The Best Damn Drunkards in the Galaxy (open)

[Bette Davis]

She tried to focus on the shot glasses in front of her, but couldn't tell if she was seeing double or if she'd actually done fourteen already. Bette sucked on a lime wedge and sat back in her chair.

Except she was sitting on a bar stool in the newly re-opened Cloud 9 Bar & Grill, and there was nothing to lean back against. She was taking a week of leave, kindly suggested by Capt. Kellison as Bette was obviously overworking herself, and had decided to spend her week off at Cloud City.

It was beautiful all right, but she couldn't afford to stay at the nicest hotel and was somewhere between topside and Port Town in a place that at least had no bugs. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen any bugs in Cloud City at all. Must have been the climate controls or something. No bugs. Huh.

Bette fell over, off her stool and into the people standing behind her.

[Mu Satach]

Mu was walking the establishment, smiling at customers, encouraging people to spend more money and watching out for potential brawlers when a commotion near the bar caught her attention.

Quickly she moved to the area and picked up the fallen barstool and helped the other patrons place the woman back on it.

"Well now..." Mu straightened the lady's jacket, "somebodies having fun."

[Bette Davis]

"The best kind," Bette replied, rubbing her sore butt. There were fourteen shotglasses, but they weren't all hers. Couldn't have been. She didn't feel that drunk.

Her vision swam, and she added, "I prolly should settle up my tab." Before I go puke all over the 'fresher. Bette patted her hair, making sure her ponytail wasn't too messy.

[Mirko Spendrim]

"The barkeep warned her off a while back" Mirko volunteered to Mu from his place at the bar, "but" he gave a little laugh, "she's a hard person to say no to"

[Mu Satach]

Mu arched an eyebrow in amusement. "I'm going to have to brush up on what my legal liabiliities are when it comes to persuasive customers."

Mu went behind the bar and fixed Betty a thick stimulant drink. "Here, drink this it will help your head."

[Bette Davis]

"No, no. I'm done." Bette finished counting out her credits, remembering to leave a good tip for the bartender. She found herself leaning against a curly-haired man who was sitting at the bar, and righted herself. Bette was normally a heavy drinker, but it seemed she'd had a little much even for her. "Don' want to cause any trouble."

She turned around, her hand on Mirko's shoulder for balance. "The 'fresher? This way?" She pointed toward the back of the bar.

[Mirko Spendrim]

"Yeah" Mirko said as he clambered off the stool under Bette's relaxed weight, though he really didnt have a clue. Like most things in his unpredictable existance, he bravadoed his way through it. Mu gave him an assuring nod. "Yep, just this way" he said then with more conviction.

He shuffled along, maneuvering himself to give Bette the best support he could as she leaned on him. She was a solid little thing, lean but muscley sortof, for a female.

"You're not gonna be sick or anything are ya? You'll tell me if you think your gonna, you know, do anything messy right? You'll warn me right?"

Mirko only had the one shirt and jacket, after all.

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

BAM!

The nearest of the three fresher doors -- marked male, female, and other -- crashed open, and a thickset bull of a man came stumbling out in front of Mirko and Bette. He had a rugged, weathered sort of face that was none the better for the drink he'd obviously consumed, a shaved head, and a beaten-looking jacket. He straightened up at the sight of the other two patrons, spent a moment trying to focus his vision, and grunted, "Oh... 'scuse me."

He lumbered by them, then paused. The lady looked awful familiar... something about... fourteen shotglasses, that was it. Was that today or yesterday? The last two hours were a filmy haze -- he'd come here to forget, and, boy, he'd done some forgettin'.

But if he had some association with the lady, he sure as frell wanted to remember it. On a hunch, he turned, somewhat wider than necessary, and said, "Hey, miss... wouldn't say no to a rematch."

[Bette Davis]

"A rematch!" Bette clapped him on the shoulder, even while wondering what exactly he was talking about. "You might even beat me next time. I think." She swayed precariously, releasing Mirko, rebounding off Brand and fumbling her way into the refresher in the middle. "But give me a... moment."

The door closed, then creaked open almost immediately as she tried to close it. Finally the door snapped shut and the pilot made her way to a stall. After what seemed like just a few minutes, but was more like a quarter of an hour, she was washing up and peering at her reflection in the mirror. A blonde humanoid walked into the 'fresher as Bette was straightening her hair, and the newcomer went to a mirror and started freshening her makeup. Bette snorted, and exited the refresher.

Making her way back to the bar, she was using chairs to keep her steady, though she thought herself remarkablely stable. Bette looked around for the man from the refresher, but couldn't seem to recall what he looked like.

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Brand was already at the bar, and he was looking for the fourteen shotglasses. He'd done a bit of math, a bit of chemistry, and fourteen shots didn't seem quite enough for a drinking contest, not for him and a reasonably matched opponent. Sure, she may have given up sixty or seventy pounds to him -- but he couldn't imagine taking on a mismatch, not unless he'd had a head start already.

The mental cogs were running slowly. Obviously they needed more lubrication.

He slapped the bartop with a force that startled even him. Hm, a smack like that ought to hurt his hand, but he'd barely felt it.

"Bring me a Sullustan gin," he growled at the bartender. "Hey, better make it two. I'm expectin' company."

[Bette Davis]

Bette pulled herself up onto a barstool, all five feet four inches of her, and looked at the rough looking man next to her. She didn't remember seeing him before, but she had been doing a bit of drinking. Usually she liked her men a little more polished looking, but every once in a while a sexy ugly man would catch her eye.

She sniffed the drink that was put in front of her after only a moments hesitation on the part of the bartender. "Sullustian gin?"

The man nodded, taking a healthy swallow from his. She copied him, and the glasses hit the bartop at the same time. "We didn't really have a drinking contest, did we?"

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Brand relished the sharp sweetness of the gin as it slid down like a mouthful of apple butter. Somehow aliens just knew how to give mass to a drink.

He shrugged expansively at his companion. "I was kinda hopin' you could tell me," he said with what would have been a sheepish grin if he knew enough to be sheepish. "All I counted were fourteen..."

Somehow that seemed to be getting off on the wrong foot. He thrust a meaty hand in Bette's direction. It wavered significantly in mid-air. "Don't know if we introduced ourselves, either. I'm Mike."

[Bette Davis]

"Bette," she replied, shaking his hand firmly. She prided herself on her firm handshake. "And I -" Memory stirred. "Didn't you..."

Her memory failed again, and she shrugged, finally releasing his hand. "We could always start over, but the bartender has started givin' me dirty looks. And not in a good way," she winked, finishing off the gin in a few more long swallows.

[Mirko Spendrim]

A knobbly little hand came down between their shoulders parting Bette and Brand in introduction. "Mirko Spendrim, nice to meet you" His hand was hanging in between them as he repeated himself, "Name's Mirko -- how's it going?" He added an eager smile, hopeful to worm his way into a friendship. Or acquaintance. Or atleast some human company of some description for a little while. Again with the hanging..He curled his hand away and rubbed it down his shirtfront for want of anything more productive to do with it.
"Mirko Spendrim, nice to meet ya's" He gave them both a toothy smile, first one then the other again.

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Hmm... he couldn't feel the bartop when he smacked it, but he could feel Bette's grip. That, Brand thought, was a good thing. A woman with a good grip was a woman you could trust. He'd heard that somewhere, he thought. Or maybe he'd coined it on the spot. That's right. When you got underneath his tough exterior, he was a regular philoffiser. Phisseloffer. Fossilfisser. Frell it.

He felt something crawling on his shoulder and interrupting this very important train of thought. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be attached to an arm, which was, in turn, attached to a small, curly-haired man in a drab suit.

"Unh..."

His instincts said Scram. His tact said Do I know you? His suspicion said I don't want no watches, curly. The drink said How in the flyin frell do they keep these floors so clean?

Brand turned to Bette. "Whaddaya think? Noonian fixer?"

She lifted her eyebrows. That was confirmation enough for him.

He slapped the bar again -- heh, this time it hurt. "Barkeep. Noonian fixer for my buddy Mirko."

[Mirko Spendrim]

The grin broadened into a beaming smile of stellar proportions.

"Thanks!" he said, pulling up a stool from behind him and sitting like the point of a triangle to Bette and Brand's two sides. Which was a bit awkward because he had to balance as he reached forward between them to lift his glass from the bar. "My friends call me Spenny" he offered, although he really only had the one friend, Aurelias Kazaar, and he wasnt quite certain if Kazaar meant it as an edearing term, or not. Still, Mirko wasnt one to linger on imponderables. "So, you guys not from around here huh?"

[Bette Davis]

Bette clapped Mirko on the shoulder, nearly upsetting his drink all over his clothes. "Spenny, you are one observant... sunufahutt." With her other hand she snagged the bartender's sleeve before he could get away. "Another gin," she requested, before turning back to the little man on the stool and her new friend Mike.

"I'm on leave for a week - Imperial Navy."

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Funny how two little words could penetrate a warm, drunken haze with the force of a bunker-buster. He stared at Bette in a few moments of unguarded shock.

Then the fifteen brain cells still in operation all moved at once and smacked him upside the forehead with a hammer.

"Oh, really?" he said, animated again. "Well, I'm the President of the Rebellion."

The look on her face was good enough that he didn't even have to fake the laugh.

[Mirko Spendrim]

"Ha ha ha ha"

Mirko laughed along, but his stomach tightened into a barb-wire ball.
Great, my new friends are Imps.

Not that he was really on anyone's side, persay, but he felt sure the Imperials might not see it that way given favors done for the Rebel spy Aurelias Kazaar.

"Ha ha ha ha"

Mirko realised the other two had stopped laughing and were looking at him oddly.
"Um, this drink is great, really great."

He started looking around for an exit.

[Bette Davis]

"Excellent!" Bette grabbed her drink, and slid awkardly off her barstool. "How 'bout a game of pocketballs?" The pilot jerkily gestured between the shoulders of the two men at the stairs leading to the second level of the bar.

"If memory serves me right, there are some tables... up there." She refused to take Mirko's mumblings as a no, and held onto him for support. "Loser buys the next round."

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

The voice of caution in Brand's brain was lightly suggesting he find another bar -- or, at least, another pair of drinking buddies. Aw, but just because she said she was Imperial didn't mean she was, oh, COMPNOR or nothin'... Hell, for an Imp she looked all right, and she was as off-duty as he was.

I don't want to have to say I told you so, the voice of caution said.

This'll shut you up, Brand replied, downing the last of his gin.

"That's a hard bargain; I'm just a Chandrila hick. Well, why not. I've paid for this round, only fair one o' you two picks up the next." He grinned sharkily and slapped both Bette and Mirko on the shoulders. "You can tell us the house rules on the way up, Bette."

[Mirko Spendrim]

Swept along in the inebriated tide of his two new aquaintances, Mirko was helpless to do anything but try not to get his toes crushed under Brands big feet.

He was fairly good at pocketballs, which up until this moment, he'd viewed as a pretty useless attribute. He'd play one game and then make his excuses.

Taking a long drink of his noonian fixer (which, miraculously, he still held in his hand and had not spilt a drop)he reaffirmed in his mind...just one game.

[Bette Davis]

"Chandrila? Y'don't say?" Bette skipped up the stairs backwards, her face nearly on level with the taller Brand. "That's my home port as well." She turned on her heel at the top of the stairs and nearly fell into a table of ...somethings. Her vision chose that moment to blur on her, and Brand managed to catch her arms to keep her from making an enormous mess.

He straightened her up and she pointed a finger to the right. "Open table! Spenny, rack 'em! We'll play cutthroat rules, since there's three of us."

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

The gin had that sort of effect, and Brand was feeling it, too -- a warm, anesthetic buzz, just the thing to lift your spirits. If Bette hadn't happened along, he probably would have ordered whisky (that was whisky, not whiskey, and experienced drinkers knew the difference) and spent the night stewing alone until he was out of brainwaves. Ah, but there was a woman here, and his troubles could wait. They were exceedingly patient.

Brand located a stand of cues, selected the three that were the least warped by the warm, smokey air, and presented them to his companions. "Here, take your pick. Yeah, my old man was a cop in Hanna City. How about you, Spenny? Where's home?"

[Mirko Spendrim]

"Home?"

Mirko was racking up the balls, but was nervous and they kept rolling away from him on the table.

"I spend a lot of time in Imperial Center" which was true, but "home" was a bit of a stretch. He was kindof a drifter, not because he wanted to be, but mainly because he seemed to get himself into trouble alot and had to move on. He had been hoping to make a change in that regard, but that wasnt so easy.

Another noonian fixer arrived, as did another round for Bette and Mike. Mirko didn't remember ordering anything, but that didnt stop him gurgling down the first drink, and tackling the second.

He got the balls racked, finally, and stood back.

"Who's up first?"

[Bette Davis]

"Brand here'll break," offered Bette, who was leaning rather heavily against another pocketballs table, sixteenth or seventeenth drink in hand. But really, who was counting? She pushed herself upright and picked her favorite of the sticks that the Chandrilan had retrieved for them.

Letting the ambiance of the bar wash over her, Bette stood at one end of the table and watched Mike eyeball down the length of his cue to make sure it was straight. "C'mon, you checked it already! <a href=http://www.pool-table-rules.com/bcacutthroat.php>Cutthroat</a> waits for no man... and I'm sure my beer that you'll be buying me is gettin' warm over at the bar."

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

"Huh! You wish."

Brand plunked the cue ball onto the felt surface and lined up his stick, sighting the leathered tip the way he'd sight the end of his A-280 longblaster. For the volume of alcohol he'd consumed, his hands were remarkably steady.

CLACK! The balls scattered fairly evenly across the cloth, except for the four and twelve, which plunked neatly into the far corner pockets.

"Beginner's luck. Guess that means I'm taking the middle."

He tried to snipe down the sidewall to drop the three into the opposite corner, but he overpowered it, and the red ball rebounded harmlessly off the pocket rim and into the middle.

"Your shot, Spenny." He winked at Bette. "You're the hostess, so you bat clean-up. So, is it kosher to ask your rank? Gotta know if I oughta salute."

[Mirko Spendrim]

Mirko dusted his cue with the little golden cube, squeeking it noisily until Brand glared at him to stop.

Bending to the table edge, he too lined up his shot. But his eyes kept darting around from Brand to Bette and his general surroundings that the shot skewered and the ball richocheted numerous times around the table, missing almost every other ball. It finally came to a halt against the 3, just tilting it enough to fall into the empty space of the pocket it had been perched upon.

"High end for me"

[Bette Davis]

Bette wrapped her mind around Brand's question, but was distracted by Mirko sinking the three. "Frell! Two down already?" She shook her fist in mock anger, and turned her attention back to Mike as Spenny lined up for his next shot.

"You should always salute," she smirked. "Lieutenant Commander Davis," Bette affected a flowery bow while supporting herself with her cue. "At your service."

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

"Lieutenant Commander? Hoo boy, I dunno... I figure I could play pockets with a midshipman, an ensign... maybe a lieutenant, but you're gettin' fancy for my blood. Aw, but what the hey..."

Motor memory was a funny thing. Didn't matter that he was wobbling on his feet, or that it took some concentration to keep one eye from lazing off-center. When Brand threw a salute, it was crisp and regimental. He'd have had to have been sober to make it look careless.

"Hey, I was wonderin'... you said loser buys the drinks, but..." He glanced over as Mirko dropped another ball -- he caught a glimpse of solid green, which was, er... six. Krasst.

"Supposin' Spenny here runs the table, which one's the loser?"

[Mirko Spendrim]

His next shot set up his opponents to sink each other nicely, a 2 and a 7 huddled together on the left top pocket.

"You could flip for it...?" Mirko offered, emboldened by the last mouthfuls of his Nooian.

[Bette Davis]

Bette batted her eyes at Mike, "Why, then we're both losers and Spenny gets two drinks on us while we lose our self-respect and the will to live."

Mirko was finally done, with her two left in a dangerous spot. She pretended to line up at the seven, but then changed angles and eyeballed the fifteen. "You're both goin' down." The striped ball bounced off the bumper and directly into the side pocket across from it. The white cue ball rolled backwards putting the nine in her sights, which she sank into the back left corner pocket.

She paused to chalk up her cue stick, wobbling slightly on her heels. "I'm better when I'm drunk, what can I say."

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Brand lightly eyed the table -- just two of his balls left, three apiece for Bette and Spenny.

"So that means when I win, you both buy me a drink?"

He chuckled lightly. Then glanced at the angle of Bette's stick as she lined up the next shot. "Risky," he said. "You're gonna scratch."

[Mirko Spendrim]

Mirko crouched down, his face level with the edge of the table, round little brown eyes flicking from cue tip to pocketball, and volunteered his assessment.
"No, no - I think she's ok. Its a good angle"

He stood up smartly, then visibly shrank as Brand glowered darkly over at him.

"Oh.."

[Bette Davis]

Bette waved them both away from her with her middle finger, and bent over the table again. She looked backwards and found Mike eyeing her. "If you take a holo it'll last longer." The pilot winked, and then turned back to the pocketballs table.

She adjusted her angle just slightly, and smacked the cue ball into the six. As she did, however, something brushed against her butt and caused her to lose concentration for a second. The six rebounded off the corner of the pocket and rolled back towards the middle of the table.

Bette stood up, turning on Mike, who was studiously looking in the other direction.

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

The movement seemed to draw Brand's attention, and he idly glanced at the irate pilot, then at the table. "Hunh? Oh. Guess it's my turn, then."

[Mirko Spendrim]

Standing back a little to keep out of the way, but remaining in good enough distance to watch the table, Mirko wondered if he could turn this strange little party into something a little more beneficial to himself. The girl was pretty hooped and the big guy not too far behind her. Eh, it was worth a shot - he might get some sort of useful (profitable) information out of them.

"So, Bette" he inquired nonchalantly as Brand positioned for his shot, "what squadron did you say you were in?"

[Bette Davis]

Bette eyed Brand's rear end as the man lined up his shot, and fuzzily remembered that there was someone else present when Spenny spoke up. "I don' think I said," she replied, leaning back against a tall table with her elbows. "Is top secret, of course. If I tol' you I'd hafta kill you."

Then Bette laughed uproariously, her elbow slipping off the edge of the table, and down she went.

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Brand surveyed the table, then leaned down to see it from the cue ball's point of view. If war were pocketballs, he'd be the one crashing blindly into everything else, not the one holding the stick.

A laugh and a crash brought him back to Bespin. He stumped over unsteadily and bent down to help Bette to her feet. "Easy there, flygirl... You mighta had a drop too much."

As he took her weight, something twinged angrily in his gut -- shrapnel wound from Bothawui. The docs had said to take it easy while the muscle patch mended. Krasst, don't tell me I can't shift a featherweight like her!

[Mirko Spendrim]

Mirko found himself a chair and plomped into it finding entertainment value in watching the heroic efforts of Brand as he tried to heave upright a slumping Bette, who's feet were insistent on going in opposite directions beneath her, while Brand himself seemed dangerously unsteady.

[Bette Davis]

She finally got her feet underneath her, but didn't mind letting Brand continue to try to hold her up. "My turn yet?" Bette laughed, reluctantly releasing Mike to let him return to the game.

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Brand winced again as he straightened up. If he drank another shot or two, he wouldn't hurt anymore. That sounded like a better idea than bending over the pocketballs table for the next half-hour.

"Nah, it's, uh... halftime," he replied. "Time to refill. I can't be expected to beat you two on an empty glass, huh?"

He nodded back down toward the bar.

"What brings you two to Cloud City, anyway? I mean, vacation... but it's a little outa the way for most, far as I kinow. 'Specially Imps."

[Bette Davis]

"Well, you're here." Bette abandoned the cue stick and casually looped her arm through Brand's. "I've never known a vacation spot to be too far away for the very... determined. 'Sides, what else am I supposed to do with a week of leave?"

They walked arm in arm to the bar that was on the second floor, and Bette brightened as a thought struck her. "Say, you aren't in a hotel with a pool, are you?"

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Brand pullled a grimace. "If there is a pool, chances are we'll have to fish a dead mynock out of it..."

It took a moment for the significance of Bette's arm to imprint itself on Brand's soused mind. The five neurons that were still awake got together in a huddle and decided they liked it. Sure, you could say she wasn't quite his type -- a flygirl, after all, and an Imperial, too, for that matter. But she seemed different. Brand could easily imagine her in the trenches beside him with an A-280 propped against her shoulder, her hair singed and her face smeared with soot and sweat.

Frell, that was a strong image. Another two drinks and he'd be believing in it.

He eased himself onto a barstool, still leaning very close to his newfound drinking companion. "Bespin was just far enough for me. Open sky above you. And below you." He laughed un-self-consciously. "But I needed to get to the city. Spent too much time out-doors lately."

He slapped the bartop to get the 'tender's attention.

[Bette Davis]

Too much time out doors? Bette tried to remember the last time she'd been on a planets surface, and couldn't come up with anything. But with enough time, she was sure she'd think of something. Not that she was agoraphobic or anything. Agoraphobic. Was that right? Angoraphobic. She started snickering at her clever play with words.

The bartender came over, leaning on the bar. "What can I get for you, gentles?" He wasn't quite human, but she couldn't place what species he was.

"Something clear and strong." Bette set a credit chit on the bar. "Surprise me."

As Brand ordered, she turned sideways on her barstool, carefully, and leaned her elbow on the bar. "So, what is it you do, Mike?"

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

"I'll take what she's getting. And make it a double," Brand quickly chipped in.

He offered Bette a competetive smirk as he turned in his barstool to face her. Ah... now, this was a vacation.

And then she turned sideways with her elbow on the bartop and asked, "So, what is it you do, Mike?"

"I'm a fightin' man," he replied. "Groundpounder. Simplest job in the galaxy. Some uniform tells you where the enemy is, and you just point and shoot."

The barkeep returned with two glasses of something -- Brand wrapped his hand around the taller of the two. "I tell you... it's been nine kinds of hell in the last coupla months. Ever since Endor..."

[Bette Davis]

"Tell me about it." Bette put her glass to her lips and drank over half of her drink before setting it back down. "Supposed to be th' elite, but we got shot all to pieces over that frellin' moon. Lost a lotta good pilots."

Something hardened in her eyes at the memory, and she finished off her drink and asked for another. They said alchohol wasn't the answer, but it sure as hell could help you forget the questions.