RPlog:Conundrum

The cantina is surprisingly quiet for this time of night. Or any time of night, for that matter, because it's not one of those fancy places with "last calls" and "get the hell out before I have you thrown outs." The only beings currently imbibing are a few Ithorians in the corner playing some sort of game, and a grizzled chadra-fan nursing a glowing green drink. The last being is the bartender, who must be knew because it's not Wuher, of A New Hope fame. He's a middle-aged man, somewhat wrinkled around the eyes and forehead, and he's polishing glasses absently behind the bar, eyes scanning the establishment every so often to see if anyone might need something. What service!

Polly floats in a bit hesitantly, taking in the room. He raises his eyebrows at the Ithorians in the corner, showing his temptation with his hesitation. Shaking his head, he seems to remember his priority, and makes a direct line towards the bar. He bumps into a chair on his way, either absentmindedly or distractedly. He looks up, and tries to catch the eye of the barkeep.

As soon as the Toydarian enters, the bartender's roving gaze falls upon him, and a light smile comes to his face at the thought of something to occupy his time that doesn't involve cleaning or putting away. Since there's not much else to distract him, he comes straight to the new customer and leans against the bartop, still polishing a glass as he asks, "What can I get ya?" not the sort of service that one would see every day in this place; perhaps this is the best time to come in for a drink. The Toydarian sets his gaze on the bottles past the bartender, and says "Whichever of those is strongest." He pulls up to a stool, and lets himself sink into it. "I've got some thinking to do, and need to oil up the old works."

The bartender blinks, but then shrugs, and reaches behind him with all the adroitness of a seasoned veteran, plucking a bottle of red liquid from one of the upper shelves and reaching for a clean glass. He pours a healthy measure of it into the glass, adds a bit of something clear from a spigot to top it off, and hands it to the winged creature. "Rought day?" he asks, setting aside the glass he'd been wiping. Another strange new addition to the cantina: conversation.

Despite his announced need of drink, the Toydarian picks up the drink and mostly watches it, sloshing it around in his glass. "Well, it's like this. You ever hear about somebody getting out of prison and not knowing how to act in the real world any more?" Finally, he takes a sip of the drink and grunts as it burns.

"Sure," the bartender says as he begins to wipe down the bar in front of him, though he doesn't really do much mroe than push the grime around in large, lazy circles, "H=happens all the time, right?" He's not a man of many words, but the fact that he's looking at the toydarian and not ignoring him seems to speak to the fact that he is paying attention. "You just get out of jail or somethin'?" Not that it would be the first time someone like that came into the bar...but hopefully, this time, he had actually been let out, and hadn't let himself out. That was awkward.

The Toydarian sighs, and says "Not as such, but I sure did my time. Just working off a debt..." He trails off, thinking to himself. After another sip, he chuckles to himself, and looks up at the bartender. "Hey, Mack, do you like your job here? You treated well and such?"

The bartender nods at the explanation, letting his breath out in a quiet sigh as he seems to comprehend the toydarian's position better after this new, albeit meager, explanation. He looks down at the bartop, then shrugs, tossing the now greyish rag under it and out of sight and turning his full attention his companion. The last question seems to surprise him somewhat, but he shrugs, and then nods, "Sure. Y'know, it's all right. It's a living, I guess. Why?" Not many people interested in where he comes from. They all want to share their stories; he usually just listens.

The Toydarian shakes his head and turns to watch the Ithorians from a distance. "Oh, never mind. I'm not cut out for your line of work, anyways. I'd get myself into too much trouble..." His hands reach into his vest, pull out a stack of tokens. Without seeming to think about it, he began shuffling them together, moving them with the dexterity born of years of practice. "If somebody keeps you out of trouble, but is a jerk, are they your friends? Or are they just using you?"

This gives the bartender a pause. To avoid answering immediately, he watches the agile hands shuffling the tokens, his expression thoughtful. After a few moments, however, he says, "Well, that would depend. What kind of jerk? Do they mean it, or is it just their way?" He runs a hand back through his hair, pushing it off his forehead as he regards the toydarian curiously. "And what they would be using you for, I suppose."

"You know, I don't even know anymore. I've got some... associates, and I need to figure out if I should play my hand out, or fold and get out while I can. But all I know is...", and he swigs the rest of the drink in one go, coughing as he slams the cup down, "that I'm going to need some more of that. Perhaps something that smells a bit less like old droid lubricant this time? And have you got a name, or am I going to have to keep asking for these with 'Hey you, gimme another's"

"Shem." The 'tender reaches behind him once more, this time taking down a bottle filled with golden liquid, slightly less viscous than what had filled the glass before. "Name's Shem." He pushes aside the used glass, reaching under the bar and producing a fresh one, which he proceeds to fill with the sparkling libation. "Sometiems the devil you know is better than the devil you don't," he intones as he recaps the bottle, placing it on the shelf while at the same time fluidly moving the dirtied glass out of sight. "What about your name?" Though this is only for politeness' sake, as he's as likely to get a false name as a true one from someone in this place.

"Well, Shem, my name's Po..." and then he freezes, a curse in his eyes. "Name's Zergo, and anybody who says otherwise...". He laughs, and adds "Tell you what, next person who calls me that other name is going to get hit, I'll tell you that now." The Toydarian looks as bemused. "I keep wanting to go back to my old life, gambling and such, but I'd have better odds with the mates I play with, and I KNOW they cheat..." He emphasizes the point with a long pull at his drink.

"Sure, Zergo," Shem says, looking quite unconcerned at this momentary bout of schizophrenia. He'll call the guy whatever he wants, as long as he pays for his drinks. As Zergo takes a drink from his glass, Shem scratches his chin and says, "Well, do they do anything for you? At least if they're using you, you could use 'em back for something." He doesn't seem to see anything wrong with this sort of relationship; hell, it's probably a better one than most people have on Tattooine.

"Ya might have a point, Shem. If somebody keeps you on a leash, at least you can't wander anywhere you'd get hurt..." Zergo considers sagely. He chuckles into his drink, knowing that he had already made his decision before he came in. "Maybe it's better to lose a game against people you know than to win every night against faces that always change..."

Shem nods at this, going back to polishing glasses as he says, "Right. Nice to have someone familiar around, sometimes. Good to know someone's looking out for you, even if it's for selfish reasons." He places a newly cleaned glass behind him and starts on another, the conversation providing a nice cover for the monotonous work.

"You ever have anybody in here that says rubbish like 'Arrr' and 'Avast'? Tell you what, Shem, I trust you. I'm going to pay you some creds now. If you ever see some rakes that talk like that, give them a drink, and tell them it's from a friend. Could you do that for me?" Zergo smiles, pleased with himself. He figured, this way he can buy them a drink without them making any jokes at his expense. If he had to hear anything about crackers ONE MORE TIME when he just wanted to eat or drink...

Perhaps for the first time in the whole conversation, Shem looks intrigued rather than just vaguely interested. "Wait...you're talking about those two?" He blinks incredulously, then lets out a hearty chuckle, "No way. Sure, Zergo, I'll buy 'em a frink from you if they come in here again." His chuckles turn into full-blown laughter, and he shakes his head, leaning his hands on the bartop to steady himself. "That...quarren and the...mon cal...right? Those guys were...something..." Now that he's feeling more communicative, he's laughing too hard to get out the words. Go figure.

Zergo laughs a bit. "Man, is there any place in the black those two HAVEN'T made names for themselves? I guess I know them better than that. Next thing you know, they'll be in an old Star Destroyer, claiming to be hunting "space whales" or some such rubbish." At this, he rolls his eyes. Those two seem to be crazy half the time, but they do well enough for all that...

After another minute, the man seems to get his laughter under control, and looks almost sheepish, as though he's embarassed and confused to have shown so much emotion. "They -were- talking about some space creature, come to think of it," he says, his expression thoughtful, as he walks over to collect the few credit chips that the chadra-fan has left on the bartop, whisking them away to wherever he keeps the money. "I didn't pay much attention, but they were hard to miss."

After polishing off his drink, Zergo admits, "The certainly are that..." Zergo lowers his head to the bar, and holds his hand out in front of him. Watching it tremble more than he would like, he sighs "If the company of those two drives me to drink, I wish it made me handle the stuff a bit better.."

Shem seems to have been preparing for this, because he produces a glass of a clear liquid that looks suspiciously like water and plunks it down on front of the toydarian. "Here," he says, his other hand offering a little dish of some sort of nuts, "This'll help." He takes away the other empty glass, placing it with the rest of them, and then, after a slight pause, continues, "You should find your friends. They seem like okay guys."

Unable to help himself, Zergo protests, "They're not my friends! And thanks, but I think I'll make it." Paying, he turns and unsteadily flaps off. As he reaches the door, he looks over his shoulder and says "And thanks for listening to an old bird like me.”