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Coruscant is the glittering jewel of the Galactic Republic, but even it has its dark crevices. The bar is dimly lit,the hazy fug from death-sticks lending texture to the darkness, and hiding the grime. This only serves to hide my true identity, too. I wind my way through the shady clientele, making sure not to knock the arms of any bounty hunters, or smugglers or any of the other scoundrels on my way to the counter. I don’t want any trouble, or anything that might risk me being recognised. Some might think I’m a tourist here, but I’m not. I’m a connoisseur.
“Coffee with blue milk, please!” I say to the droid tending bar. The smoke from the death-sticks irritates my throat, but gives my voice an authentic gruff sound. The droid looks at me blankly - it has no articulated facial features - and passes me a cup full of something frothy. It doesn’t smell like coffee, but then, I’m not sure I can smell anything over the death-sticks. I take a sip - the drink is foul, and burns my throat. It is not coffee, but that’s OK, I’m not here for the coffee, I’m here for the jizz, and I’ve come to hear the best.
I sit at the counter pretending to sip the drink, and trying not to fidget. I always get nervous before a performance, even if I’m not the one performing. It doesn’t help that this is the most crowded, sweaty, uncomfortable place I’ve been in a while, but it will all be worth it. The bar is filling up around me, and after about 20 minutes, an expectant hush falls over the crowd.
A slightly built Ortolan appears on the small stage in the corner of the room, a chidinkalu horn in his hands. I’ve been watching the stage intently since I entered the establishment, and I didn't see him step up. His band joins him, and the room is so silent, I can hear him take a breath.
He murmurs "this one is called Eeby Deeby" and blows a soft, swelling note. I swear, I can see the music swim through the room, ripples in the haze, waves in the crowd. This is the sort of magic one comes to expect from a disgraced Jedi Master. The rest of the band joins in slowly, adding depth and power to the music, like the auxiliary engines on a multi-stage pod-racer.
The rest of the show passes in a blur. I smile, I cry, I laugh, not caring when these movements ruin my make-up, and cause my disguise to slip. I am laid bare by the music, my true heart on display for all around me. But so are the hearts of everyone else around me - we are connected by something more than a feeling - some sort of unifying force ties us together. I had entered this bar as a stranger; now I feel like a friend, and I haven’t even had a conversation with anyone.
When the music finally ends, I slowly weave my way up to the top of the room. The other patrons slowly return to their games of plinko, sabaak and yarno. Where before, it was all frowns and growls, now there are more smiles and laughter. I’d had high expectations for this show, but this is something else. I find the Ortolan sitting at a table, a cup of what appears to be water in his hands. I wait a moment for him to finish talking, and I say:
“Glup Shitto - finest Jizz-wailer in the Outer Rim. When I heard you were coming to Coruscant for a concert, I had to come. Thank you for such a magnificent performance. I am not the same now as I was before you came on stage”. The words rush out of me, no breath, no pause.
“High praise indeed, from one such as yourself! I should be thanking you for coming all the way down here to see my little show. Let me introduce you to the band. Friends, this is Blorbo, from my shows!"