Jedis may enjoy message 646 in the Special Forces Opcentre thread!!
End of quote
Reproduced here for your reading pleasure. It was after 2:00 AM when I finished it last night - should have posted it here as well, but it was just too darn late.
DISCLAIMER
The following piece of prose is intended for humorous purposes only. Any similarity to Metaverse personas, past, present, real or imagined, is quite deliberate but is still just in fun. If somebody feels singled out for chuckles in this story – or any sequels - rest assured that everyone else is, too, yours truly included. We are all equally comical.
A long time ago, in a Metaverse far, far away...
Yoda shuffled into the brand-new council chamber, dodging the union electricians. Construction of this new Jedi Council Chamber had been held up by the bureaucratic red tape, as usual. The Republic had not yet become The Jedi Republic, and couldn’t until the council chamber was ready so they could take a vote. Naturally, the council chamber construction was being held up because the name hadn’t been changed yet. On top of that, the local Plumbers’ Union (Coruscant Local 2437) wouldn’t process the work order to install the new restrooms until the Jedi Republic credit application was approved. It was entirely possible that Yoda, LifeWish, Monkson, Arcilte and the other Senators would have to "hold it" during the entire first session of the Council.
Yoda sighed. At 800 years old, his kidneys weren’t what they used to be.
Over the din of rotary saws and arc welders, Yoda heard a voice. "Excuse me, sir? Is this where the Jedi applications are being accepted?"
Yoda turned around. A young Metaverse Overlord glanced around nervously, grasping a ream or two of job application paperwork. Due to a manpower shortage, the Republic had contracted the recruitment process to the Euros.
"On vacation, the Personnel department is," replied the old master. "Six weeks vacation per year do the Euros receive. And socialized medical care! An Empire I am trying to run, here! Hmph!"
The Overlord cringed. "I’m sorry, I’ll come back…"
Yoda snorted. "Wait for them to return, you should not. That far into the future, even I cannot see. Review your application, I shall."
...
Yoda’s temporary office was in the basement of the tower. A rusted, khaki filing cabinet was in one corner. A faded poster of "Leia in Chains" was on one wall; another held a battered recruitment poster for The Republic. Someone had crossed out the motto "Peace through Superior Firepower" and scribbled in "Victory through Superior Marketing." A bottle of rye stood prominently on the dusty, avacado-colored desk.
Yoda sighed again. Dagobah hadn’t really been all that bad.
He leafed through the nervous applicant’s file. Not too impressive. "Your name is... 'Lone Locust of the Apocalypse?' Adventure, excitement, destruction, insects – a Jedi craves not these things."
"Well, there are three big empires fighting it out, and I’m just getting started. I wanted to go somewhere where I could make a difference!"
"Well and good, idealism is. But needs work, your name does." Yoda took a pull on the bottle and cleared his throat. "Look, kid. We can’t have somebody named after a bug in this empire if we’re gonna be taken seriously. How about –"
"How about a cool Jedi name? Maybe ‘Tal-Der’ or something -"
The Master shuddered. "Not sure I could pronounce it, Junior..." Yoda thought for a moment, and took another drink.
The effects of alcohol on a Force-user are well-known. As the intellect begins to lose its coherence, the Force grows stronger, even as the Jedi’s control over it weakens. The results are unpredictable, but powerful. Those who claim that this is simply a result of midi-chlorians breeding like rabbits in an alcohol-rich bloodstream may be correct, but are missing the point.
The point was, Yoda suddenly experienced a powerful, vivid flash of the future. Empires and words colliding. Battles. Propaganda. A bat with a lightsaber. Great victories, and great sadness as well.
Yoda coughed. "Once, a young Jedi did I know. Powerful was he with the Force, and respected. But failed to see dangers and weaknesses, he did. He gained wisdom, but at a terrible price, a terrible price...Do you know why I’m telling you this, kid? Hey, wake up!"
The Overlord sat up straight. "Huh? I wasn’t asleep! What did you -"
Yoda sighed. "One name suits you, young Padawan. Only one. You shall be known as Obi-Wan. Welcome to the Jedi Order. Have a drink."
Obi-Wan cringed. "Umm...Master Yoda...I’m not really all that familiar with drinking."
Yoda smiled a toothy, almost frightening smile. "You will be. You...will...be..."
Quite some time later, in a star system far, far away...
Obi-Wan staggered through the swinging saloon doors and into the friendly confines of the Special Forces tavern. There had been some effort by the Special Forces to work out of a "war room" at first, then a "briefing room." But the tavern really suited them best. Knowing how these strategy sessions usually went, Obi-Wan had started on a bottle of schnapps about an hour earlier.
He noticed things were already in full swing. Quack standing on top of the bar, ostentatiously holding up a glass of chardonnay to look cultured, but taking swigs from a beer tankard when he thought nobody was looking. Hurley was standing on the other end of the bar, doing air guitar. Jaws was flirting with one of the barmaids, absentmindedly picking pieces of panties out of his teeth. Killa sat morosely in a corner; it was one of THOSE nights. Wombie, oddly enough, sat reading a book – "Wuthering Heights." From time to time, he glanced at Killa and shook his head.
Obi-Wan didn’t see Piers, Monkson, blacksmoke or Cypher – they were probably back in the beer cellar again. Harel was trying to prove that he wasn’t ALWAYS a cold-blooded killer by throwing Star Trek: Voyager quotes at Ginata.
Obi-Wan shook his head. A damn fine group in a fight, a damned dangerous group when they were bored.
Wombie slammed the book shut. "OK, gang, everybody’s here. Harel, as the resident European, please call the meeting to order."
Harel pulled out a binder labeled "Robert’s Rules of Order" and blasted it with his pistol.
"Good. OK, everybody, pull up a chair." A brief pause as the crew variously walked, waddled, lurched and staggered around the table. "OK, as you guys know – Wait a minute. Cypher, where’s Piers?"
The bear shrugged. "He started setting up his portable homebrew kit in the basement – said something about ‘too much damn Aussie beer.’"
Wombie buried his head in his paws for a moment, then jerked up brightly. "Well, initiative is good. OK, meeting in session. We’re broke again, guys. The recent devaluation of Sith currency has turned our big haul of awhile back into pocket change. They’ve voted the Light Side BC back in as the official currency of the JR. That was our nest-egg; in a word, we’re broke. Again. OK, two words, but you get my point."
Everybody hung their heads. Quack ventured, "But I’ve just maxed out my credit cards again! Do you have any idea how much a good-quality inflatable duck costs these days?!? Well I’ll -"
Wombie cut him off. "Bakka was feeding us some leads on jobs we could do for other empires, but he’s too busy working on being evil right now to give us anything for awhile. We need contracts, people. I need suggestions."
Harel piped up. "We could sponsor MM77 on a concert tour!" Stony silence. "OK, just a suggestion..." he sulked.
Hurls looked around the table, judging the depths of gloominess and depression he saw there, ever the diplomat. "Well, we knocked off the Sith bank. We got into arguments with a couple of Jedi. But nobody’s ever offered them a flat-out deal before. Obi knows Yoda – why not try a real diplomatic mission?"
The Jedi – ex-Jedi, actually – froze. "You’re not serious. They’d shoot me on sight!"
Jaws twirled his martini glass. "Not necessarily. It makes more sense than sending ME to a camp of tree-hugging vegetarians again."
Wombie nodded. "This sounds good. You’re a diplomat, Obi. Keep your distance from any threats. But don’t LOOK like you’re trying to keep your distance."
...
Obi-Wan walked down the stairs into the basement. A door at the end of the hallway read:
Q-SECTION
FLAMMABLE, EXPLOSIVE INCENDIARIES
HOMEBREWING IN PROGRESS
PLEASE EXTINGUISH TOBACCO PRODUCTS BEFORE ENTERING
Obi-Wan stubbed out his Marlboro and entered. At one end of the room, laboratory benches held an assortment of computer circuitry and bubbling, frothing test tubes. The other end held a complete microbrewing and distilling facility. Piers was working at a table halfway between the two with a set of electronic calipers and a magnifying glass. Obi-Wan reflected uneasily that he could be working on either a new combat device or the formula for a new and improved hefeweizen; it was tough to tell.
"Still down here, Piers?"
Obi-Wan’s old friend snorted derisively. "Took you long enough to figure that out. I’m not posting; where else would I be?" He tossed over a beaker with a rubber stopper. "Take a rip of that – tell me what you think."
Obi-Wan shrugged and complied. And nearly screamed. "WHAT (cough) THE -"
"Everclear and warp coil plasma, 50-50, with a dash of lime. I haven’t figured out whether to bottle it up for the bar, or package it in a shell for the grenade launcher." Piers stood up, went over to Obi-Wan and pounded him on the back a few times. "Here, take a nip of this – it should clear out that smoldering feeling in your throat -"
Obi-Wan backed hastily away. "No, I’m feeling much better already! Anyway, the gang wants me to go on a diplomatic mission to the Jedi Republic."
"So, naturally, you came down here to get some guns and bombs. Makes sense to me. Here’s just the thing." Piers handed him a bottle of Heineken. "You remember that Heineken has the Imperial monopoly on beer over at the JR – that’s what you get when you make a deal with the Euros, I guess. Anyway, this should blend in PERFECTLY because of that – but it’s not beer."
The ex-Jedi squinted at the bottle. "Looks normal from here."
"I said, it’s NOT beer. There’s a very small quantum singularity inside that bottle. Break the glass, instant diversion. It’s not really ready for field use, but it’s the best I’ve come up with so far."
"What’s wrong with it?"
Piers looked at his feet sheepishly. "Well, the bottle needed to be glass to look real – so, you can’t fire it from a launcher. You have to throw it by hand, and it has a blast radius of 75 meters. So, unless you throw like Dan Marino, this is a LAST RESORT. And I do mean LAST."
"Y’all are just...never mind. This deal keeps getting worse all the time. What else do you have ready?"
Piers chuckled. "This one, I’m proud of. It’s a Universal Logic Translator. Harel tried it out on MM77, but that was just the prototype. This one actually works!" Piers excitedly began twisting knobs on the small microphone-like device. "Basically, it prompts anyone who uses a Text Weapon to list factual examples in support. It’s a great all-around flame defense!"
Obi-Wan, exasperated, demanded, "Look, Piers, they have LIGHTSABERS and they know how to use them. Terror-Stars-in-a-Bottle are nice. Asbestos microphones are nice. But what do you have to use against LIGHTSABERS if it gets ugly?!?"
Piers regarded his friend sadly for a moment. He went over to a corner, moved a case of Arcean red from atop an old trunk. Rummaging around inside the trunk for a moment, he came out with an object. A very familiar object. "This is your old lightsaber. The weapon of a Jedi Knight. Not as clumsy or as random as an aerial assault. An elegant weapon...for a more...CIVILIZED age." He tossed the weapon to Obi-Wan. "You taught me how to use one of those things, before the Dark Times. Before we left. Do you still have what it takes, Obi-Wan?"
Obi-Wan looked down at his feet for a moment. He’d left all that behind, hadn’t he? His destiny was HERE, now; not in the past. Then, he strengthened his resolve. There were bills to be paid. There was an empire to establish. There were beverages to be bought. There were credits out there to be contracted for. His mates needed him; and he was the best man for the job. History be damned.
"Thank you, Piers. I needed that." Pausing only long enough to finish off the beaker of everclear and warp coil plasma (with just a dash of lime), he walked firmly toward the door...
At the very same time, in a star system far, far away - the first one mentioned in this story, which was quite a bit earlier, but I'd have hoped that you'd figured that out by now - anyway...
The Sith Master carefully placed the cognac snifter on the table. His dark powers, already mighty, were boosted by the alcohol...and he gazed into the future.
"Everything is proceeding as I have forseen!"
To be continued
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