Smoke lifted languidly into the air, rising above the spaceport bar to disappear before ever reaching the ceiling; and make no mention of the sky above for it was far too polluted for tobacco to ever mar.
Jon sat at that bar, leisurely smoking away as he sipped from a glass of rum, watching the HV overhead as it spewed spiel of some political this-and-that that otherwise wasn’t so important to this particular member of the audience.
Certainly, keeping up to date with current affairs was any hunter’s game, but the political debates between Republic, FWA and ISC was about as interesting as an Ithorian’s loose toenail.
“Change the channel, keep,” the Duros called across the counter. The other Duros, the bartender, looked up and down as though sizing up the man who had dared to tell him what to do. “Go for sports."
All it took was a look before the channel changed to something more interesting.
“Ahh, Huttball, just what I need.” Little would present company know how badly Jon needed that change of channel.
The game went on, Red vs. Blue, and the Zabrak named Stands With A Fist just scored a goal. Three more goals for Blue and it’s game over.
For now, Jon was content with watching and listening. After all, he looked the part of a simple patron, sitting on the stool in a simple spacer outfit with pants and jacket and boots to boot.
There was more to it, of course. Jon was on the hunt. His prey was on the screen. Give it time, give it smoke, and I’ll smoke you out, Mr. Fist.
Jon sat at that bar, leisurely smoking away as he sipped from a glass of rum, watching the HV overhead as it spewed spiel of some political this-and-that that otherwise wasn’t so important to this particular member of the audience.
Certainly, keeping up to date with current affairs was any hunter’s game, but the political debates between Republic, FWA and ISC was about as interesting as an Ithorian’s loose toenail.
“Change the channel, keep,” the Duros called across the counter. The other Duros, the bartender, looked up and down as though sizing up the man who had dared to tell him what to do. “Go for sports."
All it took was a look before the channel changed to something more interesting.
“Ahh, Huttball, just what I need.” Little would present company know how badly Jon needed that change of channel.
The game went on, Red vs. Blue, and the Zabrak named Stands With A Fist just scored a goal. Three more goals for Blue and it’s game over.
For now, Jon was content with watching and listening. After all, he looked the part of a simple patron, sitting on the stool in a simple spacer outfit with pants and jacket and boots to boot.
There was more to it, of course. Jon was on the hunt. His prey was on the screen. Give it time, give it smoke, and I’ll smoke you out, Mr. Fist.