A Force to be Reckoned With
“No one lays down that kind of credit for nothing Slav…” grunted Tark Khor into his beer, the Coruscant club’s music thumping hypnotically, almost soothingly. Tark knew he must be losing his mind, but clients advance payment was so great that Tark’s cred stick seemed to have actually gotten heavier.
“Yet you look like I fucking kicked your dog into a pod race!” pointed out Slav, sipping his cocktail, idly surveying the females of various species.
“I don’t like it. This much in advance. The fact that the guy only sends a fukkin droid to us for a liaison, and one of those really expensive ones at that, and most of all, the fact that he KNEW we were already chasing Mr. Carrot Blades? “He”! I say “he”. We don’t even know who or what were dealing with!" Tark trailed off, the anxiety smashing down his excitement.
“I think you need to get your head out of your ass.” said Slav, slamming down his beer with a significant look at the bartender. Once Slav’s back was turned, the bartender raised both of its “communication” fingers in a sign of contempt. “Credits is good. It’s just that simple.”
Tark flipped the beaten, old credstick in his fingers. The display had to scroll to accomodate the amount. “That’s just it Slav. When you deal with this kind of cred, its never that simple.”
That’s for me to know, and for you to find out. If you live…