The smugglers and other assorted riffraff at Argy’s space tavern gripped their drinks nervously. Elmer, the elderly human owner of the joint on the edge of the Aturi Cluster, was smiling. The Argy’s regulars were used to many things – surly service, bands that didn’t play in tune, clouds of cigarette smoke so thick that sometimes the bar itself was veiled behind choking fog – but a happy Elmer was not something they were prepared for.
Finally a particularly bold Abyssin, who was the first mate on a transport that ferried bar food to Argy’s, spoke.
“Good news Elmer?” the green, one-eyed creature asked.
Elmer, who was rail thin and hunched over, opened his bloodshot eyes nearly as wide as an Ion Cannon.
“I’ve laid a trap for Whiskey Squadron,” Elmer explained, chuckling in a way that reminded the Abyssin of the sounds a malfunctioning hyperdrive makes. “I’ll get the best of Lew the Hutt in the Tavern Wars yet.”
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