Vargo the Hutt
Aug 21st, 2005, 08:54:11 PM
(OOC: This is open for any major players who might be on Coruscant, be they Imperial, Black Sun, etc.)
On a Coruscanti skyhook, an opulent shuttle docks in one of the many landing ports. From the shuttle disgorges a throng of attendees and well-to-dos, surrounding the massive form of a Hutt on a repulsorsled, with a fine azure silk shawl draped around it's mighty belly and tail. Beautiful women of all races in matching dresses followed behind, with frond fans and baskets of flower petals that they lay on the ground in the Hutt's wake.
(The Tratini wasn't just exclusive. It was practically untouchable. Situated on one of the few Skyhooks of Coruscant, it was a restaurant nestled amid other fabulously untouchable establishments of various sort. Most were eateries or drinking establishments, but there were some shops open for business, selling unique and ridiculously expensive garments on the very razor's edge of fashion.
I should know. After all, I am responsible for a good many of them. Among my many businesses, my most profitable are legitimate, and of my legitimate ones, my darling is my work in the fashion industry. My pioneering work has since inspired a throng of talented artisans who now work beneath me. I have since taken a supervisory and corporate position in the operation, and stay close to the forefront mainly to keep my fingers on the pulse of the fashion trends of the galaxy.
My name is Vargo the Hutt. The article the is an important component of any Hutt's title. My name implies neither masculinity nor femininity, because I am both, yet I am neither. While I may adopt the moniker of "he" or "she" as my whims dictate, The is the proper way to address me. Any Hutt will say that they are a unique item. A miniature star in which the planets that are less fortunate people orbit around. The implies singularity. There cannot be another the. Another Hutt might eat better than I, and carry a mightier girth. Another Hutt might hold more prestige in larger business enterprises. Another Hutt might surround itself with a greater harem, or a larger throng of lackeys. It does not matter. They cannot also be Vargo the Hutt. Although my obsession over my acquisitions is unfathomable, my individual cases of greed and avarice form a kind of synergy as unique as a snowflake or a fingerprint. The is adamantine, and thus, unbreakable. The is I, and thus, I have both inheirited and earned my own invincibility. My own deity.)
The entoruage slowly approached the entrance to the Tratini, where a Maitre' D queried who the party was registered under. An amazingly articulated and immaculate protocol droid spoke in a baritone voice
"Vargo the Hutt's party requests seating, sir."
The host nods and graciously bows to the Hutt, informing him that his table is ready, and his party will be seated at once. The thanks are returned by Vargo's droid, and everyone passes inside.
(There is that very same article of The that proceeds Tratini. Like myself, The Tratini is unique and beyond imitation. There have been instances of Heads of State of entire worlds being denied patronage here, because they did not meet the establishment's discriminating reputation. Of course, because I myself transcend planetary confines in importance, it is without saying that there exists a certain compatability between myself and that of The Tratini. I myself have dined here on perhaps two dozen occasions. The Master Chef had reportedly sequestered himself for ten years on Ithor alone, mastering the subtleties of spice balance. I have a deep respect for this amount of dedication to perfection. So many buffoons would consider this to be a case of how many shakes from a shaker go on a platter. The truth is much closer to poetry itself. There is a singular and individual expression to be told.
Interestingly, there are seven hundred and fifty two words for food in the Huttese language. I am of course excluding the more specific monikers. It is more than sustinance. It is a powerful cultural watermark. When one can appreciate a chef's affinity for flavoring as true creativity, it becomes it's own art. A painting only inspires through the eyes. A proper meal can inspire through the nose, the tongue, the gullet. Someone once said that memories and affinities are most connected to taste and smell, so it is no suprise that I carry this perspective.
Food is that and even more. The quantity and quality of one's dining can directly reflect his own affluence and prominence. There are others who suggest that certain foods may be seen as aphrodesiacs, although I disagree with the assessment. That's for another time, however.)
Vargo's group settled at a large semi-circular table, opposite a straight table. Vargo is guided to the semi-circular table so that the spread surrounds him and is suitably within his reach. His groupies take their places at the opposite table, close enough to speak their business with the Hutt, but far enough away as to be unintrusive. A few seats at the center of the straight table lay empty, as the Hutt was expecting company to join him.
(My public relations droid had informed the establishment prior to my arrival of my special preferences and flights of fancy, which gave the Master Chef ample time to make his art within my general guidelines. While I may consider live Corinian Eels to be vogue for the season, I trust the Chef to dress the medium of the dish in a fashion that he feels will bring out the eels' greatest culinary qualities. They remain live but docile in all manner of environs of varying temperature, acidity, and salinity. It gives one an awesome freedom in prescribing a broth as a foundation to work from. In this case, I am informed that it will be a ginger-lemongrass base, with Naboo quail egg yolks and brazed gintu seeds. I have to say, I am eager to see if the Chef's suggestion matches his previous merits.
The other courses of the meal aren't quite as noteworthy, but that doesn't suggest that they are unappealing. So long as the chef meets and exceeds my expectations, then The Tratini is worthy to be graced with my presence. Thus in this light, I and a handful of other power players help to define what is vogue upon vogue in the Deep Core. Without my approval, The Tratini, would still be The Tratini, but it would be a fading star. Such a singular establishment thrives on such singular patrons as myself.
I can make or break a place like this. Thus, it should be noted that I can make and break individual people just as easily. Because I am The and thus singular, I lack the compassion and concience that would prevent me from doing it.)
On a Coruscanti skyhook, an opulent shuttle docks in one of the many landing ports. From the shuttle disgorges a throng of attendees and well-to-dos, surrounding the massive form of a Hutt on a repulsorsled, with a fine azure silk shawl draped around it's mighty belly and tail. Beautiful women of all races in matching dresses followed behind, with frond fans and baskets of flower petals that they lay on the ground in the Hutt's wake.
(The Tratini wasn't just exclusive. It was practically untouchable. Situated on one of the few Skyhooks of Coruscant, it was a restaurant nestled amid other fabulously untouchable establishments of various sort. Most were eateries or drinking establishments, but there were some shops open for business, selling unique and ridiculously expensive garments on the very razor's edge of fashion.
I should know. After all, I am responsible for a good many of them. Among my many businesses, my most profitable are legitimate, and of my legitimate ones, my darling is my work in the fashion industry. My pioneering work has since inspired a throng of talented artisans who now work beneath me. I have since taken a supervisory and corporate position in the operation, and stay close to the forefront mainly to keep my fingers on the pulse of the fashion trends of the galaxy.
My name is Vargo the Hutt. The article the is an important component of any Hutt's title. My name implies neither masculinity nor femininity, because I am both, yet I am neither. While I may adopt the moniker of "he" or "she" as my whims dictate, The is the proper way to address me. Any Hutt will say that they are a unique item. A miniature star in which the planets that are less fortunate people orbit around. The implies singularity. There cannot be another the. Another Hutt might eat better than I, and carry a mightier girth. Another Hutt might hold more prestige in larger business enterprises. Another Hutt might surround itself with a greater harem, or a larger throng of lackeys. It does not matter. They cannot also be Vargo the Hutt. Although my obsession over my acquisitions is unfathomable, my individual cases of greed and avarice form a kind of synergy as unique as a snowflake or a fingerprint. The is adamantine, and thus, unbreakable. The is I, and thus, I have both inheirited and earned my own invincibility. My own deity.)
The entoruage slowly approached the entrance to the Tratini, where a Maitre' D queried who the party was registered under. An amazingly articulated and immaculate protocol droid spoke in a baritone voice
"Vargo the Hutt's party requests seating, sir."
The host nods and graciously bows to the Hutt, informing him that his table is ready, and his party will be seated at once. The thanks are returned by Vargo's droid, and everyone passes inside.
(There is that very same article of The that proceeds Tratini. Like myself, The Tratini is unique and beyond imitation. There have been instances of Heads of State of entire worlds being denied patronage here, because they did not meet the establishment's discriminating reputation. Of course, because I myself transcend planetary confines in importance, it is without saying that there exists a certain compatability between myself and that of The Tratini. I myself have dined here on perhaps two dozen occasions. The Master Chef had reportedly sequestered himself for ten years on Ithor alone, mastering the subtleties of spice balance. I have a deep respect for this amount of dedication to perfection. So many buffoons would consider this to be a case of how many shakes from a shaker go on a platter. The truth is much closer to poetry itself. There is a singular and individual expression to be told.
Interestingly, there are seven hundred and fifty two words for food in the Huttese language. I am of course excluding the more specific monikers. It is more than sustinance. It is a powerful cultural watermark. When one can appreciate a chef's affinity for flavoring as true creativity, it becomes it's own art. A painting only inspires through the eyes. A proper meal can inspire through the nose, the tongue, the gullet. Someone once said that memories and affinities are most connected to taste and smell, so it is no suprise that I carry this perspective.
Food is that and even more. The quantity and quality of one's dining can directly reflect his own affluence and prominence. There are others who suggest that certain foods may be seen as aphrodesiacs, although I disagree with the assessment. That's for another time, however.)
Vargo's group settled at a large semi-circular table, opposite a straight table. Vargo is guided to the semi-circular table so that the spread surrounds him and is suitably within his reach. His groupies take their places at the opposite table, close enough to speak their business with the Hutt, but far enough away as to be unintrusive. A few seats at the center of the straight table lay empty, as the Hutt was expecting company to join him.
(My public relations droid had informed the establishment prior to my arrival of my special preferences and flights of fancy, which gave the Master Chef ample time to make his art within my general guidelines. While I may consider live Corinian Eels to be vogue for the season, I trust the Chef to dress the medium of the dish in a fashion that he feels will bring out the eels' greatest culinary qualities. They remain live but docile in all manner of environs of varying temperature, acidity, and salinity. It gives one an awesome freedom in prescribing a broth as a foundation to work from. In this case, I am informed that it will be a ginger-lemongrass base, with Naboo quail egg yolks and brazed gintu seeds. I have to say, I am eager to see if the Chef's suggestion matches his previous merits.
The other courses of the meal aren't quite as noteworthy, but that doesn't suggest that they are unappealing. So long as the chef meets and exceeds my expectations, then The Tratini is worthy to be graced with my presence. Thus in this light, I and a handful of other power players help to define what is vogue upon vogue in the Deep Core. Without my approval, The Tratini, would still be The Tratini, but it would be a fading star. Such a singular establishment thrives on such singular patrons as myself.
I can make or break a place like this. Thus, it should be noted that I can make and break individual people just as easily. Because I am The and thus singular, I lack the compassion and concience that would prevent me from doing it.)