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Sitting at the far end of the bar in Anchorhead is a Gungan wearing a flat cowboy hat, a serape, leather pants and chaps. Across his back is a modified Tusken Slug Thrower, attached to his back with a leather bandolier filled with odd cartridge-like power packs, each good for a single shot. He is sipping a glass of whiskey, a wad of tobacco in his lip. As you approach, he looks up, his eyes those of a man who has ended his share of lives in his day. His flesh is a baked clay color, cracked by the suns of Tatooine and beaten by the sands. He spits a mixture of dark brown tobacco juice and spit onto the dusty floor, taking a solid gulp of his whiskey.
“Lemmie guess. Ya want to know my story? Well, it’s a long one, so pull up a chair and sit.”
He spits again, sliding the half-empty glass across the table.
“My name is unimportant. Most call me the Mysterious Stranger. Ah was raised on the forsaken hell hole they call a planet. Yes, Ah am a Gungan. What’s it to ya? Ah never learned their backwards way of butchered Basic, so don’t expect any humorous butchering of language. Ah grew up on the streets, learning to survive by the barrel of a blaster.”
He leans back, revealing a pair of matte black Westar-34 blaster pistols.
“Soon, Ah got a job smugglin’ spice. Got me a ship and finally left this hellish rock. ‘Twas about 10 years ago, if memory serves me right. Traveled around, and found myself shootin’ my way outta some sticky situations. Ah left about 6 men in pine boxes on Nar Shadda. Made a fair credit on that transaction, though that damned Hutt took half my money, so I killed him and took my money back. Then Ah picked up some bounty huntin’ gigs, killin’ people all over the damn galaxy. It was good work, but eventually Ah stopped gettin’ jobs. Guess people don’t want corpses. Decided to work freelance. Whoever wants to pay me the most credits gets my unique skill set. Ah guess Ah’m just good at killin’ people. Not much work for a grizzled old fool like me. Most don’t like my attitude, but at least ya’ve listened to me ramble on about my sad story.”
The Gungan finishes his whiskey, spitting once more.
“Guess there ain’t much more to say about my past, but if Ah feel more comfortable tellin’ ya more, Ah might. Take care, stranger.
The Gungan stands up and slightly tips his hat, exiting the bar, leaving his tab on the table, heading out into the dusty wastes of Tatooine…
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