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The Seedy Southern Side
Nar Shaddaa
Omdool’s life and career had its ups and downs. One of the reasons he pursued the less legal side of his career was to visit far away planets, from the great mines of Makeb to the vast jungles of Felucia. Another is the people he met, mostly unsavoury, but all fascinating and unique. However, when Omdool moved out of his birthplace on Nar Shaddaa over two years ago, he doubted he would ever return to the bilge pool of villainous, unoriginal scum that he once called home. Fate, it seemed, had brought him back to this stinking cesspit. Out of any of the hundreds of planets in this galaxy, the elusive ‘they’ chose here to ship the next batch of “pharmaceuticals”. That was Omdool’s job. He was nothing more than souped up drug mule - well, Buttercup was the mule. People were less likely to search inside of a huge scaly Gobo ten feet tall and twenty feet long, especially if it was carrying a perfectly legal supply of pharmaceutical medicines onto the planet. Today’s shipment had been a huge success - mostly down to the near complete lack of trade policing - but Omdool couldn’t help feeling a little melancholy.
He was sat stirring an untouched whiskey with a clawed finger, watching a crimson haired and crimson skinned Kissai with little to no clothing hang upside down on a vertical pole. This establishment wasn’t the sleaziest of the entire planet and the whiskey didn’t actually taste of Quarren urine, but it was by no means pleasurable, which is what these places are marketed as. To be honest, Omdool had never seen the appeal. It was a bizarre custom, watching with clammy palms (although technically, Omdool’s palms were always moist) as a stranger takes off their clothes and dances for your entertainment. Strip clubs - or corner shops, as the people on Nar Shaddaa called them - were one of two places to feasibly spend your time in the densely packed centers, the other of which was swooping and Omdool was in too foul a mood to go near a swoop track tonight. He started instead to look around the establishment in hopes of a more interesting personality than Miss Crimson here.
As Omdool’s eyes swivelled around the room separate to each other, much like a chameleon, he started to hone in on more important or interesting looking characters. He found himself separating the people in the room into groups: the comfortable, the poorest of the poor and the wealthy (relatively, of course, as no one who was truly wealthy would visit such a grubby club). There were a few easy signs of wealth, from the clothes to the cleanliness, from their drink to their preferred dancer. But, as the Mon Calamari turned his head to the corner furthest from the bar, he felt a great unease through his abdomen. A single woman sat there, although from what he could see she was a rather odd looking human, sporting either a strange metallic scarf or a mask covering her mouth. A chill ran down his spine. Keeping one eye trained on her downturned eyes, he set his drink down and returned to the Kissai doing her best to win his spare change.
