Oshin Jantu
Kiss of Death
The Hive
Main floor
Nar Shaddaa
Scantily clad women danced around poles, bold and brazen. Others were in cages. Twi’leks, Zeltrons, Humans, even Zygerrians, and who knew how many were actually slaves. Half-naked, they swayed away, waving hips and shaking ass, lifting chest if not yet baring breast. It was both brave and sleazy, made for teasing, but it was yet kept at a less depraved rating.
Up the stairwell, however, as the elevator climbs higher to the VIP beats, well, that storey was another story. On the ground level, the inhabitants of the nightclub reveled, drank and danced, with plenty of bartenders and other patrons to cater to the desires of anyone.
Higher above, that was where Kerla the Hutt slumbered. Dangerous. Degenerate. She owned this club, it was hers, and so were its slaves and the blasters she paid. Bouncers and bodyguards. From the ground level, one woman counted them with her eyes, never mind the fingers on four arms of which two were hidden beneath the flaps of her jacket with only two sleeves. She also counted the entrances and the exits, and there was a bit of a difference.
“Another one?” Bartender gestured to her.
“Sure,” she answers him, sitting on a stool.
Facing the club’s floor, with back turned.
Watching men, women, idiots and fools.
Sipping on tequila, freshly poured again.
Licking her lips as she watches her target.
Kerla the Hutt was down below for a visit.
Too public. Oshin waited. And so did death.