- Joined
- Nov 16, 2023
- Messages
- 1
- Reaction score
- 2
He’d been sitting in the caf bar for most of the sunlight. The waiter came and went with the regularity of a clocks tick. He asked for the bill then ran a slow, languid tongue over his teeth. The snaking muscle probed his gums for some long forgotten meat. He yawned, his oubliette maw glistening wet and red, webs of drool grasping from gum to tooth to lipless snout. The suspensor-board drifted down from the raised streets above, neon lights flashing with the logo of Nar Shadaa’s most popular and immoral casino. As the sign descended to the lower levels the light level began to droop. He shifted a little to loosen limbs that had been at rest too long. The setting sun meant the city was about to turn colder and darker. Where the hell was he?
He squinted across the street, the sudden ratquick figure that he’d wasted most of a day waiting for appeared. He patted the bag strapped to his hip, the weighty ruffle of knives clanging together gave him pause. Still, the figure waved him over with little more than a crooked finger. In the creeping, weakening light the gesture would have been missed by inferior eyes but his eyes saw more than many.
He stood, pulling the fur lined ruffle around his neck, the dying sun and ascending caustic light of the streets splashing across the scales of his arms and face. Within a few more steps he was within reach.
“Do you have it?”
“Do you have the money?”
“I wouldn’t be here without it, now would I?
“Well?”
“Yessssss.” He snarled. “Can I sssssee it?”
The figure pulled a parcel, wrapped in brown paper from his coat, he unwrapped it. The paper revealing just enough ‘leg’ to get pulses racing.
“Can I sssssmell?”
“Sure.” He let his customer get a nostril full before snatching it away.
“Price as agreed?”
“Double.”
He patted the knife pack on his leg. “Double? That’s ridiculoussss.”
“This is not easy to come by.”
“That'ssss your problem, not mine.”
“Still double. You try smuggling a Krayt penis through customs. You have to freeze it to stop the smell….”
He balked. “You froze it? I was promised fresh! I'm not paying double for half the quality.”
“I have costs to meet. Its double or I can sell it elsewhere.”
“Where to? Noone will buy it. Its contraband remember. Original price or I walk. Oh and I'll have that knife you're carrying too.”
He raised a blaster.
“In fact, how about you just give me it free of charge for the inconvenience. And I don't leave you here in the gutter levels.”
“You…!”
“Me “
‘Ratquick’ handed over the knife first, Krysst pocketed it nimbly. Then the paper wrapped parcel. He waved the gun in a bugger off gesture and smiled toothily, the threshold between scale and fang barely perceptible. He himself slunk back, skink like, his scales seeming to break apart his outline as he faded away and beneath the suspensor-lights that crept fireflies in tar throughout the lower levels of the city.
One week later…
The Duneclaw was, for omnivorous and carnivorous races, the restaurant equivalent of Shangri La. It was a floating barge that catered for the upper echelons of Nar Shadaa society, and tonight was a busy night. Everyone who had fangs and claws, furs, scales and feathers alike…and some skinnies too sat either feasting upon or waiting to feast upon whichever creation the kitchens would provide. The kitchen door swung open quietly but suddenly, the waiter looking flustered.
“Krysst…I mean Chef!”
Krysst looked up from his workplace, claws slick with meat fat and rainbow stained with the blood of countless creatures he prepared for the guests.
“What?”
“Table 42.”
“What about it?”
“They ordered the Krayt-” He blushed.
Krysst hated it when humans did that.
“Out with it, man. Penisss. We all have one-” He looked at the Sous Chef, she growled in disgust.
“Okay, not all. But every man hasss one-” The dish washer scowled, his race were eunuchs. Reproducing using cell bundles grown in vats.
“Damnit you lot. Yessss yess okay. Krayt Penis, with a Kowakian roulade on the side. Did they enjoy it?”
“That’s why I’m here, Chef. They refuse to pay. They said it was flaccid.”
Krysst bristled, had he hair it would have risen a few inches.
“Of course it’sss flaccid. It’ss been dead a month!”
“No I mean, they said it was boring. Overcooked. Said it was like wet rubber hanging from his fork. He-”
Krysst exploded. For a coldblood, he suddenly felt hot. Heat under his scales, his clothes itched, his claws ached. His mouth and tongue dry. He grabbed his favourite filleting knife and pushed past the waiter, knocking him to the floor.
Like the charging gait of a hungry crocodile he rolled through the tables, chairs tumbling like dominoes as he passed. Table 42 stood up, mouth agape and about to speak when squelch, something hard went into something soft and something coppery and wet filled Krysst’s nostrils and his eyes rolled white as he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed again until the wound started swallowing his hand like it was giving birth to the knife over and over in reverse. Table 42 moaned, shuddered then fell. Screams slapped his ears making his eyes roll back, nictitating eyes glittering in the ambience. Reality hit the seabed, no time for it to sink it was already there and he felt the bloodlust become replaced with panic. He turned, stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed his bag of recipes and ran to the staff exit. A small airspeeder, cradled there by its antigravity well, awaited as he threw the bag in. Jumped into the driver’s seat and dropped away from the Duneclaw, divebombing towards the lower levels.
By the time he’d disappeared into the stalactitic underworld the sirens had already started. He’d have to get off world, and fast.
He squinted across the street, the sudden ratquick figure that he’d wasted most of a day waiting for appeared. He patted the bag strapped to his hip, the weighty ruffle of knives clanging together gave him pause. Still, the figure waved him over with little more than a crooked finger. In the creeping, weakening light the gesture would have been missed by inferior eyes but his eyes saw more than many.
He stood, pulling the fur lined ruffle around his neck, the dying sun and ascending caustic light of the streets splashing across the scales of his arms and face. Within a few more steps he was within reach.
“Do you have it?”
“Do you have the money?”
“I wouldn’t be here without it, now would I?
“Well?”
“Yessssss.” He snarled. “Can I sssssee it?”
The figure pulled a parcel, wrapped in brown paper from his coat, he unwrapped it. The paper revealing just enough ‘leg’ to get pulses racing.
“Can I sssssmell?”
“Sure.” He let his customer get a nostril full before snatching it away.
“Price as agreed?”
“Double.”
He patted the knife pack on his leg. “Double? That’s ridiculoussss.”
“This is not easy to come by.”
“That'ssss your problem, not mine.”
“Still double. You try smuggling a Krayt penis through customs. You have to freeze it to stop the smell….”
He balked. “You froze it? I was promised fresh! I'm not paying double for half the quality.”
“I have costs to meet. Its double or I can sell it elsewhere.”
“Where to? Noone will buy it. Its contraband remember. Original price or I walk. Oh and I'll have that knife you're carrying too.”
He raised a blaster.
“In fact, how about you just give me it free of charge for the inconvenience. And I don't leave you here in the gutter levels.”
“You…!”
“Me “
‘Ratquick’ handed over the knife first, Krysst pocketed it nimbly. Then the paper wrapped parcel. He waved the gun in a bugger off gesture and smiled toothily, the threshold between scale and fang barely perceptible. He himself slunk back, skink like, his scales seeming to break apart his outline as he faded away and beneath the suspensor-lights that crept fireflies in tar throughout the lower levels of the city.
One week later…
The Duneclaw was, for omnivorous and carnivorous races, the restaurant equivalent of Shangri La. It was a floating barge that catered for the upper echelons of Nar Shadaa society, and tonight was a busy night. Everyone who had fangs and claws, furs, scales and feathers alike…and some skinnies too sat either feasting upon or waiting to feast upon whichever creation the kitchens would provide. The kitchen door swung open quietly but suddenly, the waiter looking flustered.
“Krysst…I mean Chef!”
Krysst looked up from his workplace, claws slick with meat fat and rainbow stained with the blood of countless creatures he prepared for the guests.
“What?”
“Table 42.”
“What about it?”
“They ordered the Krayt-” He blushed.
Krysst hated it when humans did that.
“Out with it, man. Penisss. We all have one-” He looked at the Sous Chef, she growled in disgust.
“Okay, not all. But every man hasss one-” The dish washer scowled, his race were eunuchs. Reproducing using cell bundles grown in vats.
“Damnit you lot. Yessss yess okay. Krayt Penis, with a Kowakian roulade on the side. Did they enjoy it?”
“That’s why I’m here, Chef. They refuse to pay. They said it was flaccid.”
Krysst bristled, had he hair it would have risen a few inches.
“Of course it’sss flaccid. It’ss been dead a month!”
“No I mean, they said it was boring. Overcooked. Said it was like wet rubber hanging from his fork. He-”
Krysst exploded. For a coldblood, he suddenly felt hot. Heat under his scales, his clothes itched, his claws ached. His mouth and tongue dry. He grabbed his favourite filleting knife and pushed past the waiter, knocking him to the floor.
Like the charging gait of a hungry crocodile he rolled through the tables, chairs tumbling like dominoes as he passed. Table 42 stood up, mouth agape and about to speak when squelch, something hard went into something soft and something coppery and wet filled Krysst’s nostrils and his eyes rolled white as he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed again until the wound started swallowing his hand like it was giving birth to the knife over and over in reverse. Table 42 moaned, shuddered then fell. Screams slapped his ears making his eyes roll back, nictitating eyes glittering in the ambience. Reality hit the seabed, no time for it to sink it was already there and he felt the bloodlust become replaced with panic. He turned, stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed his bag of recipes and ran to the staff exit. A small airspeeder, cradled there by its antigravity well, awaited as he threw the bag in. Jumped into the driver’s seat and dropped away from the Duneclaw, divebombing towards the lower levels.
By the time he’d disappeared into the stalactitic underworld the sirens had already started. He’d have to get off world, and fast.
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