The Book of Whills: An Unexpected Space Wizard Tale

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Looking up from my acrobatic failure, I notice the side of a very familiar shop front, with some very familiar voices talking inside; and I know that I should atleast have a little looksie, but I want to take in my surroundings a tiny bit longer.

Sitting up to dust the hot sand from off my shoulders, I check the surroundings around, then at my appearance, and it was no lie, 'Seems I did indeed replace Anakin. What a moral conundrum; I hate moral conundrums.' Getting up onto my feet, and wiping off the remaining sand burning off my ass, I pause to take in the Mos Espa air, and to my unsurprise, it's like breathing in pure heat.

Inspecting my appearance, I was now clothed in Anakin's signature Tatooine clothing: a rough tunic, pants burnt and cut from mechanical work, (bonus sweat stains included), and boots ragged from shopkeeping, with the Iron cross hanging around my neck, hidden underneath.

And it also seems my celestial swagger is gone, all except the color, amber, and the length of my hair. So I guess that also allows me to say that my eyes are also the same way... okay.

Taking a full turn to further bask in the ambiance, I wanted to fully experience the villainous charms, and immerse myself in the culture and atmosphere of this iniquitous desert town. Gandering around at the square, domed, and square-domed pourstone architecture, I begin to slowly take in, and absorb its wonders, starting by observing the wide variety of xeno-species wading down the alleys, and bustling through the streets, before the scent of barbeque, and several other tasteful exotic aromas waft, and tempt my senses; and as my nose delighted in these new delectable fragrances, I perused from afar the diverse stock sold from the stalls of varying vendors, laughing at how their patrons were packed together like sardines next to one another, and how they bumped into each other as they ordered, and took their meal, or recently purchased good to a spot around an air-conditioner, usually placed onto the exterior of an establishment, or under the coveted tarped sections, if it wasn't already reserved for the pod-racers, or Goons of the Hutt Clan in advance. But for those lucky enough to catch open seats, they savor the shade, and-or the cold wind, which relieve them from the sweltering heat of the overbearing twins, all the while they relax, enjoy the 'local customs,' and socialize amongst themselves.

Though the ones not out on the street are inside shops: browsing scavenged or illegal goods, in alleys making deals, or set on a mission to break the ankles of the man or woman who owes them money, or, possibly - just casually drinking inside of the Crispoka Cantina, partaking in one of the many alchoholic malts, beers, and drinks like Juri Juice, Prow, Blue Milk, Vaaq (some Vodka-Tequila hybrid), or the unique specialties like the Hutt's Huttese Ale, and the expensive smugglers choice from the planet Nar Shaddaa, Boba Noga.

'This place is bigger than I thought... OH! Is that an ice cream machine?'

And as I continued to observe my

surroundings with a sense of excitement, as information continues to flood my brain, and as cantina music continues to play on a boom-box: sitting just behind the ice cream vendor I had just ordered from - an obnoxious, guttural yell could be heard coming from inside the Toydarian nest, the shop's bell-dome ringing from his vocals, "TIIRRIIOONN!"

Slightly irritated by the sound of the drunk sculag, 'HA! Star Wars insults! How fun!' I begin to slowly enjoy my frozen, wasabi tasting delight, before sauntering into the shop, only to again pause inside of the entrance, sojourning to take in my surroundings, and to gaze at the shop in all its variety. Idling around the entrance of the sun lit shop, I look towards the front desk, and observed as a C-series cleans itself inside of its lubrication bath, before looking to the rounded walls, and glancing at the durasteel shelves holding the durasteel compartment boxes full of droid bits, and the plastic containers filled with metal fasteners of all assortments, while the bigger, and more expensive scrap, such as the much larger droid parts, blasters, and even ship wreckage - the actual components, in other departments. Sat beside, underneath, or stored inside the yard out back, Watto scavenges the expensive oddments, while ditching the unprofitable parts out front for the Jawas to scavenge; though, not out of the kindness of his heart: but because they try and sneak away with something if he doesn't. They're like a mini menace to the streets.

However, I couldn't fully take in these 'charming' surroundings, as in the middle of the shop and gathered infront of the front desk, I notice what seems to be a very shady, upset looking corpse dressed as a corellian business executive, and two of what I assume to be his CorSec flunkies (the uniforms and patches they didn't remove gave it away), whom of which were standing infront of Watto and my 'Mother,' who - instead of serving or taking down orders, are fixed next to the Junkyard exit portal, with the xeno-flyman looking too nervous for his own good.

And, as I too suspected, the executive's suspicions are raised over Watto's suspicious nervousness, soon demanding entry into Watto's yard, "I demand entry into your yard! Don't make me ask again!" The executive commands, preparing to order his men inside.

"No!" Watto rejects impulsively, before correcting his attitude, "We-uhm - rearranging stock? We keep things in order here! Just-uhh, wait huh? He be back-uh-" Watto's eyes cut to me, a look of relief visible on his face, "-AH! There you be boy! Naba dee unko! Where's tah'droid huh!?" Watto dumps the situation onto me, and as I quickly pretend to act exhausted, and chuck the cone away into the scrap yard with haste, the goons reflexively dart their eyes towards me.

Standing on what to do in this predicament, I feel a flow of memories pertaining to some, but not all of the current situation, and by the way this is looking - we're up a shit creek and lost without a padle. Because when it mattered the most, Watto had told the truth, well he lied, but it was a half-truth, and sometimes a half-truth isn't the best lie. Especially when it comes down to location, and the where-abouts of a droid, which could change the very tide of war.

"WHERE IS TAH'DROID!" Watto 'angrily' yells across the room as I walked further inside, pretending in a rushed manner, and then in a fake voice of exhaustion, I leave our fate in the hands of this undead fuckhead, "It's gone!"

... What? It's the only thing I can do, he wanted to keep the droid, we don't have a replica, and zombie isn't as brainless like I want him to be. So lets leave it to chance!

'Naughty, incompetent little scoundrel you, If Mr. Executive doesn't play I may have to bury four of you toda-' my inner thought was cut off, a flying three-fingered slap striking me across the face as I walked into the back.

Slightly stumbling back from the jumping momentum of the flying slap, I quickly and "calmly" collect myself.

There are two things that upset my agent orange: someone interrupting my inner monologue or self-reflection; and some mothafucka thinkin' he can pimp slap a pimp. This is an act of pimpception and he's battin' two for two. And normally I wouldn't stand for this level of disrespect without wanting to physically altercate myself, but... due to my predicament - such events require a mild level of patience...

... So to help alleviate these impulsive feelings inside of me, and to help stabilize my pimpilibrium... sorry, my pimp equalibrium, it helps to do some meditative breathing exercises. SO - some deep breaths of anger and frustration in... hold with some seconds of contempt... and then breathe out without the temptation of physical release...

... and I heard it also helps to say dumbass words like GOOSFRABA! FOOSABA! Or FU-HUHUHAAHHCCKK YOUU! YOU SLAP LIKE A BITCH!

Holding myself back from exploring these violent emotions, I prepare to speak against the false accusations put before me, but before I could defend myself from Watto's slander, he uses both his hands to push and hold me against a shelf, not able to lift or budge me far, before pulling a rusty but sharpened slaver blade from his pouch - and holding it against my throat. "KONCHEE SAH MO BUKEE!" He screamed with guttural contempt as Shmi began to panic, and scream in the background, pleading for him to put away the knife, before one of the walking bodybags guarding the living corpse walked over to calm her.

Situating myself against the shelf and sifting through my new memories, I was once again prepared to speak to the flying larva in front of me - but that's when the executive finally thought it necessary to intervene, "Who were they?" Looking him in his eyes, it seems he knows I'm bullshittin', and It also seems in that moment, he knows that I know, that he knows, I'm bullshittin', which causes him to smile: rather wickedly in return. Oh, we're about to have a lovely time.

"The security tapes showed a Mandalorian in blue and white armor, a Weequay, and threee Gamorreans." I answered as I then glared into into fly's eyes, providing a truth, which caused Watto's body to burst into cold sweats, as it seems his not-so-quick mind finally realized I had described the security crew he had hired from a Hutt representative.

Not the ones who robbed the droid, but the ones who helped move it to the back. In front of witnesses; on the street.

And I'll give him credit, to a certain extent it was really fuckin' ballsy, I'll admit that, considering at any point they could of opened that container, and his ass would of been, in simpler terms - Crispo'ed.

'Aahh, to be at the edge of a blade already should be a world record, considering I was only convened into existence only but seventeen minutes ago.'

The executive, for whatever reason, plays along, biting his lower lip and laughing, "Ha... It seems I arrived too late. Jabba has found out about what happened, and received not only MY PAYMENT! But also the good graces of the Hand."

Wiping the sweat from off his bald, oval head, he continued to berate Watto in false frustration, "You had one job. Hire a crew, move the prototype, and then stash it in a safe location, NOT IN SOME..." His hand then clenches into a fist, trying to find his words as the stupidity of Watto actually begins to cloud his mind, "... OFF-ALLEY GARAGE PROTECTED BY SIMPLE KEYPADS, IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS DAMN HUB!" He then slams his fist down into the pile to assert his point. Hmm, quite the actor. "Now the Federation has the missing prototype, and I'M the ONE with LOST-PROFITS!" The executive breathes in, before exhaling, combusting the flames of his fake rage like a bellow, before calming himself back down, "Perhaps you weren't my lucky charm after all..." With Watto's possible death sentence, and my chance to rise now written in stone, anxiety writes itself all over Watto's face as the dead pale, bug eyed bird-man moved past him.

Watching as the executive stops at one of the many boxes, and fiddles with the different parts inside, he finally comes to his final conclusion, and eventually sighs, as he couldn't let him go just yet, possibly holding on - hoping to squeeze out that tiny bit of remaining luck... Fuck. "... I have decided that I will have mercy on you - since you're still somewhat useful..." the withered skeleton then breathes in, twisting the CPU around in the bin, "... and have concluded that I will lessen your punishment, but only because I pity you, having made the short-sighted mistake of misplacing your life into my hands..." he looks to me, then back to Watto, then smiles, "... And since you're so eager - if I don't see that slave's tongue presented to me wrapped like a gift, with the blade used to cut it BEFORE I return back to this awful dustbin, yes... you find me: or it will be yours given instead." Before dropping the Droid CPU back into the bin, and fucking off with his security guards in tow.

Welp... I could kill him, but I can't. I can't have the Corellian government sending their investigation fleets. That'll mess up my mojo, and delay my plans.

Besides, he's leaving anyways - AND I'M NOT WAITING!

Whispering to Watto "What are you going to do? If you're going to cut out my tongue, I wouldn't don't want to that here, no-no-no-no, you don't want blood stained onto the metal, it's bad for business." as he began to sweat profusely, even more so then when the executive was present, his eyes filled with hesitance, though he still never removed the blade from my throat, not done calculating whether he could hide me, or if slicing out my tongue would be easier.

A true opportunist, burn the bridges of the unprofitable, and replace them with newer, more grander - golden ones. I respect the grind, but that doesn't mean I have to like it, especially when it was your idea. And besides, he misses one fact, sometimes a dire, life threatening fact: every burned bridge has its own set of consequences.

Seeing that Watto wouldn't take the blade away from my throat, Shmi knew exactly what was happening, "What are you doing! No! You can't!"

"Why not-eh?" Watto asks with a feined, gaunt grin, becoming slightly irritated as I refused to break eye contact, now making this now more about his pride, than whether or not he should cut my tongue.

And also refusing to let her will be broken, Shmi's glare too pierced into his as he looked back to her, no longer filtering what she had to say to the bug man, "Because he is my son! And without him this place would've been the dustbin that Joico said it was!"

'Why does his name sound like a brand? Almost like a toy manufacturer? Except he doesn't bring joy. He brings crippling depression, and the homicidal tendency to lay this undead rat back into his grave.'

Shmi, trying to reason with the large nosed fly using some hard truth, truth, takes her plea, and interprets it as slave disobediance, "rrRRAAGHH - SHUT IT WOMAN!" Furious in rage, Watto took hold of the nearest item, or items: that being a box of loosely contained fasteners - before slinging it with maximum effort. And as this box of fasteners flew through the air, the thick bolts, long screws, and droid rivets were slung out of their container, colliding with her head, hands, and body as she acted quickly to protect her face, backing into an inlaid pourstone shelf as she attempted to dodge the fasteners.

And now, leaning onto the inlaid shelf wall, her new wounds oozed with blood, dripping and streaking itself across the shelf as it trickled down; however - Shmi, instead of dwelling on her injury, only briefly inspects the cuts and broken skin on her body, remaining unfaltered as she recovers from the pain of the impact. And, with a vendetta now stuck within her mind, and fueled by the injuries and threats Watto had inflicted upon both of us, Shmi crosses the shop as the fly was distracted, swiftly approaching the front desk quietly, and walking around into the corner where a disabled protocol droid sat slouched, before turning it around to where its back faced her, and opening it: where she then entered a code using the interior keypanel, resulting in a 5-inch false panel to flip open, which exposed a smaller 4-inch dart seemingly filled with sedative.

'Oh my...'

However, unbeknownst to the happenings in the background, Watto continued to flash his boar tusked smile, focusing on me with the knife still held to my throat, "UBA TINKA HEE NA KOONA KILLEE JE HUHH?!"

A little steamed by the douche canoe myself, I reached hastily for the toydarian's knife wielding hand, instantly seizing it with my right, and then forcefully grappling the back of his neck at the same time with my left, telling him truthfully, "THAT WAS PREFERABLE!" before fully overpowering him with my strength: turning the blade, and pressing it nearer to his throat as he struggled, and groaned to regain control. And now, with full reign over his wrist and upperbody, I used the weight of my own to force Watto to the ground, soon gaining control as his wings flapped in persistent resistance, before shortly bearing them down under my knees, clamping both my hands around his, and forcing him to keep hold of the blade as I lowered it closer to his throat, with the slimy gambler squirming under my grasp as the rusted tip came ever closer to his jugular; and - as the sharp stabby pointy continued to near closer, Watto began to panic, and plead for his life, hoping that an opportunity for escape would offer itself once he's freed from me, "WAIT-WAIT! I'LL TAKE YOU-"

Getting the reaction I wanted, I swiped the knife out of his hands and onto the ground, and still clutched onto his collar I held him up again by my right hand, leaving him dangling by his vest, before placing my left hand onto him "Eh? Choyesso ulba cun!" - and focusing with all my will to communicate with the midi-chlorians in my cells, and gradually - it began to respond, turning my mental fortitude and communication into the Force. And as this mystical power, the energy of the space wizards generated, it converted my gathered force energy, and turned it into a telekinetic impulse: a concussive burst of pressurized energy from my left hand - into the left side of his abdomen.

Letting go of his collar as I force pushed Watto through the air, it sent him flying horizontally, all the way into the Docking Bay, where he soon collided with the poor Gonk droids powered off and charging, sleeping in their corner and minding their business, before he flew into, and concaved the side panel of the droid that caught him, knocking down the others like a wave of falling dominoes, and jolting one Gonk droid awake from its peaceful sleep, out from counting electric sheep, with a surprised "WHAAA..." before falling over with an "oomphh..." landing with a thud, down onto a pile of gathered sand as two rows of his Gonk bretheren fell ontop of him. Okay... now I really feel bad.

... However, as I released my anger upon Watto, an energy came drifting with the wind, caressing my mind from the pineal gland down to my cerebellum. But as it fails to penetrate my natural defenses - it results to using an ear molesting whisper, '...haaa châts midwan, hyarutjenottoi; hyarutqyâsik, shâsut hâskjontû taral.'

Mmm... It seems it's even worse the more connected you are to the Force... I guess the Jedi weren't completely wrong, it seems negative emotions generate negative force energy, and with it - the whispers of chaos offer temptation and corruption. Its attempts to invade my mind are similar to the attraction that gnats have for sweat, with my mentality acting as a pesticide against it, before the positive force energy around me intervenes, and balances it.

Feeling the legion of ear-rapers leave my mind, I could feel Watto coming to from his unconsciousness, and thinking on how to keep him from screaming for his buddies in the Illegal-casino-pretending-to-be-a-blaster- arms-dealer-next-door, I decided it was best if I had a tool to control the situtation. Not that shitty shank, but a proppa tool: A BLASTER! However the probability of finding a fully functional one to do so was... minimal. Not only because everything is took apart and put into bins retaining to that part, but because Watto no longer keeps functional blasters in the shop. Not after younger pre-me pulled one on a roudy customer - and... him. Though only after pre-me cemented his position: by making him lots of money, because he wasn't that stupid.

That still didn't stop me from scrounging, and searching through the weapon piles for one I could use, or put back together though.

And... like I had much expected - I search in vain as most of them were already missing several of their parts, or their frames were damaged, resulting in me trying my damnest to feel through the force... concentrating... and applying Mechu-deru on every part.

And finally, after feeling about in the different piles - I had finally found the missing compatible parts: dismantling them, and a few frames, for a few of their respective components, before placing them down, and - at a quick glance, briskly deduct that it wasn't your simple part replacement.

Closing my eyes, and placing my hands over the parts of my new revolver, I concentrate my will, and desire to fix this weapon, gathering my focus, and opening myself up to the force, allowing me to once again feel, and sense the midi-chlorians within my cells. And as I narrowed down, and hushed my mind, these small mitochondria reacted through their matrices: hearing the quiet song of billions as I felt a surge of energy - of power, which pulled together all of the revolver's missing, and present, parts, and fasteners, as it instilled the blueprint within my mind, allowing me to mentally take apart, and back together what made this beaut of a weapon.

Consistently applicating mechu-deru, I inspect and memorize how the pins, bolts, springs, rods, collars, rivets, press plate, and screws, keep together the emitter nozzle, double barrels, static pulse adaptors, prismatic crystal housing, APAS connectors, the actuating blaster module, power cyclinder, gas conversion enabler, gas chamber, gas refill valve, energy converter valve, extractor, crane, frame, trigger, and thumb piece. Visualizing within my mind how these components came together, and how they interact to produce double the life scorching power out of such an alluring creation.

Within moments, all that was there, and all that was missing was brought before me by the energies of the force, my hands forming a natural catalyst of the force energy around me, inbued with the will of what I wish, which centered as the focal point of my concentration, allowing the energy to communicate with my will and thought, and to assemble the RSKF-44 piece by piece, repairing it back together with its proper, appropriate parts.

Finishing my piece I look to the clock, hung above the entrance to check for the time, and for what felt like the longest two minutes, thirty-seven seconds in existence, I took the ready to kill double-barreled blaster revolver, and walked over towards the Toydarian, who was now beginning to come to from his sudden concussion. And, after gaining full consciousness, and noticing that I was approaching, Watto looked up at me in immense confusion, sprinkled in with just a dash of terror, though almost blinded by a thought - a single thought on how he didn't see that I was a force user - although, he was still preparing to attack, allowing his pride to take over his thoughts: never allowing a slave, force user or not, to best him.

And with each word that would get quieter after the next, Watto taunted "Hehehe, have you forgotten eh? That blaster is - th-that every blaster issuh-" silencing his words, he noticed that the supposed unrepaired RSKF-44 was - Instead, a fully repaired one, turning that tiny amount of fear, into a lot of fear.

Panicking at the sight of the blaster, the pathetic side of Watto began to kick in, begging with a series of "please's!" and "don't kill me's!" which included making deals for his life. Which I indulged in. Because who doesn't love a good deal?

Oh wait...

"To let you know before we begin..." pausing for a moment, I lean on the archway, with my blaster aimed at his heart, "...if you scream I'll blast your ass away, but do you see my mother over there?" Watto looks at Shmi, giving her a look, then looking to the sedative in her hand, which caused his face and gut to turn, feeling something described as more than disbelief, before turning back to me to shake his head up and down. "We have decided to unanimously, as in me and - mother raise your hand..." Shmi then slowly raises her hand as I raise mine, "... to relieve you of your ownership, executive, and managerial position, and exchange it with someone who doesn't get fucked up and beat the local slaves with sticks, SO... give me the deeds to both shops, including my mother's deactivation wand, and I'll let you fuck off to wherever with enough jingle in your pocket." Clicking my tongue and winking at him, I ought to have him thank me - BY KISSING THE FUCKIN' RING!

"Coona? NO!" Watto resoluted adamantly, before I brandished my 44 as I leaned forward, pushing it up against his nose, and informing the toydarian that he was no longer in control of the situation - "OKAY! Okay! I'll take you to it! But how am I supposed to make a living, huh?!"

"Stay complacent my friend and I'll take very good care of you - now, gimme gimme."

My promises are not lies. If he stays silent, complacent, almost still, then he would never need to work again. But if he doesn't, and I know what he'll do - I'll fucking gut him, and hang him by his intestinal tract.

I'm messing around, I won't do that - I'll do something even fucking worse.

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