Davik Lorso
Member
Fathier racing was one of those things that Canto Bight prided itself on the most. A dozen stables existed around the city, each invested in by the galaxy's wealthiest people going from dictators that ruled over entire sectors to corporate middle management and even crimelords. A few months ago, Davik and Gentis hit it big with a con and decided to invest into one of the smaller yet reputable stables; South Stretch's Fantastic Fathiers Racing Stable. The fathiers in that stable were literally descendants of galactic racing champions, sired at enormous costs by retired stallions of illustrious racing careers. They looked like it, too. Not too much fat, well-defined muscles and their speed and stamina recorded through the roof on every qualification test. And yet, when Davik first arrived on Cantonica they were losing races left and right for weeks.
Pooling all of their combined wealth, Davik and Gentis bought a minority share in the stables and figured that if they could just bet smart once and make their Fathier win, then the credits would come flooding in. Unfortunately they soon discovered that the majority shareholder of this stable was a weequay aversed to the limelight. Dram Smollet didn't look rich as he smoked cigarra's and drank cheap Corellian whiskies from his office inside the building the stable's jockey's bunked. What the pair learned too late is that Dram was a Vigo (a lieutenant) of the Hutt Cartel and whenever he got a call to throw a race, that was specifically because his Hutt overlords were betting on it. It was one of the many ways in which the cartel laundered their fortunes from the spice and slaving trades. Davik only found out because he was trying to manipulate the race the other way around and Dram -to put it lightly- didn't appreciate that.
Long story short, Davik had to appease the weequay with a spice shipment intended for the Pyke Syndicate. In some way it was probably more of a delayed execution than a life-saving deal, since the Pykes wouldn't forgive him losing a shipment of theirs, but so far so good. He was still alive and technically still one of the few dozen owners of the Canto Bight Fantastic Fathiers Racing Stable.
So this morning, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, he walked through the outside gate. For the occasion he had bathed, trimmed his beard and put on some fresh clothes in proper Canto Bight fashion. On a line of credit, ofcourse, as he was about to make a lot of credits.
To his right four fathiers were already running around the outer edges of the training field, their jockey's warming up their muscles in preparation for the qualifiers of today's midday races. Usually Dram wouldn't interfere with the qualifiers as they determined the betting odds per Fathier. Good qualifiers meant good odds to win. Past races weren't officially taken into account, but the daily gamblers knew them by heart anyway. To maximize profit, Dram never told the same jockey to lose too many times in a row because the gamblers would stop betting and that would in turn affect the odds. The system was surprisingly intricate and Dram could afford it because he had -in fact- a lot of fantastic fathiers that were all able to become champions in their own right.
To his left the rising sun was hidden away by the stable's main administrative building. Davik knew that on the second story, probably about the third window, Dram would sit enjoying his morning caf overlooking the galloping Fathiers. Davik hyperventilated for a few seconds and then exhaled deeply, "Alright Davik, no big deal." he told himself, very keenly aware that he had no weapons on him except for a small slicing computer stashed under his jackets in the small of his back. "Just go in, steal from the Hutt Cartel and get out." without getting caught, or seen, or discovered after the fact. All three would literally be the death of him, albeit each with their own timeline.
He went inside and was greeted by the surprised voice of the stable's head groom. "Mister Lorso?" Davik spun to his left, his heart beating skipping a beat, "I didn't think we'd ever see you again, after-" the groom's eyes suddenly widened, realizing that most people that made Dram Smollet angry never came back because of a very specific reason related to the untimely unaliving of their physical bodies. The fact that Davik was still around meant that... well, that he was either of the same caliber a criminal as Dram, or that he had enough funds to appease the weequay's anger. Neither was true, but it wouldn't be smart to enlighten the groom. "Ah, that was just a misunderstanding. I take it Dram will leave soon to attend the qualifiers?" Davik knew the weequay had a private booth at the racing arena, but to his surpise the groom shook his head. "No, Mister Lorso. Dram had a new holofeed installed in his office that links directly to the arena. Said it saved time and that-" Davik didn't need to hear the rest to know a cliche, "-time is credits."
Well, kriff. Time for the back-up plan.
Waving goodbye to the groom, Davik continued to the chambers from which the few dozen owners of the stable could relax, talk to the jockeys and entertain the ladies they brought along for a personal tour of the fathier stables. It was -to no surprise of anyone- a cheap trick to get into their panties. Thanks to the philanthropy of his co-owners, these rooms were designed for their privacy and Davik went into one for just that; a private holocall to the one that gave him this assignment.
"Ahoy mister Voren," Davik grinned awkwardly as the HoloNet Broadcaster took his call, "Hows the hunt for that HydroCool Injector Tube? Anyway, listen-" he cleared his throat and looked around to make sure no one could see him, "I need you to come to the Fantastic Fathiers Stable during the qualifiers and ask for an official comment on the limp that was observed on 'Chantme' ahead of the midday race." That was sure to get Dram out of his office long enough..
Nor'baal
Pooling all of their combined wealth, Davik and Gentis bought a minority share in the stables and figured that if they could just bet smart once and make their Fathier win, then the credits would come flooding in. Unfortunately they soon discovered that the majority shareholder of this stable was a weequay aversed to the limelight. Dram Smollet didn't look rich as he smoked cigarra's and drank cheap Corellian whiskies from his office inside the building the stable's jockey's bunked. What the pair learned too late is that Dram was a Vigo (a lieutenant) of the Hutt Cartel and whenever he got a call to throw a race, that was specifically because his Hutt overlords were betting on it. It was one of the many ways in which the cartel laundered their fortunes from the spice and slaving trades. Davik only found out because he was trying to manipulate the race the other way around and Dram -to put it lightly- didn't appreciate that.
Long story short, Davik had to appease the weequay with a spice shipment intended for the Pyke Syndicate. In some way it was probably more of a delayed execution than a life-saving deal, since the Pykes wouldn't forgive him losing a shipment of theirs, but so far so good. He was still alive and technically still one of the few dozen owners of the Canto Bight Fantastic Fathiers Racing Stable.
So this morning, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, he walked through the outside gate. For the occasion he had bathed, trimmed his beard and put on some fresh clothes in proper Canto Bight fashion. On a line of credit, ofcourse, as he was about to make a lot of credits.
To his right four fathiers were already running around the outer edges of the training field, their jockey's warming up their muscles in preparation for the qualifiers of today's midday races. Usually Dram wouldn't interfere with the qualifiers as they determined the betting odds per Fathier. Good qualifiers meant good odds to win. Past races weren't officially taken into account, but the daily gamblers knew them by heart anyway. To maximize profit, Dram never told the same jockey to lose too many times in a row because the gamblers would stop betting and that would in turn affect the odds. The system was surprisingly intricate and Dram could afford it because he had -in fact- a lot of fantastic fathiers that were all able to become champions in their own right.
To his left the rising sun was hidden away by the stable's main administrative building. Davik knew that on the second story, probably about the third window, Dram would sit enjoying his morning caf overlooking the galloping Fathiers. Davik hyperventilated for a few seconds and then exhaled deeply, "Alright Davik, no big deal." he told himself, very keenly aware that he had no weapons on him except for a small slicing computer stashed under his jackets in the small of his back. "Just go in, steal from the Hutt Cartel and get out." without getting caught, or seen, or discovered after the fact. All three would literally be the death of him, albeit each with their own timeline.
He went inside and was greeted by the surprised voice of the stable's head groom. "Mister Lorso?" Davik spun to his left, his heart beating skipping a beat, "I didn't think we'd ever see you again, after-" the groom's eyes suddenly widened, realizing that most people that made Dram Smollet angry never came back because of a very specific reason related to the untimely unaliving of their physical bodies. The fact that Davik was still around meant that... well, that he was either of the same caliber a criminal as Dram, or that he had enough funds to appease the weequay's anger. Neither was true, but it wouldn't be smart to enlighten the groom. "Ah, that was just a misunderstanding. I take it Dram will leave soon to attend the qualifiers?" Davik knew the weequay had a private booth at the racing arena, but to his surpise the groom shook his head. "No, Mister Lorso. Dram had a new holofeed installed in his office that links directly to the arena. Said it saved time and that-" Davik didn't need to hear the rest to know a cliche, "-time is credits."
Well, kriff. Time for the back-up plan.
Waving goodbye to the groom, Davik continued to the chambers from which the few dozen owners of the stable could relax, talk to the jockeys and entertain the ladies they brought along for a personal tour of the fathier stables. It was -to no surprise of anyone- a cheap trick to get into their panties. Thanks to the philanthropy of his co-owners, these rooms were designed for their privacy and Davik went into one for just that; a private holocall to the one that gave him this assignment.
"Ahoy mister Voren," Davik grinned awkwardly as the HoloNet Broadcaster took his call, "Hows the hunt for that HydroCool Injector Tube? Anyway, listen-" he cleared his throat and looked around to make sure no one could see him, "I need you to come to the Fantastic Fathiers Stable during the qualifiers and ask for an official comment on the limp that was observed on 'Chantme' ahead of the midday race." That was sure to get Dram out of his office long enough..
Nor'baal
