Log:A Mandalorian Walks into a Cantina...
"Now that... is a lot of nipples..."
The Smuggler's Den isn't known for having live entertainment, or really any entertainment at all. But it IS known for having cheap booze, which occasionally results in entertainment. Generally of the extremely amateur and unwelcome variety, but entertainment nonetheless.
Tonight's entertainment appears to be an elderly Askajian woman who is shuffling around on the bar, topless, and belting out some sort of love song in an especially gratingly-accented version of Huttese.
Everyone else seems to be drinking harder to desensitive themselves to the horror, pointedly looking away from the elderly, enormous, multibreasted woman.
But the Hutt near the bar is having a very different reaction. Very different indeed.
"That's it girl! Get it!" Raising his hat above his head with one hand, the Hutt is fanning himself in a vain effort to slow the steady stream of sweat. In his other hand, he's holding the Smuggler's Den's last remaining mop bucket, which has been emptied out and filled with beer specifically to appease Lord Makooja's very specific, and very prodigious appetites.
A rather handsome young man with messy, short black hair with the center spiked into a messy mohawk walks into the Smuggler's Den. His black fiberweave armor has rips, tears, and three blaster-holes burned into the center-of-mass areas, exposing the young man's toned chest beneath the fiberweave. A single small blaster is low-slung on his belt, and as he enters the estabishment, his eyes scan about, as though in search of someone.
Upon spotting the Hutt at the bar, he advances and adjusts his blaster-belt. He stands back a little and observes the Hutt, and then stands beside him as though hoping the Hutt will acknowledge his presence.
It's tough to compete with a drunken, slurring Askajian. For a Hutt, they're about as close as bipeds get to being truly desirable. But even an unrepentant scumbag like Mak can't ogle ceaselessly, eventually he needs to take a drink from his mop bucket full of beer.
It's when he's in the middle of doing this, bucket upturned and (mostly) pouring into his gaping maw, that Mak notices that he's got a visitor. That probably doesn't say much about his situational awareness or his reflexes, but he's managed to stay alive so far.
Slamming the empty bucket back down on the bartop with a loud 'Kerrang!', the Hutt turns back, looks over his shoulder, and gives the young man a hard appraising stare.
Then he smiles, his tongue hanging out of his mouth sloppily, and points up at the woman who is probably sixty years old.
"Lot of nipples, ain't it, son?"
The messy-haired young man lets out a short laugh as he watches the Ashkejan jiggle. "I like 'em two-at-a-time, myself, but plenty big," the young man says, and adjusts his belt again.
"Never one for paying to get a show, though. All that shakin' in my face and I can't do nothin' with it? Ain't fair." He lets out another short laugh and faces the Hutt. "You're part of the Cartel, right?"
Up on the stage, the Askajian notices that she's got a second admirer and gives the young man a coy smile. She's not used to people other than Mak wanting to see her naked, and needs to make the most of every potential opportunity.
She stops singing, drawing sighs of relief from just about every one else in the bar. However, it produces a sort of eery silence, and she hops down to go get herself yet more booze.
Clearly, she's not a professional.
The Hutt nods, his yellow eyes a bit glazed and bloodshot, but alert enough to answer questions that simple. "Yeah... I guess you could say that. What gave it away? It was the hat, wasn't it?"
Mydas tries to disguise a wince as the Ashkajan woman smiles at him, and averts his eyes from her body below the neck. He raises his right hand and gives her a slight finger-wave before turning back to the hat-wearing Hutt.
"The Hat...and...well. You're a Hutt throwing away money. Most who do that around these parts are usually part of the Cartel. Hell, every Hutt here is part of the Cartel whether they know it or not," Mydas says. "Which is why I'm having this discussion with you. My name's Mydas, and I'm lookin' for work." Mydas Gryph has reconnected.
One of the bartenders has noticed that Mak's mop bucket... er... beer mug, is in need of a refill. So he brings out a hose and starts filling it back up. He'd probably have better luck if his just left the nozzle in the Hutt's mouth.
"Thank you kindly, Cleevis!" He's pretty polite for a Hutt...
Looking back at the young man, the Hutt's eyes narrow a bit. "Well... I'm always hiring. But I got need of a certain type of... individual. You got any references?"
Mydas side-shrugs to his right.
"In my line of work, there's a whole lot of um...non-disclosure. As in that person fell to their death, commited suicide, or died following a heart attack in their sleep," Mydas says, and then grins. "But if you mean who I'm with, well, I'm a Mandalorian. I'm one of the Fifty-Two Sons of House Gryph--a lot of our ilk do some disposal work, base enforcement work...whatever you can do with a blaster and get paid for. On the behalf of my House, I'm authorized to offer you the same fee-based courtesies."
As the bartender continues to refill Mak's slop bucket, the Hutt rubs his pudgy face with an equally pudgy hand. Usually, anytime Mak's been drinking is the best time to offer him a deal or attempt to negotiate, but he doesn't seem completely won over.
"Mandalorian, you say? My ex-wife was a Mandalorian, must been about a hunnerd... maybe two hunnerd years ago. Mean sumbitches, but there don't seem to be much in the way of quality control anymore..."
Looking down at the bartender, a Snivvian by the looks of things, Mak has an idea.
"Hey Cleevis, grab one 'a them mugs and go stand by that table over there..." The Hutt Lord gestures to the one that he means. The Snivvian, already looking worried, does as he's told.
"Tell me now, Mr. Gryph... you say you know your way around a blaster?" He looks at the Snivvian, and places his hand on top of his head.
The Snivvian copies the gesture, setting the beer mug on top of his head and doing his best to stand absolutely still.
"How about a little demonstration, so's I know what I'm payin' for?"
Mydas eyes down the Hutt's employee, and for a moment contemplates hitting him right in the forehead just to be funny. But this wasn't fun time; it was business. It was an audition. He suddenly reached down, snapped his small pistol from its holster, and fires off a snap-shot at the glass on the employee's head. The bolt knocks utterly shatters the glass on impact, and Mydas spins the weapon back into its holster.
The Hutt holds his hat up, and looks like he's about to say 'Yee haw!' any second now. Fortunately, he holds it in. He also manages to hold in the stereotypical 'Hoo hoo hoo!', at least for now.
"Barely saw his hand move, huh Cleevis!? And you were nervous! Ha ha har!"
The Hutt puts his hat back on his head, and picks up his slop bucket with both hands, quickly dumping all of the booze into his gaping maw. Only about twenty percent of it ends up dribbling down the front of his chest.
"'Course... could just be a fluke... maybe we should make it a little more interestin'..." The Hutt's eyes suddenly sparkle with unmistakable cruelty, and he gestures for Cleevis to take a few more paces back.
Then he gestures again. Cleevis gulps, but does as he's told, and another glass is quickly put on his head.
This time, Cleevis is shaking like a dog that's trying to crap.
"How about it, Mr. Gryph?"
Mydas grins and lets out the faintest, cruelest giggle as the Hutt exudes a bit of sadism on Cleevis. Mydas hops around in place as though dancing in a boxing ring, low-whistles, and then quickdraws--the resulting shot again shatters the bottle completely.
"Hoo hoo hoo!"
It slips out, try as he might to not play to type. But Mak is having too much fun to worry about coming across as a cliche.
"Nailed it! That's what I'm talkin' about! Ha ha! Slicker'n snot on a greased Twi'lek!"
The Hutt looks around, apparently not seeing what he's looking for, until the Askajian woman comes back with a drink. She's drinking some sort of concoction straight from the pitcher, and looks as if she might be ready to 'treat' the customers to another Hutt Love Song.
"There you are, girl! I gotta job for you..." He points at the Mandalorian, and the elderly woman starts giggling.
"This here's my secretary. She'll take care of ya... get you lined up for a few jobs."
The Askajian woman heads toward the poor bastard, still topless, and drooling almost as much as Mak does.
"It'll be my pleasure, handsome. What do you say we go find a booth and you can tell me all about yourself?"
The Hutt turns back toward the bar, and apparently the audience is over. Slamming his fat fist down on the bartop, he waits for Cleevis to come back and refill his bucket.