literature

A Coffin Full of Credits

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The boy was crying. He coughed and shuddered with each gulp of tainted air as the smoke from the burning fields stung his throat. Everything had happened so fast; the crops were on fire and it spread to the house, Papa had been running around everywhere, and Mama had rushed the boy outside just as the roof of their home collapsed. Papa hadn’t come out yet and Mama was holding onto him so tight while she ran, and then somehow she was gone too. He was so confused, he didn’t know what was going on, and he was scared!
        “Mama… Papa…” he called hoarsely as the fires began to die out. Still no one answered his pleas. He shivered despite the blistering heat. Mama went to go find Papa, he told himself. She went to get him and bring him back. He began to cry again.
        Then, like a phantom, a tall man stepped out of the smoke. He was followed by a slightly shorter, rodent-faced man with wild eyes who carried a rifle. The boy turned to run away but the tall man caught him easily, threw his arms around the boy, and held him tight. The boy squirmed and whined like a frightened animal, desperate to escape.
        “Shhh… shhhh…” the tall man whispered.
“Udesii…” Finally the boy gave up, having worn himself out. The man turned him around and stood him up to get a good look at him. He was a handsome man, with long black hair and a square jaw. He wore black battle armor with a red cape that flapped in the wind behind him. As he looked the boy up and down, his eyes softened and he said, “What’s your name, ad’ika?”
        The boy sniffed back more tears and answered, “Buruk… Buruk Kelborn.”
        “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,
Bur’ika, but…” The tall man paused, hesitant to deliver the devastating news. “Your parents are both dead, son.”
        Buruk was too young to really understand what that meant. All he really knew was that Mama and Papa were gone and they’d never come back to him. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes and he wiped them away furiously. The man hugged him tightly and even the cold hardness of his armor somehow comforted to the boy. He rocked him back and forth gently and patted his back until the crying fit passed, then held him out at arms length. Standing, he said, “
Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad… I know your name as my child.”
        He then reached down and picked Buruk up, carrying him. Buruk nuzzled the man and received a pat on the head as they headed off. “Just call me
Viz’buir. I’m going to take good care of you.”
        He was only four years old.


        Buruk’s eyes opened as the hyperdrive proximity warning woke him from the dream. Iba’ge’hutuun, he thought absently. Though he owed the man everything, he preferred not to think about his adoptive father, Overlord Vizsla. He had more important matters to occupy his thoughts, for instance taking his ship, the Bes’uliik, out of hyperspace.
        Making his way to the cockpit, he reflected on just how he’d wound up here. A slinky little chakaarla Twi’lek girl with a big bounty on her head had drugged him, robbed him, and set him adrift in the Besh Gorgon system. He’d been sloppy; it was… embarrassing.
        With a grunt, he threw himself into the pilot’s chair and pulled back on the hyperdrive lever, collapsing the kaleidoscoping hyperspace tunnel into a billion parallel lines that shrank into pinpricks of light, the distant stars of the galaxy. Up ahead was Zonju V, an arid, little, sparsely-populated frontier world, right where he’d calculated. He’d been forced to come here by that little thief; he was completely tapped out and needed to make quick credits. The capital city of Zoronhed happened to host a quick draw tournament with a twenty-five hundred credit cash prize. Buruk could almost taste the brazed nerf he’d have for his first meal after winning that contest; his stomach complained at the thought.
        Buruk frowned; What I wouldn’t do for some plain old gihaal right now… he thought woefully. Hell, I’d even eat a womprat if it was cooked.
        Setting the ship down on the outskirts of the city, he activated the self-defense systems and took off on his swoop bike, the only thing that Vairn hadn’t stolen from him. Having decided against going into town in his distinctive Mandalorian armor, he wore a simple pair of black trousers, brown leather boots, a blue shirt, and a tan nerf-hide vest. Only one of his custom blaster pistols hung on his belt and his long red braid trailed behind him as he sped across the rocky terrain toward Zoronhed.
        As frontier towns went, Zonju V’s capital was unimpressive. The shops and homes were constructed of local sandstone, the people were dressed mostly in homespun garments, and both looked like they had weathered many a dust storm. Buruk floated his swoop leisurely along the unpaved roads, catching sidelong glances from the myriad passersby, mostly humans but with a few rough-looking Zabrak and Twi’leks, until parking in front a cantina.
        Buruk paused in the open doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light within. This place was definitely behind the technological times, judging by the swinging doors at the entrance and the old rotary blade fan that slowly swirled the drifting smoke of a dozen narcotic substances. None of the patrons looked up as he entered and sat down. “What can I get you?” asked the grizzled Besalisk bartender, as he waddled up to him.
        “Some food,” Buruk answered simply, then added, “and something to drink.”
        The four-armed being went behind the bar and spooned a ladle of meat and potato stew into a bowl with one set of hands while raising a pitcher to a glass with the other.
        “No water,” the Mandalorian called out. “Black ale.” The Besalisk shrugged and put down the pitcher and glass and brought over a glass bottle with the bowl of stew. “I’m afraid I can’t pay you right away,” Buruk said, taking up a spoon as the bartender laid them down before him.
        The bartender snorted. “You’re here for that quick draw contest, ain’t ya?” When Buruk didn’t answer, he continued, “Of course you are. You types are the only ones that come here anymore. Killing’s all you’re good at.”
        “A man’s got to make a living,” Buruk replied without looking up from his meal.
        “Dying’s not much of a living,” the bartender countered. “Forget the bill; consider it a last meal for a doomed man.” He let out a low chuckle.
        Buruk swallowed a mouthful of stew. “That supposed to be a warning not to enter the contest?”
        “Oh no, not at all,” the bartender said placatingly. “I just thought you should know there’s a real ace gunman who’s won this here contest four years in a row and is just itching to make it five.”
        Buruk merely grunted and lifted another spoonful of stew to his mouth.
        “A crazy Rodian by the name of Eight-Second Koovo. Ain’t a sentient within ten sectors can outdraw him. He can shoot the wings off a flitter at fifty Wookiee paces. You haven’t got a prayer.” He chuckled again as Buruk took a sip of his ale.
        “There a room upstairs?” he asked, swallowing.
        “Yes, but no one ever stays here,” the bartender answered. “This ain’t a town.”
        “Funny, it has an uncanny resemblance.”
        The Besalisk frowned, his sensory whiskers bristling. “This is a haven for outlaws and hired guns like you. Hardly anyone works; the real money to be made here’s in killing. You saw women on your way into town? Those weren’t women, those were widows. This here’s a town of nothing but widows, orphans, and killers.”
        Finishing his meal, Buruk asked, “How much for the room upstairs?”
        “Twenty credits a day.”
        “You’ll have to bill me.”
        “Of course,” the bartender said skeptically. “But naturally I won’t be collecting since you’re gonna to be dead very soon.”
        “Whatever you say, ner vod,” Buruk called back to him as he stepped back out of the cantina.
        Everywhere he went that day, Buruk scrounged for information on the tournament contestants, deciding the most challenging opponents would be a Wookiee named Gorrrhyn and a Zabrak named Kahtika Lukmer. And of course he heard plenty about Eight-Second Koovo. It was mostly nothing more than conflicting rumors about who he was, where he came from, and just how many men he’d killed, but everyone agreed he was the best gunfighter in the sector.
        It wasn’t long until he met Koovo himself. Buruk stood at the bar in the cantina, sipping another bottle of ale when a noxious odor assaulted his nostrils, making him wish for the air scrubbers built into his helmet. “I hear you ask questions ‘bout me,” spoke a high-pitched, warbling voice in thickly accented Basic.
        Buruk wrinkled his nose and placed the bottle on the bar, turning to find the little green stinkbug standing before him. “You Koovo?” he asked noncommittally.
        “I be Eight-Second Koovo,” the Rodian answered. “Who you?”
        “I’m the Man With No Name,” Buruk replied easily.
        “Ha ha, you funny!” Koovo replied, without even a hint of amusement in his tone. Placing a suckered hand on the butt of his blaster, he said, “You be even funnier with hole in stomach.”
        Buruk snorted, looking him in his multifaceted eyes. Then, without a word, he turned his back on the Rodian, picked up his ale, and walked away, leaving Koovo quivering with rage at being ignored. At the end of the bar, the Besalisk, Deacon Fing, whispered, “That ain’t a good idea, gettin’ him all riled up like that…”
        Buruk gave him a sarcastic smile. “You worried about me, Deac? I’m touched.”
        “I’d just rather believe I might actually get paid.”
        “Right; see you tomorrow,” Buruk chuckled as he ascended the stairs to his room above the cantina.

        Bright and early the next morning, the contest began. It seemed all the scum on Zonju V turned out for the shot to win twenty-five hundred credits; Buruk saw Humans, Twi’leks, Zabrak, Rodians, Trandoshans, the Wookiee Gorrrhyn, and even an Iridorian made an appearance. He didn’t recognize anyone, so there were certainly no Mandalorians among the contenders. They all gathered on the main stretch of road in the center of town, just down the block from Deacon’s cantina, milling about and socializing until the first match began.
        Buruk noticed a familiar stench wafting its way toward him on the breeze and turned to find Koovo heading toward him. “You die today,” the Rodian stated flatly. “Hope it me kills you.” Buruk merely smiled back as the alien went on his way.
        A loud whistle shrieked through the crowd and the first contestants stepped forward, a human and a Zabrak, standing nearly twenty meters apart. For a near infinite moment, they stood staring each other down until finally they went for their blasters. The shots rang out over the silent onlookers and the human toppled face-first to the dirt.
        The victorious Zabrak returned to the crowd and the next pair stepped out into the street. This time neither contestant went down on the first shot and they were forced to scramble for cover, taking potshots at each other until finally one managed to hit the other.
        When Koovo stepped forward, his opponent was dead before his blaster even managed to leave its holster; the Rodian really was incredibly fast. As he left the street, he fixed the Mandalorian with a bug-eyed glare.
        Next it was Buruk’s turn to square off against a Trandoshan. The big lizard’s claw hovered over the butt of his blaster, orange eyes narrowed to slits as they bored into Buruk’s. The Mandalorian stood stock still, sizing up his opponent; his hand hung loose at his side, nowhere near his own weapon. A breeze whistled through the street, kicking up dust between the combatants and sending a shiver up several spines. Tension hung over the crowd like a thick blanket, stifling everyone’s breath until the Trandoshan could no longer stand it and went for his blaster.
        Buruk’s hand darted to his opposite hip, pulling the pistol from its cross-draw holster and squeezing the trigger as the barrel came in line with his opponent. The lizard crumpled to the ground, clutching his abdomen and hissing in pain. Buruk watched as he struggled the raise his blaster, shot him again, then turned and walked back into the crowd.
        The tournament continued into the next day as the number of contestants slowly dwindled, Koovo again dominating his opponents and taunting Buruk with promises of death. Buruk decided to probe him a little at the cantina, asking him how he was so good. “If you want kill a sentient, you aim for heart,” Koovo replied proudly. “Or same organ in nonhuman. No aim for heart, then no kill.”
        That night, Buruk wandered the streets of Zoronhed, unable to sleep. He didn’t see the pair of shadows trailing him down an alley or the club that came down on the back of his skull, sending him sprawling into the sand. He managed to stay conscious, thankfully, and rolled to his feet, reflexively taking up a defensive combat stance. These shabla punks wouldn’t get another easy shot at him.
        “Eight-Second Koovo sends his regards,” one of them said, then lunged at Buruk, swinging the club at him. Buruk ducked the blow and threw his fist into his attacker’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The second man pulled a stun baton and jabbed it into Buruk’s ribs. All the conditioning in the galaxy couldn’t save him its paralyzing effects and he blacked out.

        Buruk had no idea how long he’d been out but when he awoke his head was throbbing. His body ached and jerked occasionally and it didn’t take him long to realize he was being beaten relentlessly. His right eye had swollen shut, blood ran down his chin, and he was sure at least two of his ribs were broken. Koovo’s henchmen were certainly being thorough.
        “All right, that’s enough,” one of them said. “We don’t want him losing consciousness again. Koovo wants him to feel while he’s suffering.” Chuckling, the two turned and sauntered off.
        Alone, Buruk could finally take stock of his situation. He was in a plain storeroom, four walls and one door. The room was full of shipping crates and the overhead lights flickered annoyingly. One crate hung from a ceiling crane which had a control box on the wall left of the door. Buruk dragged himself toward one of the crates, leaving a small trail of blood across the floor, and peered inside. Nestled within the packing foam sat a cache of repeating blasters, military hardware normally restricted from private ownership. A smaller box also sat inside the crate, in which Buruk found a pair of thermal detonators. Pocketing one, he formed a plan in his head and quickly crawled to the controls for the overhead hoist. There, he repositioned the hanging crate, and waited.
        He was rewarded an hour later as he heard footsteps approaching. He scrunched down behind a crate that shielded him from view of the doorway and clutched the control box in sweaty, bleeding hands. The door slid open and the pair of thugs stepped into the room. “Ready for your next beating, sharpshooter?” one of them laughed.
        Come on, just a little more… Buruk mentally urged.
        The other noticed Buruk wasn’t where they had left him. “Where’d he go?” he asked cautiously, stepping farther into the room. Buruk hit the crane release and the heavy shipping crate full of weaponry fell to the ground, crushing the brutes beneath it with a loud crash.
        He glared hatefully at the ruined crate and the equally ruined body parts poking out from beneath it. “Ke nu shab’rudur Mando’ade, burc’ye,” he growled. Then, tossing the control box aside, he dragged himself out the open door; it wouldn’t be long until someone came to investigate the commotion. He tried pulling himself to his feet but to no avail. He had to get to his ship and the medical supplies onboard.
        The storeroom had been part of a larger warehouse complex; Buruk surmised Koovo made a living as a gunrunner when he wasn’t killing for sport. He made his way through a loading dock and thanked the manda one of the rear doors was open as he crawled out into the warm night air and made his way toward Deacon’s cantina.
        Outside, the big Besalisk was just closing up shop when he spotted the Mandalorian scrabbling toward him. “What happened to you?” he blurted out, rushing to the fallen man’s side. “Are you all right?”
        “Just get me out of here,” Buruk instructed. “Get me to my ship.” Deacon picked him up off the ground, cradling him in two of his massive arms, and ran for his speeder. Confident he was safe, Buruk let himself slip back into unconsciousness.
        He awoke to Deacon shaking his shoulder, saying, “Come on, you ain’t dead are you?”
        Opening his eyes warily, he muttered, “Not yet, but I’m getting there.” They were parked outside the Bes’uliik. “Take me to the entry hatch. It’s retinal coded and booby trapped.” Obediently, the Besalisk hefted Buruk and carried him up to the ship’s airlock. There was a low beeping sound as it scanned his retinal pattern, then with a hiss of escaping gasses, the door cycled open and allowed them entrance.
        “There’s a storage room on the second level, first door on your right. It has first-aid kits and bacta,” he instructed Deacon. The alien nodded and set his charge down gently on the deck, heading for the lifttube. He returned shortly and began cleaning Buruk’s wounds, applying bacta bandages to his eye and around his midsection, stripping off the man’s bloody shirt.
        When he finished, Deacon stepped back to inspect his handiwork. “You’d better get back to town,” Buruk said. “Pretend like you haven’t seen me.”
        “Sure you’ll be okay?” the big alien asked.
        Buruk chuckled, coughed, and placed a hand on his side. “Never better,” he assured him.

        That morning, Buruk’s eyes snapped open to the sound of his personal comlink beeping at him. Answering the device, he sat up gingerly in bed, groggily saying, “Hello?”
        On the small screen, he recognized Deacon’s young Rodian kitchen boy. “You’ve got to help!” the lad cried. “They’ve got Deacon, they want to know what he did with you.”
        Buruk cut the connection and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Osik,” he groaned, climbing out of bed.

        Deacon’s four large hands were bound with synthrope behind his back. Another looped around his neck, the end tied tightly to a post in front of the cantina where he stood on a short stool, practically up on his toes. Koovo’s thugs had worked him over almost as well as they had Buruk when he’d returned from the man’s ship. They’d tried to get him to talk, to say where he’d taken Buruk, but he continued to resist.
        Eight-Second Koovo stalked up and down the street, challenging bystanders to face him. No one stepped forward. Deacon blinked his eyes wearily as the Rodian turned to a well-dressed human and said, “Well Governor, I guess that means I win the tournament. I’ve defeated every contestant there was—“
        An explosion rocked the ground, nearly tipping Deacon off the stool. Several blocks away a pillar of oily black smoke curled into the sky as people screamed and ran. The wind caught the plume and blew it toward the gang, blanketing the street in a dark haze. “Not quite every contestant, Koovo,” a voice shouted out of the gloom. Then, like a phantom, Buruk Kelborn stepped out of the smoke, clad in a brown cloak that whipped about in the breeze. “There’s still one more. Oh, by the way. You need a new warehouse.”
        Koovo and his gang eyed him furiously as he approached. Buruk stopped and spat on the ground. “Let the bartender down.”
        With his characteristic lightning speed, Koovo yanked his blaster out of his holster and fired, hitting Buruk square in the chest. The human crumpled to the ground without another word. Koovo snorted and turned back to the governor. “What’s the matter, Koovo,” a voice called out. The Rodian spun around, multifaceted eyes going wide. Buruk strode leisurely toward them. “Losing your touch?”
        Koovo fired again, and Buruk jerked backward but remained on his feet and kept walking. “Are you afraid, Koovo? Want to shoot to kill, you’d better hit the heart. Your own words, Koovo.”
        This time the Rodian took careful aim and fired again and again, knocking the human on his back. For a moment he stayed down, but climbed right back to his feet and kept walking. Dumbfounded, Koovo stared in confusion, sweating nervously. Was this man indestructible? “The heart, Koovo… Don’t forget the heart… Aim for the heart or you’ll never stop me.”
        Furious, Koovo opened fire several times, draining his blaster’s powerpack and cackling like a madman, until Buruk hit the dirt again, ten meters away. Gasping for breath, the Rodian wiped the back of his hand across his brow and spat in the human’s direction. Then, to his horror, the man got up again. “Why won’t you die?” Koovo screamed.
        With a smirk, Buruk threw back his cloak and revealed his Mandalorian body armor, several scorch marks blackening the left breastplate. The thugs glared at him hatefully as he stood before them. Then they went for their blasters and Buruk pulled his own weapon, shooting each one in turn. They fell to the ground around Koovo, every one of them dead, leaving their former employer looking about wildly.
        The Rodian turned back to Buruk, staring at him in shock. Tossing Koovo a fresh powerpack, the Mandalorian said, “Let’s finish this.”
        Koovo reloaded his blaster and the two combatants holstered their weapons, sizing each other up for the final duel. Their eyes bored into each other’s, Koovo’s snout twitching while Buruk’s face could have been carved from stone. Sweat trickled down Koovo’s scaly face and he went for his blaster, but Buruk was quicker, drilling several shots into the Rodians right side. Koovo toppled over in a heap, chest rising and falling shallowly. Buruk adjusted his aim and shot the synthrope above Deacon’s head and the Besalisk crashed unceremoniously to the ground. Spitting dust, the bartender growled, “Took you long enough!”
        Buruk merely chuckled, holstered his blaster, and turned to the governor, holding out his hand, palm up. “I believe that makes me the winner. The prize money please?”
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Okay, here's the second "episode" of Gra'tua Bounty Hunter Kandosii!! this time with an Old Western flavor, heavily inspired by (and referencing) Sergio Leone's A Fistful of Dollars, starring Clint Eastwood.

Star Wars (c) George Lucas. He is your master now.
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Cindrollic's avatar
Wow. This Was Awesome.

I Love How Much You Can Cram Into A Chapter, Or "episode"