Geek Stink Breath

[Jairus Starvald]

Port Destravago.

It wasn’t actually called Destravago, would have been far too classy for the particular brand of filth that comes ‘round here every minute passed. Ya got your regular schuttas that are always high on this stim or that glitter, the passersby that only care about the next pleasure in life, all mixed together with duracrete mixture of the heavy-top guys that like to pretend they are the doms- when in reality they are definitely subs in every meaning of the word.

Naw, can’t say I have ever digged the scene of Destravago City, its hidden away, a city within an asteroid, and the asteroid casually flittered with its brethren on a random spot in deep space. A place for the rogues, scoundrels and rapists to come together and unionize their trade, nah, can’t say I ever felt at home here.

It’s too on the nose, too much a travesty of the litter-trade and it makes me weep for humanity. ‘Cause it’s when we lose the ability to be subtle about things, we lose a core princip. of what it means to be a reasonable human being.

Anyway, I am just bloviating here, trying to fill up the space and time. Sitting here in the corner of one of the regular bars, Creepin’ Woods, not sure what genius decided to call it that, but a name’s a name.

Was drinking some bubbling drivel that passed for a drink here, while trying to amass enough creep to stand up and visit the bathroom here- had the distinct feel that it had rats, the big ones that could swallow ya up in one bite, and ain’t keen on figuring that one out up close.

So I kept sitting, was a slow night anyway.

Port Destravago, not its real name, but the real stuff would get ya too much power over the place. Ain’t keen on discovering that one either.

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

Central to the room, on the left hand side, a pair of old peers from the less mapped portion of the universe caught up to the present. The human was cloaked in a trenchcoat, and lounged in his chair as if it were his living room, slouched down like he was fixing to fall asleep in it; one hand, dangled limply toward the ground, coat slipped from the shoulder, a cigarette smoldering to the barely capable ceiling fans. No matter how the light fell, it always seemed to cast his countenance in mystery.

Though his company (an Aing-Tii) was not only unusual, but a galactic rarity, what it was that made the scene especially noteworthy was the manner by which they communicated. The Trenchcoat Man’s more active hand, when not tasked in delivering his beermug to his face, would hover over the table, wiggling his black-lacquered fingers like Pauly Shore giving the “Weasel.”

Six tongues of varying shades swirled perversely around the digits, the licking no more discouraged by their dirtied discoloration than by the worn, tattered fingerless poverty mitten from which they emerged. To better facilitate communication, Benedict had painted DMSO upon his fingertips, and would swill beer to chase the resulting garlic aftertaste from his mouth.

The Aing-Tii was every bit as ridiculous as the spectacle in which it was engaged. Despite the chitinous boneplates rendering it culturally unnecessary, “Bride of the Void-Sorrow” had opted to dress in a leatherdaddy biker’s cap and matching Club vest. Its Biker club was some double-entendre about space squid, giving the impression that, had it the proper hips or form of leg, or, at the very least, had been born without a tail, the Aing-Tii would have seen to have donned the chaps, as well. A handlebar mustache of synthetic fibers framed its six, zealous tongues because of course it did.

“Bride of the Void-Sorrow” alternated between sitting-in and floating-above its chair. This worked perfectly, as the Trenchcoat Man’s legs were stretched about, hogging all the foot room beneath.

“No, mate, of course it weren’t going to end well …but I’m glad I’m not wiffout her face in me head. In case you missed it, I weren’t never one for regrets. Mug’s game, that one -- Maths never came out in me favor…”

He brought his dead arm to his face, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette and generally building suspense. Exhale, deliver.

“So, in its stead, we try to fink positive, like.”

They pretended to ignore the bouncer as he shot the owner a glance, violently gesticulating an unspoken question regarding Benedict’s smoking and the Creepin’ Woods policy on it. The owner shook his head, deterring his employee.

Cracking a grin, he was the Weasel.

There were a few moments as the Aing-Tii slimed his fingers that Benedict attempted to pull away, figuring he’d caught the message, only to find that there was clearly more to be driven home. Finally, they split, and the Guttermage was left wondering whether or not he was going to get outright hammered from all the residual liquor Bride of the Void-Sorrow was passing into his skin.

“Leia wept – It’s not like I doubted you, right, old son? I just didn’t know what the hell you were karkin’ on about. Bloody ‘Indigo.’ Most our hollies only come in Light and Dark…We’re ain’t all privy to your Aing-Tii Magical Mystery Tour and its Rainbow Side of the Force.”

Bride of the Void-Star scooped brown liquor into its mouth in that clever way that dogs do, only with SIX TIMES the clever. They had requested it come a little watered down, a perhaps vain effort to mitigate the waste splashed upon the table.

The silence encroached, the two comfortable enough to not having to fill every second with chit-chat. Benedict searched Bride’s thoughts with his eyes. Bride was looking around the room then back to the Trenchcoat Man, curiosity shining in its beady-blacks. He knew what the Aing-Tii was asking.

He snapped his fingers. As if on cue, the jukebox began playing the song he’d put in for.

Magick.

He let Tom Waits (Or whatever he’s called in Star Wars) speak for him during his puffs. Heartbreak. Old debts. Prison. Escape. Cocking his head to the side, Benedict elaborated, his voice strained as he was not wont to waste the same breath of the inhale.

“Change of pace, I s’pose, ennit,? All the Siff-touched worlds, right yeah,” he finally exhaled, spewing his grey about absent-mindedly. As it reached the Aing-Tii’s face, it shifted unusually, the Guttermage apparently revealing more than he’d initially intended. Sod it. “– bloody lousy wiff junk dealers and dark hearts tryna sell premium drugs to the penniless. Seems like every week, we got a new, his nibs, The Rotter King down there in the barrows looking for that secret squalor gonna unlock the mysteries to the sodding universe and begin a whole new aeon of currency inflation.” Benedict shook his head, disgusted. “Bollocks.”

Bride of the Void-Sorrow looked downright merry, anxious with that “tentacle-kiss.” The result was laughter from the citymagus, recoiling back into his seat.

“Hahaha, yeah, right?” He furrowed his eyebrows, growling through a throaty, American accent. “’Coruscant – A bastion of squalor and misery, where desperation permeated the air, thick as chimney smoke--,’” he coughed, relenting, “’blah blah karking blah!’” “Sorry we’re all so poor and angry, son –!” He shot back, energized, leaning over the table, waving his arm wildly before spiking his spent cigarette upon the beer-puddled surface in feigned rage, “Kark off back to your wack-arse crotch-metal and leave the mopey monologuing to the proper professionals, yeah.” Grinning, facetious.

Bride of the Void-Sorrow made a squeak sound into its glass. After a few moments, there was a clink as it fell upon the table, indicating Bride was done. It nodded through the rippling unconscious exchanges – whether to continue, to change venues, to part. It sat for a moment, weighing over the options, but decided, in the end…

It licked Benedict’s hand a final time.

“You know me, mum. Lovely seeing you,” he finished his own drink as the Aing-Tii levitated down from the chair. “Sayonara.”

Bride of the Void-Sorrow quietly exited the establishment, inconspicuous as a holocaust.

The fing about magick is that it’s elusive.

“另一瓶啤酒,” he called, waving lifting a hand to garner the bartender’s attention.

Sometimes, you reckon you’re working It.

Benedict retrieved another Booma Slim from the carton on the table and set it between his lips. He leaned his head back in his chair once more, his head reclined to eye the ceiling fan above, watching the smoke rise as he applied the light to it, twisting in the prop-blast.

But it’s actually working You.

[member="Duan Xiangu"]​

 

[Jairus Starvald]

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

Took me a while to really figure out the exact scene, whispers creeped up next to me and I sat right back up straight. Was that difficult notion between acknowledging them and keeping up appearances for your own sake, but in the end I relented. Because that’s what ya do when you are six-feet under in smoke and liquor stink, ya take what ya can get and you definitely don’t complain when shet gets thrown yar way.

I closed my eyes, reached out to the beyond and simply… listened.

K͕̪̗̝͕͕͋̂̋̇̓ͧͬi̯ͧ̎̊̐ͧ͠ņ͍̋̃̐̉̓͊.̭͍̙̪̟͌ͮ́​

Some of the lingering ones were free-spirited, heh. But then ya got the few that really liked to make things more awkward than it had to be, they were either stuck in their human ways, or maybe they struck a fancy to the good ol’ act of spooky, either way.

It never really ended well, for any of the parties involved.

‘Pardon?’ I wagered.

Might do some good…… or it would only cause more of a mess.

Ḯ̧̜̮̲̩̭͔̝́̌̇̽͞g̵̡̘̦͓̳ͪͯͬ̏͆̓̑͜n̴̩̜͉͕̦͛͜õ̵̍͐ͣͨ̃͏̝̭̰͚r͚̱͉̉̐̄ͦͪ̆͐͜a̼̠͖̘̯͕͉ͨ́͊ͤ̈ͣ̋̓͞͝n̨̤̮͙̻͚͈̝̗̣ͣͧ̌̔͑̊͟t̷̥̹̞͔̬̬͐̀̈́̀̕ͅ ̵͖̱̩͕̜̥̖̉͗́͡w̩̮̻̹̘͖̯ͤͨ͆́̎̑̓͘̕͡e̹͓̻̜̗͍̥̩̻͐̍l̥͇̲̜̳̲̄ͧ͆̌ͫ̐̽p͓̟̝̖̟̝̽͛̏ͩͧͮͯ͠,̝̲̲̺͕̃̽̔ ̎ͣ͊ͧ͋ͥͤ͞҉̭̭̗͖̻̜h̖̳̆̈́͂͗ͯ̌̔͆͢e̴̤̻̤̱̒͛͂͜ ̯̗̌͛̌̂ͨ͒͝ụ̡͕͎ͧͮs̟̦̤̼̯͙̲̰͎̆ͩͧͥ͌ͮ͌̀͡é̗̠ͭͭ̾͛̏̂̚͠͞s̰͋͒̔̅̂̆ͣ̕͠ ̴͚̮̞͙͓̞̲̭̭͒ͫ̾̀ͭ̽́͢t͙̺̠̮̙͌ͮ̀̉́͢h̶ͤ̅ͥͨ̚҉͍͔͓̱̗̝͠ê̛̮ͣ ͉̳͚̖̮̫̺ͫͅar̶̲͇͔͉̹̭͚̞̅̍͊͑͋ͭ͋͜t̩̲̰̥̲͒̍ͬ͋.̴̼͖͚͈͓̤̟͕̇̄ͭͩͯ̆ͪ ̶̰̟̈͆ͫ̏ͣ̐͐̅Ơ̦̼͓͍̩̯̭̔́̿͗͜ͅͅṗͬ̀҉̥̣͕̥̘͓͕͟ẻ̙̱̲̒͒ͦ͞ń͉̣͆͑̾̏͗͆͆͂ ̵̂̏͌̈͂͏͇̤͚͖͍̜̫͙̩ÿ̖́̓͒͑̔̎̒̒ͨǫ̫̳͓̙̈́̋̓u̢̨͙͗́̆r̥̯̬̣̱͓͉͊̒ ̛͉̟̳̥ͪ̿̅ͩͣ̂̏̅͘e̵͉͉̰̰̮͌̇y̘̪̮͈̲͔ͧͯ͗̓́̽̀͟ḛ̥̠̩̒̓͌ͧ̈́̑͢.̶ͬ̏̽̔ͤ̐̈͏̵̥̤͇͉̠​

​

And there it was. The Eye. Was afraid it would come to that, but I wasn’t some kind of cowboy with a loose cannon, when the spirits ask something of you, you give it. It’s all about having good manners in my opinion, but that didn’t mean ya had to do it without lip though.

Otherwise they will start thinking they can walk all over ya anytime of the day.

I gargled some of that upper spit and washed it away with ol’ buddy Jim Bourbon, took my sweet ass time with it and finally shrugged.

‘Whatchaever ‘zay say boss-man.’

One slit opened itself.

‘A please wouldn’t hurt next time.’

Before the entity could bring anything against that line of thinking I quickly opened my third eye and suddenly… saw. Everything and nothing at all. This sort of shet is bad news, I tell ya. Means that most people with at least a basic idea of the esoteric and needy immediately know they are being watched.

This guy?

He was positively swimming in that gooey shet that designates players. Not that they were all that rare these days though, so I wasn’t sure why the big man wanted me to look at this particular lad.

Might be a mystery for the ages, that one.

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

These new eyes of his of curious character, those indigo irises, shattered like glass, Ring Around the Roseying the rapidly expanding and contracting pit of black. The smoke lilted, danced, twisted in cadence of a language before logic, evolving to cast the room in Indra’s Net, a million little strands intersecting, tethering people together, binding them up in the Celestial Heart of the Universe. He saw it all, every man and woman, a star; a cosmology unique to this bar, but applicable to anywhere.

A pull, from his left. Something old – ancient, even – plucking that cord with crooked bony fingers; great grandmother at her guzheng…Durga in her web. It was Matsu Xiangu he saw first, before the synchronicity sought to discriminate, honed by the humble sensory perception of well-honed peripheral vision.

The waiter passed between the two men, obscuring the image of the Trenchcoat Man to Duan. When he parted, defying all odds, Benedict had resisted the urge to mysteriously disappear and, surprisingly, remained.

Staring right at him, raising a glass in a sardonic toast.

Too far to chat, too lazy to move.

[member="Duan Xiangu"]​

 

[Jairus Starvald]

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

See, what I am… is quite simple. A man packed to the brink with connections, I form ‘em every second I take a deep breath and suck in some of that rich oxygen. (or smoke, depending on the fancy of that moment) But the point I am trying to make is, dem old ones stick to me like glue and every one of ‘em wants something in particular. Revenge, sometimes a good pat on the back and every once in a while they just want to teach ya something wise.

This particular guru was an Ithorian City Priest, long ago sold his soul to the spirits of the duracrete skeletons and even now he can’t stop bothering people with his waxin on and off. Point I am trying to make is, if he’s telling me to watch this guy- it probably meant it was something important.

Guy was in motion, constantly. As if his mind was shifting from one place to the other in the timespan of a micro minute.

Attention span of a goldfish? Maybe or might be there was more to it than that.

‘So what is there to see? And can you cut out the shouting, I can hear ya just fine.’

A sigh escaped the soul.

‘Fin. Fin, wayward child of mine. Now then… are you daft? Go and talk to him.’​

I rolled my eyes, first he tells me to stare, now he wants me to talk. Guy never knows what he wants.

Pondered for a while and then indicated with my head towards the seat next to him.

Can I sit with ya? was the universal sign of the head.

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

He didn’t linger. It was intended as a quick thing; a notification that, “Yeah, I see you. Yeah, I don’t care.”

Anyway, it can be assumed that Duan was given an appropriate response, be it by miscommunication or actual intent, and that he would wander over. Benedict sized him up, amused into a half-grin, brand new pearly whites cleaving through the shadowed veil. He yielded no territory beneath the table to the single seat that was his opposite.

If Benedict had recognized his sister in him, he didn’t let on to it. If he’d heard Duan talking to himself, he was similarly unabashed. Weird things, weird people – They had a habit of seeking the guttermage out, drawn like magnets, flies.

He didn’t really question it anymore.

“You see somefing you like, luv?,” he asked, drawing upon his cigarette, perhaps in innuendo, before exhaling the second half of the question.

“…or d’y’ave a different sort of proposition for me?”

[member="Duan Xiangu"]​

 

[Jairus Starvald]

‘Need a taste first, ‘for I can commit.’ the retort came without even having to think about it. Which was just as well, cause I was too busy trying to make sense of the vibe the guy was giving me to really figure out anything else.

Smoke, old mortar and just a spice of brimstone. It tasted of… indigo? Maybe also a little bit of salimena cheese, but that could be just me. No clue what it meant, never do. Just know that this ain’t no regular Jedi prancing ‘bout, waving a plasma stick.

Was about to say something more, but then my guy decided to pitch in again.

‘Tastes like...’​

‘Like?’

‘Unwashed teeth.’​

Then he left me there to ponder about that one.

Huh.

Pretty good analogy, actually. The moment I thought that I sensed the shet-staining smug feeling radiating from all around me.

He won’t let me hear the end of that for a long time to come.

Finally decided to sit down, pulled out the second chair and noticed the feet perching outta the edge of the lid. Guy really knew how to slouch- someone should give ‘im a medal for it, I perched down and instead of fighting territory underneath the table; recreating some weird sexual scenarios, I just raised my legs and let me feet rest on the table.

I raised my head, making an almost circular motion of laziness and then pointedly looked at the smoke.

‘Got another one?’ was referencing the cigarette.

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

From his left, the unhappy ghost of Janey Hexam stepped out from the half-light, placing her hands flat onto the table and leaning over it scrutinously, leveling her Nightmagick-bruised eyes at the Ithorian that made the crack about Benedict’s dental hygene. Her posture shifted as she bent a fishnet clad leg, getting comfortable for a prolonged mean-mugging.

Benedict grinned at the visitor, acting as if he were oblivious, save for the cheeky twitch of a safety pin-laden eyebrow.

As always, he let the moment land.

With as little effort as he could muster, he prodded the edge of the carton of Booma Slims – 1…2…3…4…nudges to turn the box so that the cigarettes extended in Duan’s direction.

Should Duan take one, and then should he attempt to smoke it, he would notice that the Theed Gungan Algae-tobacco went down with a degree of humidity; slick and slimy like swallowing squid, leaving the throat and lungs feeling greased. To the unfamiliar palette, this may be a bit overwhelming…a bit karking disgusting…the texture alone often subject to discrimination. But, really, you could say the same about menthol.

How's that for a taste?

They were also longer, thinner cigarettes; an effort to make them more “feminine” (whatever that means) so as to appeal to the female consumer.

“你在厩出生的吗？！,” shouted the bartender at the table, in clear distress. “Foot off table!”

Benedict nodded at the table mate to comply. Then, diplomatic-as-hell, he scooted back a bit towards the wall, offering Duan the pittance of floorspace to alleviate the potential for embarrassment and the rash behavior that often followed. Leaning forward, he snatched his own beer from the table, taking a gulp, punctuating with some cigarette.

He watched and he waited, letting the kid marinade on the pitch. Periodically, he’d recline back to blow smoke into the fan.

[member="Duan Xiangu"]​

 

[Jairus Starvald]

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

Took ‘em cigs and was just about to light up for the evening when the bartender decided to make a big deal of the relative position of my feet.

The bar itself was a right mess, wasn’t called the Creepin’ Woods for the fun of it, but in the end there was something to say about common courtesy and I complied with the general request.

‘請也不會受到傷害。!’ I shouted over. A please wouldn’t have been amiss.

Now that was a throaty articulation to throw outta the mouth, hadn’t talked no Atrisian in years. Folks don’t talk that shet anymore, ‘least not outside the homeland and I hadn’t been there for (surprise) years. Right ‘bout the time when life went to shit and I decided to make something outta myself.

Look at me now, cap.

Finally managed to get a lit outta the cigarette and took a drag, now that… was something else, didn’t make a face though. Look, man. Once ya tasted the paint thinner of the underbellies, there literally ain’t nothing that can fuss ya.

‘So what are we doing here, bup?’ question was directed to the shet-staining priest that was currently trying to breath in the smoke coming outta the litted point of the ‘rette. He liked the ambiance.

Made him feel alive again.

‘Easy, chump.’​

It also made him obnoxious.​

‘Kiss him and drink his secrets.’​

Now that.

Made me blink.

I lazily looked over to guy in front of me and raised my eyebrow.

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

Benedict’s face didn’t flinch as Duan fell all over himself in Atrisian; his sentence devoid of Object, of Subject…Just a string of verbs, like an arrow pointing aggressively at nothing. If there was any tell in Eden’s Poker Face, it came in the form of Janey Hexam’s ghost, turning to look at him with a wry grin plastered stupidly across her beautiful mug. Though she had not spoken Atrisian in life, her special position as the magus’ personal haunter had granted her newfound insight into his subtle emotional spectrum.

She turned from her perch on the table, patted Benedict consolingly on the back, and evaporated into the shadows.

She knew what he was thinking.

This scene, it was nothing new. He recognized it from his own life – the intrusive spirits, the talking to nobody, the insane urban shaman, the cigarettes, the trying your damndest to play it cool in front of older, meaner wizards like you know the score at two days in and nobody else but you can smell the bullchit.

That rubbish. It was like watching the McYoda Presents…TV movie version of your own life. Like those “Oh, I dress Spunk for fashion…I don’t really care about the politics” Hapanese kids. Water-in-the-whiskey gentrification.

Of course, for Mr. Eden, he was only sixteen at the time.

He couldn’t imagine trying to do it all again this late in the game.

Anakin’s sake – Thirty-Three goddamn years old.

Of course, Benedict could do the talking for him. He could exorcise those spirits, or steal them for his own ever-growing entourage of ghasts and ghouls. Kark it – Maybe phone up Roddy O’ in from the ether to sue for copyright infringement until it was good and dead.

No. Duan would have to learn to do it himself. Force knows why a grown-arse man would get involved in this silliness. A gangbanger looking to create a little upward mobility, maybe? A laborer’s son, raised too dumb to know better, too reckless to care?

The working class hypotheticals tugged at Benedict’s heart strings. Again, the crone and the bloody guzheng.

Perhaps just a little charity couldn’t hurt. Benedict leaned in over the table, gesturing Duan closer in conspiracy. His voice remained low, avoidant of a scene as though he were trying to shield the older and weaker Xiangu from the brutality of negative face.

“Squire – Watchin’ you work is making me feel right old -- And that’s bloody absurd, ‘cause survey says, we’re about the same karking age, ennit?”

He transferred his cigarette out of his mouth to his offhand so that he could swig his beer. Upon setting the mug down, he kept a hand around the base. Let it be noted that he had maintained enough distance so as to impede any immediate sexual harassment should Duan and his spectral buddy decide to get fresh.

Once more, he leveled with his guest.

“But I was green once, too, so the Royal “We” ain’t entirely unsympafetic, like. Being of that sunny disposition that I karking am, I’m going to give you until the end of zhè zhǒng --sodding -- píjiǔ ,” he gestured the beer forward, aware of Duan’s limitations in Atrisian, “ -- to fetch your tongue from phantom snail’s--,” he nodded at the ghost with his head, “--ectoplasmic arsehole and ruddy well spit out whatever it is that's on your mind, right yeah –“ His head bounced from side to side, sing-songy with each remaining syllable, “-- be-fore-I-get-on-wiff-me-life.”

Another swig and then a recline, returning his oral fixation to his lips.

“Take your time, luv.”

[member="Duan Xiangu"]​

 

[Jairus Starvald]

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

Some choose the thuglyfe, others were grabbed by their balls and thrown into it.

Might be been paraphrasing a ridiculous statement, making it even more moronic to make it fit, but the point of the whole matter was that… I hadn’t been interested in this bullcrap. I hadn’t ever cared about spirits, magics, Sith or Jedi, the Force or whatever the hell today’s hoodoo-project was.

Truth to be told?

Would have been pretty fecking happy as a small-time business owner on Atrisia.

But life never asks ya whatcha wanna do, whatcha wanna try, it just does things and assumes you are up for it. And if ya ain’t? Screw you, you are getting exactly what you need anyway.

Who decides what ya need?

A picture of a metaphorical manifestation turning a Wheel of Fortune was all prevalent across the field.

That being said, good advice was always appreciated.

So for once I ignored the other guy and shrugged.

‘Teach me.’ I said without hesitation. ‘You think it’s painful to watch? Try living it, have no clue what I am doing half of the time and its starting to get on my nerve.’

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

“Not just your nerve,” he muttered around his cigarette.

The bulb overhead flickered awake, a fitful illumination like a sleep cycle unhinged by alcohol consumption. It snored more than it hummed, finally returning to sleep or something like it, but still stirring with the purr of wasted electricity.

In the flipbook of unshadowed countenance, Benedict could be caught eyeing the disturbance, apparently just as vulnerable to the irritants of the purely sensory universe as the rest of us. It was enough to disrupt the serving of cruelty.

“So, you want to know about magick, mate?,” he asked as he removed his cigarette from his mouth, eyeing it contemplatively. It was, for the most part, dead, and he offered it new life in the form of another Booma Slim. “Sure…I can tell you about magick.”

He leaned in once more, stubbing out the expended filter into the nearby ashtray. He kept his voice low so that Duan would have to move similarly close. “You see that berk over there, yeah?”

Benedict gestured at an especially fat herglic in the corner, his face molded into a frown, cast down on the ground. He drank in solitude, and barely even appeared conscious. Unknowable tattoos framed his face of vaguely tribal origin.

[member="Duan Xiangu"]​

 

[Jairus Starvald]

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]​

It ain’t no coincidence the Atrisian man had found the Trenchoat sitting at this table at this time in this general station, at least that’s now how he saw it. The men and women of Atrisia- or perhaps, generally just the ones that were closer to the grounds and alleyways of the cities found themselves closer to the mystical forces of the ‘verse, and so it came as no surprise to anyone involved that Duan decided this meeting had been destined to happen.

He edged closer on his seat, listening silently to the words, almost drinking them up in the intensity to learn something. It was refreshing change in scenery to no longer have to act as if he was the man with all the answers, to simply being able to listen and find out that way.

A berk? Not very sure what the man meant he leaned on his elbow and slightly turned, looking casually at the huge herglic sitting in his own little space and time, drinking, miserying.

‘What about ‘im?’ Duan finally asked.

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

There was a slight narrowing of his eyes as Duan made his concealed turn to examine the subject, as well as a half-grin despite himself. Benedict wanted to hate the Xiangu, but he couldn’t – his disposition towards subtlety, be he born-liar or learned one, saw him passing the first test with flying colors. Subtlety was such a rare quality in this world.

“S’why I’m here, really,” he addended, relaxing back into a more casual posture. His voice remained low, however; apparently only interested in maintaining appearances. “See, while he looks the right karking definition to the contrary, Skinny -- over there -- is the crux of some sod-off nasty occult machinations, like.”

He did another transition from smoking to drinking, letting his cigarette hand fall once more to the wayside to nearly scrape barroom floors so unclean, the cherry threatened to light it all ablaze. His stein would return to the tabletop upon the action’s completion.

“What if I told you he spent sixteen months—,” he sorta said, Benedict fashionably-inclined to transform the ‘th’ into more of an “ff” sound (but, I thought the word looked too ridiculous to convey any other way than this one). “—bound to a table, tattoo’d in tacky Sith Runes, and chtting himself like a toddler whilst being poked and prodded by all manner of rubbish esoteria and mad, black science?”

One Missississippi...Two Mississippi....Three Mississippi...

“Our story, mate, is as follows: It’s a lovely day on the arse end of the bloody universe, the pints are chilled, not frozen, and a herglic, your barmate and mine, harbors, deep wiffin ‘is guts, midst the holy men, pirate ships, and lonely puppeteers –“

Oh, Whale jokes.

“—a blackhole, cracked ajar by unclean forces, sucking our galaxy away in leaky, piss-dribble increments, like a hamster at his bleedin’ water bottle.”

His eyes narrowed once again as he drew upon his cigarette; Duan, perhaps, shrewd enough to detect the Guttermage was reading him again, gauging his reaction. Then again, would he have made his tell so obvious?

Benedict leaned out of the dark just enough that the light caught his iris. It looked human enough most of the time, but it refracted with an inauthentic quality, like a stained glass window. He circled back around, reaffirming his point, his exhale coming in the form of speech so that smoke seeped from the cracks between his teeth as he spoke. “Wiff each baleen-sifted swig of ale, our universe loses matter…energy..."

"Complexity, right yeah?”

He gave Duan some time to process, even interject if need be. In the interim, Benedict snapped his fingers. As if on cue, the song changed on the jukebox.

“I did that, me,” he said with a grin.

[member="Duan Xiangu"]​

 

[Jairus Starvald]

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

Oily texture invaded the lad’s mouth as he took another pull from the drag and in the meanwhile he simply listened to the chap’s tale. It had something soothing listening to the trenchcoated individual, he seemed to know what he was talking about and perhaps more importantly he loved to talk.

Men of power always keep knowledge away, bub. Gotta steal it, only way how.

But while listening, he gently returned his attention to the man in front of him. There was something that was puzzling him, it was made apparent by the little loft of the eyebrow that indicated confusion.

‘That seems…’ he pondered on the implication, there was no rush to speak out and throw words into the wind. ‘complicated.’

He scratched his chin and then shrugged.

‘I don’t think I understand.’ Duan didn’t mind showing that he was really an ignorant bastard some of these days.

‘You are telling me he has a literal blackhole in his guts that is currently sucking away at the particles of our reality?’

He wasn’t sure if that was cool or if that was concerning.

Maybe both?

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

There was the ever-so-faint clinking of safety pins as Benedict’s brows furrowed, evidently mildly irked by having to restate the premise to someone who clearly got the picture.

“That’s because it is complicated, old son,” puff,puff…transition. “Fing is, it’s a complication to make fings uncomplicated, like… all for a handful of rotters who've got the galaxy over of a table -- .”

He turned briefly to flash a smile at a passing woman. She wasn’t overly attractive – a Coruscant 8, a Zeltros 6 – but she was the only one present, making her a Destravago 11. Without really waiting to see her response, Benedict returned to the conversation at hand.

“Same sad bloody story, every karking time, really. It’s all reactionary politics for the Power-obssessed. This round, right, it stars the Vong-contingent of the One Sith – a commission from the Vahlites and…er…uh…wossname--”

He placed his closed hand over his eye, opening it up slowly like a blooming flower. He knew that the man went by Reverance, but he’d be goddamned before he would call anyone by that name, nevermind a grown adult not wearing a superhero mask. “ – karkin’ arseface.”

He shifted again for another drink, his pint now at the bottom half of the glass. “Anyway, yeah, the hope is that, wiff all these drains on the uni, they can reverse the whole mess to make it a bit more hospitable to the stark, karking regression of Vong-forming and paving over of metropolitan spires wiff their wicked ugly and gratuitously veiny flora and fauna and that. Bollocks.” He rolled his eyes, the look of irritation returning. “As if there’s a person in the world who woke up this morning wishing their apartment tower could look a bit more like a giant wang.” He shrugged his shoulders, weighing it over. “Hell, there probably is. Doesn’t matter, though, right? Not like we can rightly stop ‘em, then, can we?”

Tuning out for a moment, he mouthed the words to the song on the jukebox. Suddenly, apparently deciding his point didn’t land hard enough, he drove it home.

“Thanks to Whaletail and those like 'em, we're all proper karked—So spread wide and fink of Grandmaster Grayson, yeah?”

[member="Duan Xiangu"]​

 

[Jairus Starvald]

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

Understanding & Belief.

Two separate equations who had a lot with each other in common, Duan understood what the man was trying to tell him, but the belief wasn’t there yet. It was something akin to the endless debate of religion, or perhaps more relevant the endless debate between spacers if the Force was a real thing. Some simply knew that it existed, they held first-hand knowledge or dabbled in the shet themselves. A rare few held no knowledge, but believed that it was in existence.

Metaphysical debates aside, the existence of a black hole inside of some poor- well, he wasn’t exactly a guy, but the fact that he had a black hole in his gut? One which was sucking out the fabric of their own reality at a steady leisure?

Difficult to take in after one drink and two cigarettes, baby? Don’t worry, we will getcha there.

Duan didn’t know who arseface was, and would have never heard of a person calling himself Reverance, which was ironic considering that the Sith God was dating his own sister. But the Atrisian man was not aware of such things and probably wouldn’t for some time to go, so why think about it so much, no?

Lazy eye followed the woman, and Duan just caught the glimpse of a smile. Broken teeth, smashed in and still proud to simply be. She got a nod from him, a wink too. Ain’t no eleven, like the Destravago Eleven if ya catch the drift.

We can’t do anything to stop ‘em, so why try?

A thought which made Duan tilt his head slightly, before gently jerking it towards the Herglic who was still gingerly holding a drink and sipping it for all his might.

‘Does the guy know about his… condition?’ point was, a reasonable human being- nah, too early still.

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

[member="Duan Xiangu"] was on the right track. Sorta. Benedict couldn’t read his thought bubbles or anything, but he didn’t have to. Primarily because Benedict really didn’t care.

“Maybe he does,” he half-shrugged, flicking back his cigarette hand, closing his eyes slightly. Shaking his head, his eyes latched back onto Duan and his leaned back in, pointedly tapping upon the tabletop with his index finger. “Really, mate, I’m putting you on.”

The desire to maintain a ruse for the sake of proving a point had drained from the guttermage. Once upon a time, he’d loved playing the mysterious bastard, paving the road to enlightenment in lies and unkind mocking, but these days, he had begun to feel a bit like a cartoon when his performance ran longer than a couple minutes.

“Couple years back, me and a handful of those like me had to put a definitive end to a group who tried to pull this same fing. Weren’t the Vong, but a Bunch of Valhalla fascists –“

Without making a fuss, his eyes caught the cigarette that Duan had dropped, had been too nervous to recover, even as it proceeded to burn into his shirt. Benedict quietly took it from the man’s sleeve, holding it between his pinky and ring finger in the hand already beset with stogie.

“…Nuffink special, mind – Just wanted it all to go back to the way it is was in the old days, ‘fore everyfing got so bloody complicated, so bloody fast.” His eyes drifted, watching the whale in question as the big clown tried his damndest to pretend he hadn’t noticed.

Understanding and Belief.

Separate equations? Benedict didn’t really see them like that.

“A blackhole in his guts, yeah? Then how’s he maintain his own structural integrity, like?,” Benedict narrowed his eyes, conveying the scrutiny they had both shared. “Don’t make too much sense, if you ask me.”

They were keys to each other. Often times, you had to be Believe in order to Understand, then in that Understanding you really didn’t need to Believe anymore or ever again.

The two men need not stay on that path. They weren’t gazing into the infinite here. This wasn’t religious. This wasn’t academic. They were poor boys, playing in a league of monsters with far greater resources than their own stars would ever allow.

“But it ain’t about bein sensical. About bein’ logical, or natural. It’s magick. And wiff magick, you can’t taste it, can’t hold it – can’t measure it or confirm its karking there at all. If someone’s so sure a “cosmic vortex of impure art” can give an aging galaxy a back alley facelift, who’s to say it can’t?

This was pragmatism. This was not about True or False, or Good or Evil, but simply, what bloody worked. This was picking up somebody else’s garbage, wielding it on the fly to dodge a karked up situation, then throwing it back in the bin where it belongs.

This was Guttermagick.

“If you’re keeping score, and you ain’t already guessed it – We cleaned up the mess and stopped the tragedy to follow.”

So, the blackhole didn’t exist. Not this time. But it did once.

Hadn’t it?

Benedict tipped his beer, spilling its contents onto the table in a large, but controlled pool between them.

“Now here we stand at the precipice of me bloody point wiffout actually treading in. “

He set his cigarette between his lips, passing Duan’s errant one into more adept fingers.

“You know about Smashball, son? The Coruscanti Comets?”

He stubbed it out in the beer, stirring it in the standing liquid until a whirlpool began to form, twisting up all the dirt from the table into its swirling pattern.

“Of course you do, like. They’re karking everywhere. Champions, right?,” Benedict muttered around his cigarette, periodically nodding to himself on Duan’s behalf. “I played for the Comets, once. When I was 9. Mind, then, they were a local league. Theed. Best mate was Gungan – But…don’t sound much about Coruscant at all, was it?”

Benedict stared at the spilled beer, which had curiously begun to darken. Periodically, he would remove the soggy stogie to paint something along the fringes of the pool. Like numbers, but wrong.

“Now, I know Tatooine’s got a Huttball team called the Comets, yeah?,” His voice was low, not secretive. Like he were unconcerned if Duan were listening. As if it were a distraction; him thinking aloud. “Nar Shaddaa – I met a swoop gang calling themselves the same.”

The beer was now black, swirling without guidance, as the little white, soggy cigarette coasted in circles absent of Benedict’s guidance. Had the lights in the room lost radiance? Had it always been so dark? A neon sign flashed on an adjacent wall, letters burnt out, revealing a secret message in red and yellow and blue.

Zer Tar an

Whatever the hell that means.

What gross dye had the beer absorbed from the table, from the dirt? Was it even beer to begin with?

And then the cigarettes that Duan accepted from a stranger without inspection? Death sticks? Embalming fluid? More lies?

Benedict was staring; his delivery a non-sequitur, as though he were grinning at the man from outside the game, “You ready, son? You may want to get your swimmies on for this one.”

A last warning before the plunge.

The spilled beer was a full-on maelstrom now, it’s darkened wall rising to circle a little figure of ivory set in the middle, her arms stained in black from the rising pool as they rose, bringing a small bowl to her mouth. From it she slurped, thick, black ink, spilling over the corners of her lips and down her chin.

It was Duan’s sister. Matsu.

 

[Jairus Starvald]

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

Duan nodded in thanks to the offered cigarette.

A few beats passed and it found its way back between his teeth - was there any doubt within his mind about the cigarette? About the chemicals he breathed in each and every drag? Sure, probably, but the truth was that the Xiangu man was less and less concerned about what could happen. It was all about the finality, the blatant bleakness that rose up through every little event that cascaded around him.

What did one little cigarette mean in a Galaxy filled of movements and actions? What did any of it really matter? The moment that you realized that, was the moment that you could truly start living.

Escapism at its finest. No consequences that really mattered, because everything was already calculated and accounted for - things would happen, no matter what you did. Was the basic gist of the philosophy at hand.

So he took another drag, felt the sizzling burn of the chemicals on his tongue and enjoyed the little rise in his mood.

Just the beginning, really.

He leaned on his elbow, his elbow on the table. Pressure on the durasteel filament, its essence pushing back at him. Existing, telling him that it mattered and that it wouldn't budge against him. He listened. As he often did. There was amusement in the expression, curiosity in the gaze and a whole lotta resignation between the lines.

Benny could make a show, alright. And his one attendee was listening intently, studying even more. The changes around him were subtle at first - he didn't even notice, so focused on the words from the lips of the wise, but eventually he got it.

The change in hue, the shift in tone, it was all... no, that was too soon.

And then it happened. Matsu. Now that was something that earned Benedict the remainder of Duan's attention, anything that might have remained behind in reserve, it was all dished in a single focal point.

But what was the Atrisian's reaction? Was it surprise? Sadness? Anger? An amalgamation of all of 'em? Truly a whirlwind, if anything else.

"You had my curiosity but now you have my attention." and then Xiangu smiled a smile. The quote of a yanky Tatooinian Western fresh in the air. The only thing that was required was a bantha boy walking into the room.

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

The murky display below pauses for a moment, hanging on Benedict’s one-second reprimand. The guttermage points at Duan in stern condemnation; a mother waving her finger to scold a child.

“And that’s part of your problem, Sonny Jim – You, those like you, ain’t payin any karking attention.”

The curiosity abound resumes, with all its “The White Walls Are Now Black” brushes with the sublime.

“Me point is, we recognize that all these folks can call themselves the Comets. We recognize their incentive for doing so, like – “ He had been talking with his hand. It was now making a ‘tumbling’ gesture, as though he were fanning through each point on the list. “Power, undeserved association, et-sodding-cetera…”

…A list that had clearly left him bored.

Until his eyes narrowed in on Duan, leaning over the table for the Million Dollar Question.

“So, then, why is it we don’t do it when it comes to the Sith? Why are we always so willing to buy into every punter who comes about, chewing scenery about how he’s of some ancient lineage of notoriously bad neighbors? This new crew certainly don’t look it…,” he spat. “Wiff their oversized tits, and their daft karking neckties, and their –“ He approximated Mrs. Doubtfire, “Hey, Look at me, I’m into nontraditional Sex, I swear to the gods!” social politics”

The Matsu avatar was drowning now, the black bleeding from her nostrils, her eyes, all increasingly indistinguishable from her hair…Ivory amidst all that black, like a cigarette, lost in a beer-flooded ashtray.

“Do they even have anyfing in common wiff the original tentacle faced twats from beyond the stars?,” he proposes, shrugging a single shoulder, his hand propped as though weighing the question. He wrinkled a lip as he answered, his eyebrows rising, unburdened by the lightness of the Truth. “Not really. Don’t even do the same magic.”

Suddenly, Benedict brought his hand down sharply, splattering Matsu and her tarbath. The lighting in the bar returned and the world got a whole lot more regular, real quick. The hums of conversations were once more present, along with somebody else’s subpar jukebox selection.

“We do it because it’s simple, me son. We do it because the Devil We Know is always less scary than the one we don’t – Even if the one we don’t is, in form and function – “ He chewed on it for a moment, before spitting out something not-as-succinct as he would have liked, but no less effective due to the venomous sentiment behind it. “ -- *sodding* less.”

Benedict shakes his head in disbelief, disappointment, but not now, not ever, surprise.

“They fancy themselves Kings and Gods, prop themselves up as institutions, cloaked in mystery like they was ruddy well made of shadow. But they were a little poodoo just like you once, too. They learned all this same as anyone else, and in another 70 years, they’ll all be dead and the galaxy will march on as if they were never there.”

He casts his eyes, as well as his muttered caution, to the side, ”…Except the galaxy will be dead, too…”

“So, why don’t we call it for what it is, like? Some lame, unimaginative tosser looking to steal some branding from a much more creative corpse? A bunch of sad, miss-some-hugs tryhards sucking up the oxygen and wearin’ white powder and black lingerie. Well, we do. A lot of this ain’t news, mind. It’s in the nuance.”

The wind-up. The pitch.

“Kylo Ren, Darth Vader? Not bloody Sith. Darth Sidious? Not a Sith. Darth Bane? Same fing. Just a bunch of pretenders, stealin’ a name.”

Benedict grins knowingly, smug in his ability to reveal secrets of the universe from a vantage nobody else can quite cover.

“The Sith are dead, son. Been that way for aeons. And they ain’t never comin’ back. Time to live in the right bloody now.”

Benedict takes a long, final drag, before slaying another spent cigarette. Letting the moment land. Letting the lad land some comments.

Casually, he lifted the black ashtray from which Matsu had apparently dwelled only moments ago, holding it so [member="Duan Xiangu"] could gaze into the container and its surface, shiny and slick with residual booze.

“So, tell me, mate – What do you see?”