Shuri'ani
SWRP Writer
- Joined
- Dec 23, 2017
- Messages
- 6
- Reaction score
- 1
The Flesh Hole was the place where people came to forget about their problems or to find new ones. Deep down in level 211 of the lower bowels of Nar Shaddaa, this den of wanton debauchery and boundless perdition thrived over the credits of lost souls.
The lights inside were of a allusive red, concupiscent glows that lit the ambience where one didn't have to be on the prowl, they just had to had money.
A smile, a flutter of eyelashes, pillowy lips blowing a kiss, a hand grabbing a visitor by their collar and dragging them into a room -- and it was done. Thirty minutes of happiness, only to part ways forever and forget each other's faces.
There was a steady, thick traffic in the Flesh Hole, people went in and out like an ants-house that had new joiners and new quitters everyday. Criminals, smugglers, cutthroats, junkies, brave tourists and sometimes even the occasional cloaked celebrity visited the place, in the hope of finding that brief moment of solace that the galaxy wasn't willing to give them. A moment where they were taken care of, where their word was the command, where their satisfaction mattered the most. The Flesh hole was the place where anybody, just anybody, could have felt like a king, adored and revered, by women and men of all species and with the most bizarre looks.
Under payment, along with tips, of course.
Some people actually fell in love with the place, and spent their whole salaries in there, treating it like a sanctuary of emotional and physical salvation. Their wives' glares were nothing comparable to the high-heels and luscious lips painted in black lipstick. After work, people went home only to devour the dinner of their bitter wives and spare a glance to the neglected children, before setting course to the Flesh Hole and spending the whole night doing what only the Flesh Hole could have allowed you to do. People were often left senseless, and their naked, passed-out bodies were dragged out and left in the streets until awakening - amidst the mocking giggling of prostitutes with their breasts to the winds.
But it wasn't all booze and pleasure at the Flesh Hole. Sometimes, stains of blood splattered on the walls and those were hard to scrub off. The intense traffic of people getting their clothes off - and thus, turning themselves at their most vulnerable - attracted the guns of those who had unfinished business with them.
Bounty hunters, hired assassins, or simply grudge-holding civilians well-informed enough about where to find who. More than once it had happened that a room was barged in, and those inside got slaughtered without a trace of mercy or second-thinking.
Luckily, the bodies of the courtesans who got accidentally killed in the process were sold off to organs-harvesters, which brought a modicum of consolation to the ruling madame, over her lost precious assets.
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That night, a green-skinned alien stood outside, clad with nothing but discomfortingly tight latex that was barely enough to cover his modesty. A smocking stick held between his tattooed fingers, amethyst-deep eyes were scanning the streets with a look of mild interest. His lithe body leant against a lamp post, in a lazy, if not lounging-pantheresque stance. His colleagues were chatting nearby, but he wasn't in the mood to indulge their heated gossiping, not that night. A client hadn't paid him the full that was due to him, and he hated that. He despised it with a passion, for more often than not, it wasn't an accidental overlook but purposeful swindling. - The guy had gotten a hefty beating from the bouncers, and while he had been left bleeding and drooling with his pants down in the streets, the twi'lek still hadn't found much satisfaction in the sight.
He was still missing his credits, after all.
That night, it was more smelly than usual. Someone must have vomited nearby, or perhaps the sewer rats had taken a massive dump - or was the corpse that had been found last week around the corner still there and rotting?
A puff of smoke escaped his luscious lips, and raised, twirled and melted into thin air. He raised his gaze up to the sky, or whatever breach-through-the-metal of polluted gangrene crimson clouds he could see while being so much underground beneath the surface. Right above the Flesh Hole, there was a fissure that connected level 211 directly with the maleodorant firmament.
It would have rained acid that night. Again.