Back to Basics (Wide Open)

[Freynk Porkins]

Old worn out work boots plodded away the duracrete sidewalk as the better half flew high above on in their ships and speeders, even the public transit zoomed by as the Man made his way from the droid chassis plant to the place where at least the bartender knew his name.His thick blue jeans were starting to get holes in the knees and his thick green Karhartt jacket with frayed cuffs was missing two buttons.His dirty hands were stuffed in nearly empty pockets and he reached the duracrete stairs that led down to the bar's front door.The old hinged portal creaked as he pushed it open and raised a hand to wave at the old Bothan barman.

"Hey Jer'ya." the man said to the Bothan.

"Hey Freynk," Jer'ya replied as he towelled off a glass and set in down at Freynk's spot at the bar. "How was work?"

"Same as always." Freynk relied, a man of few words as usual before the drinks got in him, "but I didn't get fired yet so that's good."

The Bothan nodded and pulled out several bottles of clear alcohol, and a carbonated soft drink mixer and began mixing a Coruscant iced tea. Freynk sat down and handed over a small credit chip and proceeded to sip his drink. Once again it was just him and the Jer'ya in the small hole in the wall booze house. a Boloball match played on the small holo and the sounds of a jukebox droid were softly playing old music in the background. Jer'ya put a small container of various nuts on the counter and went back to watching the game.

 

[Dence Lichenlode]

[member="Freynk Porkins"]

The mossherd retraced his bearings as the man stood at the bar door. He had watched the stocky individual for a whole block. Nothing about him suggested he moved with a purpose, which left it possible for him to be a good man in these parts. It was a very small mercy for a farmer trawling the lower levels of yet another city in search of old friends who might have returned from an afterlife. It was not a duty that led to much joy. It was also thirsty work. The mossherd was not yet as dry as his moss kit but it couldn’t be far long. He slung his pack to the floor, pulled on two large plastic sachets of moss and tore off the mossy corners. Dried mienmoss that would swell and fill his belly, and stirlingmoss in case he needed to manufacture a distraction. Glancing back up the stairs and then at the eaves overhead, turning to the bar door, and slinging his pack on one shoulder, it was all one more deliberate movement that ended with pushing the door ajar. Hearing only a jukebox and seeing nothing tied to the door frame he executed his next move. He looked up one last time, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The bar was empty excepting the man he had watched cross the block and a bartender watching a ball game on a screen above the bar. The man was hunched in his seat, doing nothing the mossherd might not expect. The bartender was a complete unknown. Nothing about him said he was not a bartender, but nothing about that secretive glance suggested he had ever seen a mossherd before. That could be good. That could be bad. He had been mistaken for a Jedi once, when he wore a scarf, and he would never wear a scarf again. Maybe the bartender would ask him what he was. Hopefully he would just offer a drink.

The visitor strode forward and sat two stools to the left of the other customer: further from the front door, and all its surprises; far enough from his broad-shouldered neighbour not to impose. The wrinkles and frayed cuffs of the other customer’s thick green jacket did not shift even in the slightest. He was dead or he didn’t care.

”Hey”, said the bartender, “What’ll it be?”

“Have you got water? I’ll pay for it.” Nobody liked a water drinker. A waste of space in a bar, even a bar with as much space as this one. He slowly moved his hand inside his shirt to extract some credits. His eyes locked on the bartenders eyes, his hand moving so slow that nobody could think he was shooting first. One of the bartender’s hands was below the counter. If this went badly the mossherd would not be shooting first, or even second. He would be diving for cover around the end of the bar. If shots were not fired it could be a negotiation, otherwise it would get worse. But the bartender remained absolutely still until the mossherd’s credits appeared from within the nubby fabric of his shirt.

“Water is good”, he repeated, placing the credits on the counter, glancing at the back door, glancing at the ceiling, and lowering his pack to the floor in front of his stool. He was seated at a bar now, and maybe he would get a drink.

:ʚ:ɷ:ɞ:​