https://www.posetteforever.com/viewtopic.php?f=25&t=4052&p=45665#p45665 ----------------------------------- Nik Sunday, 05 September 2021, 07:13 PM The Vern Part 2 ----------------------------------- The storm blew out while the Vern snored. The night sky cleared. The cantina's street-lights swamped constellations, but moonlets 'Near' and 'Far' showed their phases. 'Ember' was up. That distant 'Red Dwarf' partner to this planet's yellow primary gave too little light for shadows, barely enough to hint at shapes. The Vern snored on. "He's in here, Uncle Jim !" A female Hoomin's high voice carried like a laser beam. Two adult Hoomin males, a slim female and a stocky adolescent male pushed though the doorway. Dressed alike in working clothes and boots under now-open rain capes, they were all armed for Boarats. The female had her right hand on a small hand-gun in her right hip's open holster. She had a bulkier 'long gun' cross-slung, muzzle down to left. The three males had bigger versions of each, but the adolescent, a 'lefty' wore his weapons mirrored, plus a small hand-gun at right. Their half-eight moved as a combat team, assessing angles and threats. Remaining customers hastily decided to keep hands open and empty. The taller adult Hoomin looked around for recent damage before brusquely asking, "Zill make trouble ?" "No." The bar-keep had a hidden hand on the big breacher. "Drank, sleeps." "Zill pay ?" The bar-keep hesitated, decided on honesty. "Pay before drank." "Good." Turning to the shorter adult Hoomin, the speaker said, "Let's get him home." "He'll be a handful..." "We'll manage..." Facing the bar, he ducked the Vern's upper left arm, got that across his upper back then left shoulder. The other took the right. A nod for cue, they heaved the Vern mostly upright. With an economy of movement that suggested they'd done this before, they slid him off his bar-stool, turned towards the door. The female led, the adolescent took the rear. Moving crab-wise, he was placed to draw down on would-be back-shooters. Then, all five were gone into the night. The bar-keep hissed with relief. 'Let Sleeping Vern Be' was no joke, yet this lone Vern had not reacted to the Hoomins' distinctive smell or his removal. Which was remarkable three further ways... With the group clear, a customer shakily downed the last of his tankard, nodded to the barkeep, said, "Same time tomorrow..." "Surely." The bar-keep nodded. "Beware of Boarats." "Always..." He was gone but moments, ducked back, "Trouble ! End of street--" "What ?" The bar-keep felt for the breacher. "Who ?" "Bliikk, his crew and a long eight of drunks. Won't let those Hoomins pass. Want the Vern--" The bar-keep ran the play. A former combat pilot, he'd kept his reflexes, his eye for the angles. Though he'd flown Ties, the Empire had progressively shunned 'Exos'. Sad but glad to leave the 'Allecto' after two tours, he was very glad he'd missed the Rebellion. Had the few Hoomin Incomers really killed all those Star Destroyers ? Marshal Kenobi certainly duelled, killed Dire Lord Vader aboard Grand Moff Tarkin's 'Death Star' which had destroyed tragic Alderaan. And, as Kenobi and his Hoomin team escaped on their shuttle with rescued Princess Leia, improbably eluding Combat Patrol Ties, the 'Death Star' blew up, merging with the planet's debris... "Vern knew their smell as 'Clutch' or he'd wake fighting. That makes him 'Family'. They'll not give him up." The bar-keep lifted the breacher. "And, Boarats' Blood, I may get a free shot at Bliikk..." "Me, too." "Me, three." At the end of the block, beneath the last street light, the four Hoomins and their snoring Vern faced the grumbling lynch-mob. The slim female, on their right, stood skew, watching her flank. The stocky adolescent likewise held the left. Bliikk the Bithel stood front and centre of the mob, flanked by his three Henches and a loose group of Minions, all variously armed. Known for doing sub-Lord Wirrant's dirtier work, he'd been 'out of favour', off-site, when the mansion was zapped. He'd since tried to take over Wirrant's more blatant schemes but, without the sub-Lord's semi-legal backing, few were buying. Seems he thought 'Counting Coup' on these Hoomins would improve matters... He was calling the Hoomins and their Vern every which way, unto the third generation. The mob loved each inventive expletive but, either the Hoomins did not understand his increasingly thick-accented rant, or it was mist off a storm cape. Perhaps it was their calm that finally flipped him. After they failed to react to a totally gross insult, he snatched for his belt-holstered gun-- Dakka-Dakka-Dakka ! The Hoomin female's first shot tore cloth from between his thighs. She led the others up his torso, tossing him back. Bamm ! The left Hench tumbled as body-fluid sprayed from his back. His shortened Breacher fell away. DAKKA-DAKKA-DAKKA !! The adolescent's strike from the other flank felled the second Hench. Dakka-Dakka-- A Minion took this-- BAMM !! That centre-mass strike burst the third Hench to a purple cloud. Dakka-Dakka-Dakka ! Another Minion. DAKKA-DAKKA-DAKKA !! Then there were two. Dakka-Dakka-Dakka ! One left. Blat ! The taller Hoomin's hand-gun put a neat hole between the last Minion's eyes. Two of the mob were also down, to 'throughs'. The rest were backing away, wiping spatter from their eyes and faces. "Is Bliikk dead ?" Warily averting his breacher, the bar-keep called from what no longer seemed a safe distance. "What's he to you, Bar-keep ?" The taller Hoomin returned. "He wanted to take over from Wirrant, was trying to shake me down for 'protection'." The adolescent peered at the carnage, reported, "Still moving..." "Do you want him ?" The Hoomin asked. "No, thank you-" "Mercy him," the Hoomin stated. The adolescent drew his bigger hand-gun. Its Blat delivered a precise fin. "Hoomin ?" The bar-keep called. "One thing..." "Yes ?" "Your Vern asked if I'd seen Hoomins fight. I said 'no'. When you tell him of this, say I have now seen, and I understand." "He's 'Zill' to friends." A polite nod, and the five left, side-stepping strewn bodies and polychromic gore. "Well," the bar-keep said to his two astonished companions, "Drinks on the House !"