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Deep Seated Emotional Problems

Hannibal Oryen

Slick Fondorian
@[member="Razelle Breuner"]

The Nar Shaddaa bar wasn't as bad as other bars on the planet, but that wasn't exactly setting the bar very high. In fact, by the standards of bars on almost any other world it was downright horrific. It was dark, the waitresses were greasy, the drinks were foul, and the bartender was about as pleasant as a Toydarian. Then again, he was an actual Toydarian, so that could not be helped very much on his part. All in all it was a miserable place with the atmosphere of bombed-out graveyard. Hannibal Oryen couldn't take it very much longer, slouched over a mug filled with what might have been Corellian ale a couple of decades ago like he was. The pub was eerily silent, save for the muted chatter of its unsavory patrons.

Spotting a rundown jukebox over in the corner, Hannibal decided what he had to do. The Fondorian stood up from his seat, worming his way over to the device. He jammed a single credit chip into the machine, which subsequently booted up and displayed a wide variety of music. Hannibal would have to be careful in what he chose, otherwise he'd risk a beating from the rest of these scoundrels. Then again, he didn't really care. He thumbed through the music and eventually settled on some smooth jatz.

Music rumbled out of the machine and subsequentl filled the pub. The response was less than savory, as a number of heads swiveled around to regard what kind of suicidal manic would dare switch on music in an establishment like this. Jatz continued to pour out of the machine while Hannibal stood there and (although he wouldn't show nor admit it) anxiously soaked up the stares of those around him.

"What? None 'a you guys like jatz?"

There wasn't any answer, aside from the sound of a chair scraping the ground as someone got up. As Hannibal's impeccable luck would have it, it was the largest, shaggiest Whiphid he had ever seen. The brute lumbered over to Hannibal and sized the Fondorian up. At that moment, aside from the armor, Hannibal didn't look like too much of a tough guy. He wasn't exactly in a confrontational mood today. That would explain why he was already holding his hands up in mock surrender as the Whiphid's displeasure was conveyed through his glaring, hostile eyes. The Whiphid stared at the cyborg for a good minute before abruptly ripping the display panel off of the jukebox and using it as a bludgeon to destroy the rest of the machine. The Toydarian bartender said nothing, being much wiser than that. Hannibal was feeling particularly wise as well, and so remained silent as the Whiphid extinguished the functionality of the jukebox until nothing more than garbled static came from the speakers.

The Whiphid left the broken display panel in Hannibal's hands as he walked away. "'ight, no jatz. I gettit, I gettit... Sheesh."

Hannibal weighed the display panel in his hands, wires dangling from where the Whiphid had ripped it from the jukebox. Big fellow that guy had been, but at least now maybe Hannibal could make a quick buck or two selling... This thing. Probably to Jawas. He'd worry about that later. Still holding the thing, Hannibal started to slink back to his seat. What a great start to meeting new people.