Log:Little Morzog's Booze and Prostitution Hole

Little Morzog's Booze and Prostitution Hole

OOC Date: October 15, 2019
Location: The Wheel
Participants: Mak the Hutt, Dyannah Nerus

The sun is setting in the distance behind the mesas. The bright blue star slowly turns red as it slowly disappears, and the vast desert space begins to darken.

It would probably start getting cooler as well, if it weren't just a holoprojection against the wall...

But here 'in town', in a local cantina known as Little Morzog's Booze and Prostitution Hole, in the seediest part of the Lower Ring on the biggest Casino Station in this sector of space... the action is very hot.

The action, however, seems to be mostly circled around the giant mechanical bantha that the patrons are taking turns trying to ride.

A Rodian is currently in the middle of a very impressive ride, already getting dangerously close to the High Score posted on one of the holographic displays on the wall. He squeals and waves his hat in the air, hanging on for dear life as the crowd cheers.

And then, juuuuust before he gets his name on the wall, the bantha bucks hard to the left, and the Rodian falls forward and onto the Safety Dust that lines the floor around the bull.

Over near the bar, one of the customers is in the middle of haggling with the bar owner. The two seem to be in the middle of a heated discussion about prices.

"I'm not paying that much for those skinny milkers! You left 'em in the cargo hold to long! The meat's atrophied!"

The Besalisk bar owner polishes a glass, setting it in front of the smuggler he's haggling with. Just because they're arguing, it doesn't mean they can't be civilized.

As the drink is poured, the smuggling cowboy reaches a pudgy, extremely fleshy hand up to adjust the brim of his very large hat.

"I ain't takin' any less for 'em! Them's high-quality breedin' cows! You can always fatten 'em up later!"

The volume of the discussion at the bar lets any willing or unwilling patrons into the ongoing negotiations. The Zeltron might be in the category of the unwilling as she turns on her stool, almost hunching over the drink she is nursing. Slim, athletic, dressed in black from head to toe, only the deep blue hair might indicate her race with her head turned away. Casting glances at the two as the volume mounts, she finally turns quite frankly in their direction, amusement in her deep rose face - ah yes, a Zeltron.

"Look, Mak... we been doin' business a long time. So what do you say we agree to a hundred per head, in the interest of continued friendship?"

The Besalisk starts filling the cowboy's glass with whiskey, and keeps pouring until the bottle is entirely empty. The glass is still not quite full...

Taking the glass in a pudgy hand, 'Mak' downs it all in one shot, his extremely wide mouth large enough to swallow most humans whole. He has no trouble with a liter of whiskey.

"A HUNNERD!? As in ONE hunnerd! Yer outta yer dadburned..." It's right about then that he casts his enormous, yellow, suspiciously Hutt-like eyes on the Zeltron beauty sitting down the bar from him. It stops him in mid-sentence, and a bit of greenish slime oozes out of his mouth and down his chin.

He's a Hutt, by the way.

Setting the glass down on the bar, he reaches up and tips his hat in her direction. "Sorry 'bout the volume, ma'am. Just tryin' to negotiate with this... four-armed reprobate. Hard to git your point across when you're dealin' with someone so all-confounded stubborn!"

A light gleams in his yellow eyes, and he runs his enormous tongue across his upper lip as he looks her up and down.

"Maybe you'd be a sweetheart and tell this silly bartender he oughta pay TWO hunnerd for the cattle I brung him?"

No need to open her senses to the Hutt to know how he appreciates her classic beauty. A blue eyebrow lifts in mild amusement and a question, with a chin lift to the bartender, she pushes her glass towards him, "Third party negotiators often get a cut in the final price, are you ready to cut me in? Or should I give you a first timer's price?"

"Hey now... I never agreed to any middlemen... this is..."

The Besalisk gets cut off by a (relatively) quick raise of Mak's very fleshy four-fingered hand. He glares at him for a second, before looking back at the Zeltron with a smile on his face.

"Look at that! Ain't been on the job for more than ten seconds and she's already negotiatin' with ME! Tell you what. I'll give you... two percent of the total sale price, if you can make this ignorant sumbitch see the error of his ways."

He reaches into a pouch on his holster vest, and produces a ridiculously large can of what appears to be chewing t'bacc.

"Meantime, I'm gonna go set me a new record on that there bantha. Back in a minute, darlin'."

The amusement settles into a faint smile, lifting Dyannah's already high cheekbones, widening those big baby violets which she brandishes with impunity as he rails at her about not needing a middleman. When he says 'on the job' her smile morphs into something slightly more brittle having sworn never to work for a Hutt again as long as life allowed it.

"Have fun!" She calls to the retreating hulk of the Hutt, not adding aloud, 'Break a leg.'

"Two percent," she repeats to the bartender with a disbelieving shake of her head. "You all been doing this for a while?"

With a sigh, the Besalisk bartender reaches up with one of his many hands and grabs a clean glass. He starts mixing something up for her that's a bit fruitier, a bit more refined, and probably quite a bit sweeter than the jug of whiskey he was serving the Hutt.

It might even have alcohol in it.

"Yeah... Mak's been a good friend for... oh.... two decades now, I suppose." He starts shaking something together, adding a few of the top shelf liquors to it. Working on her drink with two of his hands, he still has a pair free to prop on the bar as he faces her.

"He's a character, alright. And the best smuggler I've ever seen."

Slowly moving toward the mechanical bantha, Mak raises both of his arms and waves for people to get out of the way. "Move it, pardners! I'm fixin' to show ya'll how a REAL MAN rides a bantha."

People start moving, but... it's taking Mak quite a while to get there. He's a giant slug.

Also, he's leaving a pretty gross trail of slime behind himself.

Nodding with a sigh, acceptance and humor in it, she turns around to watch the performance, saying to the bartender over her shoulder, "I thought it sounded like you all had been down that path a time or two. You don't look like you will slip in the slime, either. What do you do with the cattle? Keep them or sell them to the local market?"

As the Hutt slowly oozes his way up the back of the bantha, it quickly becomes obvious that this is not the sort of thing that anyone should ever have to see. At first, it looks kind of like a slug is mating with a beetle. But after he's fully positioned on top of the mechanical beast, it looks like someone dropped a giant turd on top of a mouse.

A couple of Zabrak women having a bachelorette party start squealing and fanning themselves at the sight of the Rugged Cowboy mounting the beast. It's clearly the hottest thing they've seen all day.

"Ugh... it always costs me about ten grand to repair that thing every time Mak rides it. It's why I can't keep paying his prices. Good, quality steers and heifers, no mistake, but... I got a business to run."

The drink finished, the Besalisk sets it before the dainty Zeltron lady.

"A place like this, it always pays to keep a few extra cows around. Never know when you'll need 'em. Some I sell. Some I rent out. And some end up on the dinner table. But I treat 'em humanely. This is a classy joint."

With a two fingered salute, Dyannah acknowledges the bartender's perspicacity for business and cattle. Taking her drink up, she gestures a toast to the man before having a sip, "Mmmm, you know your cattle and your customers, it would seem. Not too sweet with a nice little zing to it. Thanks! It's on him," she gestures to the behemoth with the rolls of fat obscuring the bantha like it was a bar stool.

"Well, yee-haw. Really ten thousand every time? You all must be...yes, well, he's a Hutt."

"My ex-wife used to say I was a shit husband, but an excellent bartender." The Besalisk grins at the compliment, though he doesn't seem surprised by it. After all, pouring drinks is pretty much his only job.

"You seem like a sweet kid, and Mak's a good guy, for a Hutt... so why don't we just call it a hundred and ten a head?"

He starts wiping down a fresh glass, though he's let the other bartenders take over the drink-serving duties. Not unsurprisingly, most of the waitstaff here are Twi'lek, but there are a couple of droids as well.

Over at the bantha, someone has thrown the switch and it groans to life, making horrible noises as the gears grind and the bantha responds as sluggishly as the man riding it.

The Besalisk winces.

"He carries some weight," she says, her eyes sliding humorously to the bartender. "You might be better off with two bantas or do you already have a replacement in the back?"

The bantha whining to life merits a wince and a healthier sip of her drink. "Loaded this nicely, didn't you? Two livers have their uses. Oh, yes they do. I don't think that either of you should be talking for less than a hundred and eighty a head, myself. Course, I need to look at them. My family has a working...ah, farm." She doesn't say estate though estate it most certainly is.

At the mention of 'looking at them', the Besalisk winces once again. But only slightly. His posture certainly gets a bit more closed off, and he seems almost nervous as he tries to change the subject. Not something that everyone would notice.

But something every Zeltron would.

"A hundred and eighty? Per head? Even the skinny ones? Miss, you've got a lot of gumption... but that's just preposterous. There's no WAY that I could do more than a hundred and twenty, and even then I'd be taking a loss."

The Besalisk's eyes get a bit shifty, and he looks over at one of the bartenders pouring drinks beside him. She's your standard blue, skimpily-dressed Twi'lek, with ample cleavage on both her head and her chest.

"You know, I think you'd fit in real nice at a place like this. Probably make a killing in tips. What do you say you get Mak to agree to one twenty a head, and I'll hire you on the spot.

The Twi'lek shrinks a bit at this suggestion, turning away just a biiiit too sharply. Maybe it was too fast for Dyannah to see the thick blue makeup she plastered over her right eye?

Dyannah would be insulted if she were more sensitive but her days on Nar Shaddaa helped tremendously for getting over her squeamishness about so many things. The bartender's shiftiness plays out for her like a holofilm and it all comes together. Shifting her body about to look at the sack of Hutt playing ride 'em Banthaboy, her big violet eyes narrow for a moment.

"You don't say? Do I look like I need a job? I am a very sweet girl, you read people so well," she says guilelessly. "I guess I do! But how could anyone bid on 'stock' without looking it over. Really?"

"Gaah!"

PLOP!

The entire bar shakes as Mak finally falls off the struggling Bantha, flopping backwards and plopping against the ground with an audible, sickening thud. The poor Rodian had gotten a little too close to the bantha, hoping he wouldn't get shown up. He's... currently completely surrounded by Lord Makooja's voluminous back fat.

He'll get out eventually, if he wasn't killed on impact...

Slowly rolling over, Mak raises a triumphant arm up into the air. His arms are actually a lot more muscular than your average Hutt's, almost as if they were grafted onto his body. But then, he's generally more active than most Hutts, so perhaps it makes sense.

"Barkeep! Fetch me another bottle of whiskey!" He shouts from his position on the ground, bellowing over the cheers from the people around him. They... actually seem to genuinely like him? The Wheel is weird.

Slowly sliming his way over, the Hutt sidles back up to the bar, propping a sweaty arm up on it and giving the Zeltron woman a good once-over with his eyes.

"Betcha ain't ever been ridden that hard, huh darlin'?"

Thanking the goddess for her ready smile, Dyannah simpers looking between the bartender and the Hutt. Silently she sends the Twi'lek woman a wish for courage.

"That was the greatest ride, I've ever seen," she raises what is left of her drink to the two, drinks it off and stands, suddenly woozier than what she has drank merits.

Slurring slightly, "Thank you for one of the best drinks of my life." When she stands, she realizes that pressing her com silently earlier on was exactly the right call. Two familiar faces appear at the door of the bar and head straight for her.

"Captain," the burly older man says. The Echani behind him makes no effort to hide the blaster riding in its holster. "Wanting a walk home, Captain?" he asks after nodding to the Hutt and the bartender.

"Think, I...yeah," Dyannah answers holding tightly to her relief. "Cheers!" She wishes the two, hoping for an early demise on both their parts.

His drink in front of him, and greasy sweat pouring out of every pore, Mak seems to be having more fun than adults are usually allowed to. At least on Coruscant.

"Play yer cards right, I'm sure I could... maybe...." Mak's sentence trails off, as the woman starts getting up shakily. Mak's cheerful smile turns into a vicious scowl as the woman departs with her guards.

"Dammit Clem! What did you put in them drinks!? I was thiiiiiis close to closin' that sweet, sweet deal."

He holds up his fingers very close together to show just how close he was.

"I didn't put nothing fancy in her drink, Mak! You know I'd never do that! This is a classy booze and prostitution hole... but speaking of sweet deals, your girl said you'd settle for one twenty a head."

Grimacing, Mak drains an entire bottle of whiskey in one shot.

"One TWENTY! You know I can't go that low, Clem..."