Nar Shaddaa.
Such a shithole.
Blood, dirty bras.
Grime and mold.
Still, it was a good place when it came to making credits.
Making money is a bit of a bounty hunter’s kind of business.
Better yet, it’s his living. Here, there, he goes wherever it is.
Today that means Nar Shaddaa, and it’s a whole world of shit.
Smuggler’s Moon—and sometimes a hunter is a smuggler too.
He thought of his victims that way, his prizes and his packages.
Crossing territories of so many factions at war and competing.
A lone hunter, can work in a pack, sits alone at a bar, drinking.
“Another one...”
Taps the counter.
“Was it a rum?”
Asks bartender.
So the patron nods his head.
Bartender’s a young woman.
Might be her first night then.
A hunter can be a gentleman.
Alone at a bar, he blows smoke from a cigar, bows his head to his datapad.
In a cantina called The Matriarch, it’s fitting that he’s reading about a woman.
The head of a house, the lady of a noble family, who had just lost her child.
It's a violent galaxy, the hunter knows, but life and death are his very business.
An empty stool on his left, another on his right. This cantina is pretty dead.
A simple place, with good taste in music, though the alcohol has little to it.
A flickering light in the corner, its ventilation in need of repair, it needs creds.
A repairman, a bounty hunter figures himself as one, with a fistful of credits.
“Here you go, sir!”
Says the bartender.
She’s a cute kinda doll.
Hunter accepts her offer.
But of her, he isn’t interested.
He takes the glass, rum and all.
“I like the hat!”
His black beret.
“Oh. Thanks…”
Her lingering gaze.
“ANYWAY!”
She moves along.
Other patrons at the bar.
A bounty hunter listens on.
Watches entrance with glances.
Waiting, reading, resting his arms.
Cigar smoke, twirling in lazy curls, like fingers in hair.
Jon Dromon, sitting in grey clothes like a gravestone.
Never had a woman to have, never really wanted one.
Waiting for a woman, his bounty, dead or alive, it’s fair.
Time passes, a Duros sits and sips, watches the HV overhead.
It's quiet, the volume turned off, at that Duros' very request.
At that moment, another patron turned his head, mouthed.
Sounded upset, Jon looked at him and he became a mouse.
A headhunter, a predator, he came here to hunt his bounty.
From the streets, she would arrive any moment now, he thinks.
He did his homework, but he doesn't know her, not like Huttball.
That was one sport that Jon Dromon watched closely. And he falls.
Red team is in the lead. Next round, maybe blue team.
Laughing in a corner, kissing in another, it's cantina life.
Music is mellow, city is loud; entrance just then opens.
And a woman steps in. Red and gold. The Mandalorian.
Such a shithole.
Blood, dirty bras.
Grime and mold.
Still, it was a good place when it came to making credits.
Making money is a bit of a bounty hunter’s kind of business.
Better yet, it’s his living. Here, there, he goes wherever it is.
Today that means Nar Shaddaa, and it’s a whole world of shit.
Smuggler’s Moon—and sometimes a hunter is a smuggler too.
He thought of his victims that way, his prizes and his packages.
Crossing territories of so many factions at war and competing.
A lone hunter, can work in a pack, sits alone at a bar, drinking.
“Another one...”
Taps the counter.
“Was it a rum?”
Asks bartender.
So the patron nods his head.
Bartender’s a young woman.
Might be her first night then.
A hunter can be a gentleman.
Alone at a bar, he blows smoke from a cigar, bows his head to his datapad.
In a cantina called The Matriarch, it’s fitting that he’s reading about a woman.
The head of a house, the lady of a noble family, who had just lost her child.
It's a violent galaxy, the hunter knows, but life and death are his very business.
An empty stool on his left, another on his right. This cantina is pretty dead.
A simple place, with good taste in music, though the alcohol has little to it.
A flickering light in the corner, its ventilation in need of repair, it needs creds.
A repairman, a bounty hunter figures himself as one, with a fistful of credits.
“Here you go, sir!”
Says the bartender.
She’s a cute kinda doll.
Hunter accepts her offer.
But of her, he isn’t interested.
He takes the glass, rum and all.
“I like the hat!”
His black beret.
“Oh. Thanks…”
Her lingering gaze.
“ANYWAY!”
She moves along.
Other patrons at the bar.
A bounty hunter listens on.
Watches entrance with glances.
Waiting, reading, resting his arms.
Cigar smoke, twirling in lazy curls, like fingers in hair.
Jon Dromon, sitting in grey clothes like a gravestone.
Never had a woman to have, never really wanted one.
Waiting for a woman, his bounty, dead or alive, it’s fair.
Time passes, a Duros sits and sips, watches the HV overhead.
It's quiet, the volume turned off, at that Duros' very request.
At that moment, another patron turned his head, mouthed.
Sounded upset, Jon looked at him and he became a mouse.
A headhunter, a predator, he came here to hunt his bounty.
From the streets, she would arrive any moment now, he thinks.
He did his homework, but he doesn't know her, not like Huttball.
That was one sport that Jon Dromon watched closely. And he falls.
Red team is in the lead. Next round, maybe blue team.
Laughing in a corner, kissing in another, it's cantina life.
Music is mellow, city is loud; entrance just then opens.
And a woman steps in. Red and gold. The Mandalorian.
