Log:Dug, Actually (AKA Frexl's Fusillade of Love!)
Dug, Actually (AKA Frexl's Fusillade of Love!)
OOC Date: December 15 2022
Location: Nar Shaddaa
Participants: Frexl, Ariella Lightfoot, Chesty Chungo
TACK!
TACK!
TACK!
TACK!
The Dacon Tower Apartments are very classy (for the Corellian District, anyway). The tower reaches way up into the sky, certainly further up into the sky than anyone could reach with a hurled rock.
Unless that person was a Dug, and he wasn't so much 'hurling' the rocks as firing them from some sort of slingshot. One that it's difficult to picture anyone other than a Dug using. With his smaller set of legs wrapped around the device's main post, he pulls back on the very thick, highly elastic bands and sends yet another Moderately Sized Rock soaring up, up, and up, until it collides with one of the Dacon Tower Apartment Complex's many windows with a *TACK!* so loud that it's audible more than a hundred meters below on the street level.
Which is probably the closest that a Dug like Frexl can hope to actually get to one of those mid-level apartments.
"C'mon... are you KIDDING me? How is she sleeping through my FUSILLADE OF LOVE?"
Ambling down the way is a tall, blonde kid. She's just finishing a box of noodles as her gaze lands on the familiar Dug. She chucks the box into a nearby bin and ambles up to the Dug. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she looks at the slingshot. "What are you doing?" she asks in her Inner Rim accent.
As yet another missile in Frexl's Fusillade of Love hurtles through the nearly unbreathable atmosphere of the Smuggler's Moon to its unsuspecting target, the Dug turns quickly to look at the interloper with a Very Guilty Expression.
He plays it off quickly when he sees it isn't a member of the local constabulary, but for a second there he definitely looked like a squirrel interrupted in the middle of burying one of its nuts.
"Uh... hey there. Uh..."
There's no good explanation for what he's doing. But do you know that old Dug was SO smart and SO slick, that he thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick.
"Why... my sweet little tot..."
"There's uh... a lady up there that won't put out no matter HOW many Wupiupi I offer her. So... this one time I read that human females like it when a guy sings 'em a song, only I can't sing her a song on account of they won't let me go inside the building... uh... so... it's romantic."
Ariella looks down on the Dug and narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Lightfoot?" she prompts the Dug and then cranes her neck to look up at the location of Frexl's alleged paramour. "Yeah, I imagine she's impressed with you just tryin' to throw creds at her..." she says thoughtfully then nods her head earnestly. "Yeah, songs are more romantic. Do you have a loudspeaker?"
"Have I got a loudspeaker? Pfft! Have I got a LOUDSPEAKER?"
There are more tsking sounds as the Dug loads up yet another missile for his alleged paramour's transparisteel window.
"Oh, I got a loudspeaker. Don't worry about that. Once she hears my song singin' voice... uh... like a spell, is what. It'll be OVULATION CITY, better believe." It's hard to imagine the croaky, gravelly-voiced Dug actually singing a song, but there are people who like the Max Rebo Band, so who are you to judge?
"Hey! You're an attractive female, sort of..." Frexl seems notice Lightfoot's gender for the first time, which... could be flattering under other circumstances, maybe?
"How would you like to make TWO HUNDRED WUPIUPI!?"
Ovulation city? The blonde's eyebrows raise to her hairline. "Oh that's kind of creepy and gross Mr," she admonishes the short alien. She presses her lips together and turns to look up at Dacon Towers then back at Frexl. "Can I have a try with your slingshot as well?" she asks cautiously.
There is nothing creepy and gross, but thinking makes it so. An old Dug playwright said that one time. However, it's true that Frexl is both creepy AND gross by virtually all objective standards.
Good with a slingshot though, apparently.
"Why SURE you can. Be a real help, too, cause of this slipped disc I got."
As Frexl steps away from the slingshot, it becomes clear that it's actually been hastily bolted down to the permacrete, which has got to be a violation of some local ordinance or another. Still, the Smuggler's Moon's motto is basically 'Mind Your Own Business', so he'll probably get a way with it.
"You see up there?" He points upward. "That's my future wife's window." It's the one with all the dents in it from getting pelted with rocks.
"Aw mate excellent!" The kid says and practically jumps in delight. "I used to mess around with things like these alllllllll the time at home. Shootin' cans, shootin' birds, shootin' my brothers...." she explains as she picks up a likely-looking pebble, fits in in the pouch of the slingshot, pulls it back, closes one eye to aim and lefts it fly. The little rock flies through the fuggy air and rattles against the window Frexl pointed out.
"Bullseye!" Lightfoot whoops and holds a hand out to low-five Frexl. "Ok, what do you need me to do?"
Returning the low-five with one of his smaller set of foothands, Frexl opens his mouth and takes in a deep breath as he prepares to tell the bullseye-shooting farm girl EXACTLY what he needs her to do. But before he can go into what was apparently going to be a very long, very detailed explanation, the window from way up there finally opens and a grumpy, balding, morbidly-obese man pokes his head out. The look of apoplectic rage on his face quickly contorts into one of nauseating disgust.
"GODS DAMMIT! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU LOWLIVES WANT!?"
But Frexl doesn't miss a beat, and immediately yells back.
"I WANNA TALK TO CHESTY CHUNGO, YA DIRTY SCAB!"
Hang on! Lightfoot looks confused, then worried. "Uh, Frexl...." she says. "I think that's her husband. I think she's moved on mate," Lightfoot explains gently.
Holding up one of the smaller handfeet to his camelesque face, Frexl hides his mouth from the dirty lip reader a hundred meters above them so that he can have a proper sidebar conversation.
"Husbin? Nah... that's her... uh... whaddaya call it? The male she mates with, uh... legal-like. But don't worry! Once she hears the song we're gonna sing for her... hoo boy! Those eggs... she'll just be droppin' 'em left and right."
It's hard to tell if the man actually rolled his eyes way up there, but his body posture looks a lot like someone who is rolling his eyes. Either way, he disappears into the apartment, and for a second it looks like that might be the end of it.
But then, the frowsy, frizzed-out hair of a middle-aged housewife can be seen, and after that the jowly face, scowling down at the Dug in the street below.
"GODS DAMMIT! I ALREADY TOLD YOU I DON'T HOOK NO MORE FREXL! GOT ME A REAL MAN!"
Still holding up his foot to his face, Frexl gives the young Ms. Lightfoot a wink. "Alright... let's sing 'The Bleached Bones of Zurgno's Young."
Lightfoot shakes her head, "I don't know that one," she says as she rubs her neck uncertainly. "And it doesn't sound very romantic. She seems pretty sure that she's not interested. Maybe you should give up on it. There's loads of other women you can buy here."
"You don't know 'The Bleached Bones of Zurgno's Young!?' What, they don't got CULTURE where you're from?"
The incredulous Dug sputters and gasps, his disbelief as palpable as the spray of spittle that he produces when he makes S sounds.
Looks like it's going to be a solo rendition of that great Dug Holiday Classic, and Frexl's neck folds begin to inflate as he prepares to serenade one of Nar Shaddaa's cheapest hookers, albeit a retired one.
"Ohhhhh... ZURGNO'S HATCHLINGS GOT SET ON FIIIIIIRE! OH WEE OH WEE OH!"
But just when it looks like we might have to hear the whole song, there is the sound of a blaster shot colliding with the permacrete, mere meters away from our Festive Singers!
Sure enough, the Real Man that Chesty Chungo is now shacking up with, has fired off a warning shot!
This fills Frexl with appropriate panic.
"ENOUGH NOW! RUN AWAY!"
Lightfoot's not keen to get shot for this Dug bozo, she scarpers right away with no complaints.
