation City, I found that I had reached a whole new plane of existence that was exponentially better. It was like reminiscing over that first high school sweetheart so many years ago - while at the time those youthful heavy petting sessions seemed like a forbidden glimpse of heaven, but a much later, and much more experienced wild fling made those uncoordinated frolics look like an afternoon field trip to the petting zoo. Such it was with my newfound Corellian citizenship. For one thing, the weather was infinitely better. A gentle breeze was oft to sweep a cool mist of refreshment off the glassy water of Coronet Bay and toss it lightly across the land. Sandstorms were unheard of, and the occasional rainstorm was a welcome interruption of the perfect sunshine that enveloped and permeated the land. Oh, there is nothing quite as relaxing as sipping hot cocoa with friends around a campfire; the soft pitter-patter of raindrops falling melodically on the tent skins as it gently washes away the evidence of the orgy that had just concluded. The camaraderie and friendship of WLF was greater than any I had experienced in Bestine. Though I was not a Wookie, they accepted me like an abandoned alien severely stunted during a horrific childhood accident adopted by the in-laws of a distant cousin, thrice removed. I was invited to join them in any venture that did not include the secret handshake, naked Wookie women, a bantha named Spot, or any combination thereof. I gladly accepted all such invitations and came to respect all of my Wookie brethren. Dojorn was a noble Wookie, always ready to lend a helping hand, spare credit, or a butchered joke when it was needed. FurryCheese was a wonderful source of perverse entertainment, his mouth almost as dirty as his dingleberry-caked rear. Few travelers passed through Coronet without their gear being fiddled with. Even rarer- and luckier- were those whom escaped his constant squirting of gooey cheese as they disembarked their transport. It was a warm and wet welcome that was hard to miss, but trying to do so was highly and heavily recommended. Icetor was the stiff and staunch sort, whose solemn salute or nod in your direction spoke of a respect greater than words would convey. Of course, there was always that rumor of the incident with his tongue and a malfunctioning general crafting station. Rekknaw was the leader of the guild, who imparted a kind of honorary tolerance for me like one would bestow on the single-child hyperactive kid in glasses next door who was always bloodying his nose and wetting his pants or vice versa, but whose mom knew your mom...and she was hot. He was kind enough, but I always had the feeling he might be done with me and tear my arms out and flick me into a gully when my back was turned.
It was nice to be able to dwell in (or just outside of) the same city as Jpex, Lobyk, and Flubby. Alas Chevy was no more, either mortally poisoned by an errant Lecepamine Dart Trap or choked to death on one of Varhale's stale cookies. (Varhale is a close relative of Daylen, who spent much time in the kitchen attempting to master Chef by producing rather dubious looking delicacies that looked like tired macaroni drenched in a sauce that might one day grow up to be cheese.)
/momentOfSilence
Lobyk accompanied the guild hunts as medical support, but his mayoral duties began to consume a considerable amount of his time. Sometimes he would lock himself in the city hall and toil for hours just over his weekly address to the city. At least he had that comely intern to help him out those days he had to "work late". We began to miss him on hunts though. Jpex purchased a neat bungalow that would have made an awesome bachelor pad, but he spent most of his time in the wilderness, /areatracking down his prey as a Ranger. He was working hard at becoming a master of the land, slowly learning to distinguish animal droppings from bread pudding crumbs and differentiating which one to eat. He muscled down anything fully half his size for its hide.
And then there Flubby. Despite being rather sissy even for a quilt-making crafter, he tried to display some sort of glandular presence between his fins. He would tickle every mottled wrix and slice hound could find with the butt of his rifle in a valiant attempt at counting coup. He subsequently maxed out the rewards on his Frequent Clone Card, becoming a permanent fixture in the Coronet Cloning Center.
The largest advantage of living so close to Coronet was the close proximity to a gackle of space tourists. Ah tourists! They would buy and believe just about everything, making my Apprenticeship experience climb faster than acid reflux after a greasy gnorrtburger from Greck’s Grill. It was as wonderful of a place to receive as it was to give. A helpful man named Neutrino bestowed a spraystick upon me as a gift. When I took it outside the city to try it out on butterflies and Meatlumps, I could not believe my eyes. This thing was supposed to be a rifle, but it had a fast rate of attack and worked well at close range! I mournfully looked back at all the time I had wasted with my DLT20. I was nearly finished with Rifle for my Marksman mastery now; if I had been able to use this weapon sooner I would have been done quite some time ago. Oh well, that is how things go. With my shiny new weapon I terrorized every swooper camp, giant gubber den, and carrion spat nest I could find, alternated with daily Scouting lectures on the starport steps.
It was a bittersweet moment when I finally attained Master Scout. It was thrilling to have made my first significant step to Bounty Hunter. Unfortunately I also qualified for Marksman teaching at the same time. I had spent all that time teaching the bored travelers in the starport awaiting a shuttle, and now I had to do it all over again with Marksman. I rented a small square just outside the starport and set up a firing range. For several days I manned my station from dawn until dusk, training the tourists in the art of Marksmanship. All day long they would take up my firearms and try to nail the target dummies in painful nether regions. Several of them were unable to differentiate the practice dummies from the linkdead artisans scattered throughout the acropolis. I was kindly asked to take my business elsewhere by the Port Authority guards who smashed my dummies to shreds. That was fine with me; I had made my mark as it were- Master Marksman that is. I celebrated my accomplishment by purchasing a baby bantha who I named Muggs. I tucked him gently into my datapad and prepared for my next venture. It was time to show that I was worthy to become a Novice Bounty Hunter. It was time to kill and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill. And when I was done with that, all I had left was more killing. Followed by killing. And killing.
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