Alexander Bane
Jan 13th, 2008, 02:45:03 AM
Sand... Why so much sand? Where could they have possibly gotten all this sand from? Was there some mass audit of all the beaches in the galaxy the confiscated sand was transported here and somehow managed to create the largest littler box in existence? Wait, no. That can't be true. Didn't Caezer whatshisface have an entire galaxy reduced to sand so that he wouldn't have to fight for a good tanning spot on the beach? Or am I confusing him with that King Luther guy? Samuel Black? Jenova? Bea Arthur?
Maybe it wasn't really sand. Maybe it was just a lot of yellowish snow, and the intense heat was just a side-effect of his body being completely frozen. So cold he was around the other end of the spectrum and hot again. Like throwing a frozen chimichanga in the microwave. Not fact, but science! Everyone knows that science trumps facts. That's what them scientists are always dreaming up all those new reasons for life and causes for existence. Evolution was just the best of these flukes. I mean, who doesn't want to have evolved from monkeys? Monkeys are awesome!
By golly! This snow is hot! It's like grabbing a bunch of hot embers in your hand and then squeezing them very hard, like this. Ouch! Oh, look. The sand it bleeding!
And that was how his day was going, thus far. He was barely on Tatooine an hour before he had gotten himself lost among the dunes, and the entire hour before that he had spent aimlessly walking around while melting to death beneath the folds of his leather trench coat. Some little child had tried to sell him some white linen robes, but he had thrown rocks at the child and then set fire to his home, using the linen robe to feed the flames. It had been a good fire too. Nice and smoky. He was going to fish out the corpses from inside to see if they were done yet, but the fire had attracted too much attention, and he was ever so shy.
And now he was here, lost among the dunes, melting to death. Common sense dictated he should remove some of his clothing, but for the sake of style he only dared remove his gloves, leaving his mechanical and fleshy hands out to bask in the sunlight. He might as well have stuck his hands into a female bear in heat. He would have gotten less burned. Horribly mauled is nothing compared to burns.
Oh, look! The sun reflected off the silver mechanical hand that had replaced his former fleshy one. Was it his left hand or his right? He could never keep track of them, and the letters on his boots had worn off. Now all he could do was guess, and he guessed Rigft. Cheating is always allowed. Now, back to the hand. It was all nice and shiny, but the reflection of sunlight occasionally hit him in the face, and it was pissing him off. He seemed to have forgotten where he placed his gloves, so he tried to cover it up with his other hand.
People in Anchorhead and Mos Eisley alike heard the scream.
Well. This is it. No sense in going on. So hot, no water. Why try? Why not just throw myself down on the sand like this and roll around a few times for dramatic effect, shed a few instantly evaporated tears, and make that sobby sound they make in the holos. Yes, like the one I am making now. And... oh? Look! A little mexican child! No Haba Ingles? Taco? Borrito? Chimichanga?
What the child actually said was "Why are you doing in my backyard?"
"Um...er... well... you see....er... Oh, yes. I was looking for buried treasure. You know, a great wooden chest full of gold coins and vintage porno? Yes. That's the stuff. I think I might have fallen into the wrong backyard. I shall go investigate, um, Trevor's backyard. He lives next door, right? Trevor? The kid with who walks like he has a brick in his left pocket? Yes, that Trevor. No? Not next door? Down the street maybe?"
That's what he intended to say, but it's really hard to speak when your lips are melted together. Once he managed to get his lips seperated, with the help of two knives and three fingers, he decided to forgo repeating what he said, and instead pulled himself out of the sand pile behind the sandstone hut of a house and headed down the street to Trevor's house.
Maybe it wasn't really sand. Maybe it was just a lot of yellowish snow, and the intense heat was just a side-effect of his body being completely frozen. So cold he was around the other end of the spectrum and hot again. Like throwing a frozen chimichanga in the microwave. Not fact, but science! Everyone knows that science trumps facts. That's what them scientists are always dreaming up all those new reasons for life and causes for existence. Evolution was just the best of these flukes. I mean, who doesn't want to have evolved from monkeys? Monkeys are awesome!
By golly! This snow is hot! It's like grabbing a bunch of hot embers in your hand and then squeezing them very hard, like this. Ouch! Oh, look. The sand it bleeding!
And that was how his day was going, thus far. He was barely on Tatooine an hour before he had gotten himself lost among the dunes, and the entire hour before that he had spent aimlessly walking around while melting to death beneath the folds of his leather trench coat. Some little child had tried to sell him some white linen robes, but he had thrown rocks at the child and then set fire to his home, using the linen robe to feed the flames. It had been a good fire too. Nice and smoky. He was going to fish out the corpses from inside to see if they were done yet, but the fire had attracted too much attention, and he was ever so shy.
And now he was here, lost among the dunes, melting to death. Common sense dictated he should remove some of his clothing, but for the sake of style he only dared remove his gloves, leaving his mechanical and fleshy hands out to bask in the sunlight. He might as well have stuck his hands into a female bear in heat. He would have gotten less burned. Horribly mauled is nothing compared to burns.
Oh, look! The sun reflected off the silver mechanical hand that had replaced his former fleshy one. Was it his left hand or his right? He could never keep track of them, and the letters on his boots had worn off. Now all he could do was guess, and he guessed Rigft. Cheating is always allowed. Now, back to the hand. It was all nice and shiny, but the reflection of sunlight occasionally hit him in the face, and it was pissing him off. He seemed to have forgotten where he placed his gloves, so he tried to cover it up with his other hand.
People in Anchorhead and Mos Eisley alike heard the scream.
Well. This is it. No sense in going on. So hot, no water. Why try? Why not just throw myself down on the sand like this and roll around a few times for dramatic effect, shed a few instantly evaporated tears, and make that sobby sound they make in the holos. Yes, like the one I am making now. And... oh? Look! A little mexican child! No Haba Ingles? Taco? Borrito? Chimichanga?
What the child actually said was "Why are you doing in my backyard?"
"Um...er... well... you see....er... Oh, yes. I was looking for buried treasure. You know, a great wooden chest full of gold coins and vintage porno? Yes. That's the stuff. I think I might have fallen into the wrong backyard. I shall go investigate, um, Trevor's backyard. He lives next door, right? Trevor? The kid with who walks like he has a brick in his left pocket? Yes, that Trevor. No? Not next door? Down the street maybe?"
That's what he intended to say, but it's really hard to speak when your lips are melted together. Once he managed to get his lips seperated, with the help of two knives and three fingers, he decided to forgo repeating what he said, and instead pulled himself out of the sand pile behind the sandstone hut of a house and headed down the street to Trevor's house.