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Shootout at the Perlemian Pub
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| Garik_Taynor | Date: Monday, 05 Jan 2009, 9:02 PM | Message # 1 |
 Sergeant
Group: Users
Messages: 29
Status: Offline
| Garik Taynor emerged from a deep and blissful darkness and opened his eyes to a sudden world of agony; hot, tired, dizzy, blinding, arid agony. All at once, the merciless morning sun had beamed (tresspassed!) through the open, unsuspecting window of his apartment, revealing within its confines a litter of empty beer cans and bottles. If liquor were fire, then this had been a conflagration; one man's memories and inhibitions burned to the ground in one, spectacular catastrophe. Oh, the humanity! The pungent, repulsive smell of booze still smoldered over the ruins of Garik Taynor, who, in all his crapulence, lay prone upon his bed (not in his bed, mind you, but on it), clad in full uniform, including even his boots.
It should be noted that "clad" is, in fact, not the right word. He had, the day before, been "clad" in his uniform, but his clothes had since become a burden, an encumberance on his person; a stockade which he could not escape. Garik wanted only to raise his fist to the heavens in anger, but he could not muster the strength to do so, and when he opened his mouth to curse the very Force itself for this cruelty, this malice, this agony, there came from his throat only the sound of gravel. The passage of time was heralded by the sound of speeder traffic outside, a siren in the distance, the rumbling of a freighter's engines in the brightness that was the "sky," the sizzling of Seth's breakfast in the kitchen downstairs (or was it his lunch?), throughout which Garik promised himself, absurdly; I will never drink again. He knew it was absurd, but he thought it the customary thing to say in these situations. Eventually - somehow - he defied gravity itself and STOOD, with a great and mighty effort that seemed to take an hour, and, in fact, did.
Garik staggered precariously about his apartment, taking care not to disturb the scene of the crime (the bottles, the broken glass, the stained carpet, the half eaten cans of bantha substitute, and most disturbingly and inexplicably, the spent ammunition) as he gathered his trench coat, his hat, his wallet and, of course, his blaster, and meandered out the door. He labored down the steps; each one a new hell, each one worse than before. He braced himself against the hand rail, clutching it for dear life as he descended floor upon floor, and several times establishing a "base camp" to rest along the way. Yes, rest. It had been a long day.
Garik's neighbor, Levar - a kindly, dark complexioned man, and a good friend - passed him in the opposite direction on the stairs, his hands full of groceries and fresh produce. "Morning, Garik," he said cordially, and was gone; a blur, it seemed.
He pressed on, descending further into hell. The fourth floor, the third floor. One, two, and three and one, two, and three. The second floor, the lobby, the door, the wall, the door again. Garik at last stumbled onto the hot, duracrete sidewalk and immediately shielded his eyes from the harsh, blinding flourescence that Coruscant had become. Everything glinted; dozens of speeders, thousands of windows, plashets of water from a rain the night before, long since cleared away by that vengeful, morning sun that now glared down upon him sternly, unforgiving. He forced himself to place one foot after the other; one, two and three and one, two and three down Torance Avenue, until at last he came upon his sangreal.
O'Seannery's Pub
CLOSED
Added (05 Jan 2009, 10:02 Pm)
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And all at once, all the pain and all the suffering of every villainy and every injustice in all of history, and the cries of every innocent man, woman and child who were its casualties, manifested itself in one, massive headache. Closed? (betrayed!)? He stared, dumbfounded, at the word "Closed," until it ceased to be "Closed," but appeared rather as an assortment of incoherent letters without meaning, but it made no difference. The bar had ceased to be a bar; it was a building intended to serve liquor, but was not serving liquor, and so had become merely a building. It was useless, and barren. It was otiose. But why, O'Seannery? Why today of all days?
For it had been said that, among the peoples of the galaxy, Corellians had the strongest constitution for liquor (it was, in fact, their favored pasttime). Among Corellians, it could be argued that Garik Taynor was the most strongly so constituted, and on Coruscant this was almost certainly the case. It was, therefore, fair to assume that Garik Taynor had the strongest constitution "in the world." Ergo, that he should be plagued with so tortuous a hangover was a testament to the epic, fluid mass of alcohol that Garik must have consumed the night before. But, true to his Corellian heritage, Taynor understood that the only real cure for too much drink, was, of course, another drink.
And so he stood, dejected, before O'Seannery's Pub; his second home, and his last, best hope against the memories and regrets that he now felt returning to the back of his mind, like a fleet of phoenix rising arduously from the ashes of his arson. He raised his head to the sky, glaring defiantly (and painfully) back at the sun, challenging it to burn him and this world and end his misery, and in so doing, his hat fell from his head and landed on the sidewalk below. His shoulders sagged, and he grumbled odorously to himself as he turned and stooped to pick it up... and then he saw it.
The Perlemian Pub
OPEN
It was several blocks away, but somehow, even in his condition, Garik had approached the bar quickly, as though it were salvation itself. Of course, it was no O'Seannery's, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and it would have to do. Little did Garik know the chain of events he was about to cause, quite accidentally, with consequences far beyond the Perlemian Pub, and possibly for the New Republic itself.
Lieutenant Garik Taynor
Coruscant Security Force
Homicide, Larceny, Special Cases
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| Miles_Kolbrun | Date: Monday, 05 Jan 2009, 9:05 PM | Message # 2 |
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Private
Group: Users
Messages: 15
Status: Offline
| Miles Kolbrun was a man in a bind. He was not averse to taking risks (except risks to life and limb; he had deserted the Imperial army rather than face combat), but in this instance he'd taken far too many risks with too much of his investors' money, such that he was looking over his shoulder even more so than usual. Kolbrun was what is known as a "middleman," who bought and sold goods of an unsavory or illegal variety - spices, small arms, slaves, and occasionally more extravagant items - for those clients of reputation or standing who couldn't afford to be seen dealing in such matters. The whole, unseemly operation was run out of Kolbrun's front, the Perlemian Pub, in whose wine cellar-turned-office he presently sat fretting over his finances.
Kolbrun's trouble began when a Neimoidian shipwright had posted for sale a newly refurbished Imperial Star Destroyer, complete with new, customized engines and expanded hangar space. It was worth a fortune, and indeed, that was its price; four billion credits. It was far beyond his modest financies, but Kolbrun decided he had to have it (the intent being to resell it for an exaggerated price, and turn a pretty profit). But first, he needed four billion, and fast.
It was around this time that Kolbrun had been approached by Jason Krieger, an Imperial Moff based somewhere in the more forsaken regions of the Outer Rim, who was short on resources, in desperate need of money, and looking to start up a mining operation. Krieger needed buyers, and Kolbrun needed investors. Perfect. Miles immediately went to work, deploying all of his stockpiles of charm to convince every mining company, crime lord, and businessman (legitimate or otherwise) on his client list to put in money, in return for every sort of rare and valuable mineral imaginable; doonium, adarium, even cortosis. Eventually, he had raised four billion, and had become the proud owner of the Star Destroyer Sic Semper Tyrannis (formerly known as the Rage).
Then the trouble started. Krieger's promised mining operation never got off the ground, but more importantly, Kolbrun had vastly underestimated the difficulty of actually selling an Imperial Star Destroyer, let alone for his asking price of 4,500,000,000 credits. Krieger didn't much concern him; he had never really intended to pay the Moff his due, anyway (and in the basement of the Perlemian Pub on Coruscant, Kolbrun was safe from retribution). But without a payload of minerals and ores, and without a buyer for Sic Semper Tyrannis, Kolbrun was suddenly confronted by a great many clients wondering just what exactly had happened to their money.
He was left with no choice but to continue to shop around his Star Destroyer, as quietly as possible. He contacted Moffs, Hutts, corporations, terrorists, a dozen Outer Rim backwaters, and even the Neimoidian shipwright he'd bought it from, but none were interested. One might think that Kolbrun would learn the value of frugality from this crisis, but afterall, in every crisis there was an opportunity. So it was that he heard through the proverbial grapevine that a shipping corporation that had fallen on hard times was selling its entire tibanna gas operation, for a "mere" 1,285,000,000 credits. If, Kolbrun reasoned, he could sell the Star Destroyer for at least that much, he could buy up these gas refineries and, with some creative marketing, earn back his losses, repay his clients, and still turn a profit.
And so the scheme thickened.
What Kolbrun didn't realize is that the New Republic had some understandable interest in who this Star Destroyer would be sold to (although they didn't know exactly where Kolbrun was keeping it, they did know that he'd purchased it). So it was that the Perlemian Pub, in addition to its usual, unsavory clientele, today included a number of Kolbrun's angry, gun-toting clients, and a troop of New Republic Intelligence agents blending in as inconspicuously as possible at the pazaak table. The bartender had been instructed to answer that Kolbrun wasn't in, but there was only so long his debtors would buy the excuse. And so the Perlemian Pub was ripe for confrontation, and needed only the slightest provocation to "set it off."
Miles Kolbrun
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| Garik_Taynor | Date: Saturday, 10 Jan 2009, 11:32 PM | Message # 3 |
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Sergeant
Group: Users
Messages: 29
Status: Offline
| Even though his headache persisted, Garik had become somewhat heartened during the short stroll to the Perlemian Pub; by the time he arrived, he had regained most of his wits, and as he approached the entrance to the bar he began to view the building and the street outside with his usual, interrogative gaze. Other than its sign, the bar did not advertise itself conspicuously (indeed, Garik had never noticed it before today); was it trying to be inconspicuous? He noticed a van parked across the street with a clearly impatient driver, seated at the controls, glancing at the entrance to the pub and talking out loud to someone else who wasn't visible. He noticed then another plashet of water on the street, but not soon enough to avoid stepping in it. He mumbled indignantly to himself, shook the water off the pant leg of his uniform, and then continued through the door and into the pub. Garik had been in law enforcement for almost three decades, but it didn't take the intuition of a seasoned detective to realize that half (if not all) of the clientele were packing heat, and looked like they were here for business, not pleasure. Some of the patrons glanced up at him suspiciously, but most kept their gazes trained on the bar, or on their full, untouched glasses of cheap liquor. It was quiet like a bank; the only sounds in the room were of the bartender cleaning glasses with an old dish rag, and several men playing pazaak in the corner (obviously lawmen, and it didn't take one to know one). There was tension in the air, but as of this moment Garik didn't care; he was a man in a bad mood and in much need of a drink. He pulled his trench coat more tightly around himself so as to hide his uniform, approached the counter, and heaved himself upon a barstool (even that effort was enough to aggravate his headache). Seated next to him was a Trandoshan who seemed to be waiting irritably for something, without so much as a drink in front of him; his glare never left the bartender, who now lumbered in Garik's direction. The private investigator took off his hat, set it upon the counter, ran one hand through his grey hair and asked of the bartender, "A glass of your cheapest beer, hey?"
Lieutenant Garik Taynor
Coruscant Security Force
Homicide, Larceny, Special Cases
Message edited by Garik_Taynor - Saturday, 10 Jan 2009, 11:34 PM |
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| Miles_Kolbrun | Date: Sunday, 11 Jan 2009, 1:08 AM | Message # 4 |
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Private
Group: Users
Messages: 15
Status: Offline
| No one truly knew why Kolbrun was often called "Tank," except that it was a nickname that he enjoyed and encouraged. Certainly it was not for Kolbrun's stature, for in that case it would be a name much more fitting of the Perlemian Pub's muscle-bound bartender; he was a colossal, intimidating man and, like his boss's nickname, no one knew where he came from. All that was known of him (and it was obvious, at that) was that it would be unwise to fight him in anything but a contest of wits. He put down the glass he had been cleaning (which appeared cartoonishly small in his powerful hands), slung the dish cloth over his shoulder and walked to the newcomer. His brow suddenly furrowed, and he grunted in amusement. "Smells like you've had enough already, old man," he answered, but nonetheless turned to fill a glass for Garik. He glanced over his shoulder several times to regard the bar and its clientele and then, after a moment, set the beer on the counter wordlessly, even rudely. "Five credits," he said, and then added before Garik could reply, "If you're looking for Kolbrun, he ain't here."
Miles Kolbrun
Message edited by Miles_Kolbrun - Sunday, 11 Jan 2009, 1:18 AM |
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| Garik_Taynor | Date: Wednesday, 14 Jan 2009, 0:19 AM | Message # 5 |
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Sergeant
Group: Users
Messages: 29
Status: Offline
| Old man. Garik remembered suddenly the reason for the colossal binge of the night before; to "celebrate" his fiftieth birthday (which both Seth and Burnman had forgotten, and mercifully so too had Garik, with the aid of his liquor). But still, that he was 50 already had been of no slight discomfort to Taynor, nor the fact that he was born in a time period now referred to by historians as the "Classic Era" (which also included the birth of the archaic Jedi Master Yoda). Garik was older than Seth and Burnman combined. He had lived through three governments, two wars, one wife and a son, and now here he was, staring down a cheap glass of beer and being derided by a surly barkeep. He was in no mood for this. "I'm not here looking for Kolburn," Garik said, annoyed, "I'm here looking for a drink, and now that I've got it, you can go away. You'll get your five damn credits when I'm good and done." As if to emphasize the point, he snatched the beer and downed nearly half the glass in one, tremendous shot. And immediately regretted it. He burst out coughing, not at the potency of the drink, but in disgust at its taste. "What is this?" he demanded, as he swiped the glass indignantly across the counter (and many of the bar's patrons glanced suspiciously in his direction as he did so), "Tastes like hell. I'm not paying for this sithspit."
Lieutenant Garik Taynor
Coruscant Security Force
Homicide, Larceny, Special Cases
Message edited by Garik_Taynor - Wednesday, 14 Jan 2009, 0:35 AM |
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| Miles_Kolbrun | Date: Thursday, 15 Jan 2009, 3:05 PM | Message # 6 |
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Private
Group: Users
Messages: 15
Status: Offline
| The bartender crossed his arms over his chest menacingly. He was used to dealing with belligerent drunks, and he had very little patience for them. He glared at Taynor as if to assess how much physical effort it would take to throw him out the door. In the process, both of them neglected the Trandoshan seated down the counter who himself seemed more ardent by the moment. "It's Pandath Light," the larger man said patronizingly, "It's our cheapest beer, and if you're not going to pay for it then you can be on your merry. We're not running a charity here, old man." The bar, which had already been quiet, now lapsed into complete silence as most of the patrons watched, motionlessly and pensively, the two men staring each other down at the counter. Even the apparent lawmen at the pazaak table had paused their game and watched in anxious anticipation. Several hands disappeared quietly under tables or into pockets throughout the room.
Miles Kolbrun
Message edited by Miles_Kolbrun - Thursday, 15 Jan 2009, 3:06 PM |
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| Garik_Taynor | Date: Sunday, 18 Jan 2009, 11:54 PM | Message # 7 |
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Sergeant
Group: Users
Messages: 29
Status: Offline
| "You gave me a light beer?!" he said, incredulously. The second "old man" reference was finally enough to damage Taynor's calm, and his famously flimsy professionalism (that is, on a good day, which today was not). But the fact remains, this sort of service never would have happened at O'Seannery's, and as an experienced drunk, he was justified to be indignant. "Just what exactly are you running here, then?" he snapped back at the bartender, resting his elbow on the counter and raising his finger admonishingly at him as he pointed about the room. "At best, it's a crapshoot with a sorry excuse for service. At worst, it's a front for what? Smuggling, or drugs?" "I'm a cop, you know," he added, on a roll despite the fact that he now held the entire bar's attention, and the ratio of criminals to lawmen in the room was undoubtedly not in his favor, "I know a front when I see it, and you should be glad I don't shut you down." He shook his head, "Light beer! And no, I'm not paying for it."
Lieutenant Garik Taynor
Coruscant Security Force
Homicide, Larceny, Special Cases
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| Miles_Kolbrun | Date: Sunday, 18 Jan 2009, 11:56 PM | Message # 8 |
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Private
Group: Users
Messages: 15
Status: Offline
| "A cop, huh?" the bartender scoffed, "Is that supposed to impress me?"
Miles Kolbrun
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| Garik_Taynor | Date: Monday, 19 Jan 2009, 0:01 AM | Message # 9 |
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Sergeant
Group: Users
Messages: 29
Status: Offline
| Garik's patience was up; he brushed aside his trench coat so as to rest one hand defiantly on his hip, and revealed in the process the lever action blaster rifle holstered underneath. "How about this?"
Lieutenant Garik Taynor
Coruscant Security Force
Homicide, Larceny, Special Cases
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| Miles_Kolbrun | Date: Monday, 19 Jan 2009, 0:04 AM | Message # 10 |
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Private
Group: Users
Messages: 15
Status: Offline
| The colossal bartender merely shook his head, amused. He pulled the dish cloth from his shoulder, dropped it casually onto the counter and then reached underneath, retrieving what was probably the largest and most intimidating disruptor rifle that Taynor (or anyone else in the room) had ever seen. He cradled it in both arms, in plain view. "How about this?" he retorted.
Miles Kolbrun
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| Garik_Taynor | Date: Sunday, 08 Mar 2009, 0:13 AM | Message # 11 |
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Sergeant
Group: Users
Messages: 29
Status: Offline
| (expect a post from me tomorrow, after an admittedly long delay).
Lieutenant Garik Taynor
Coruscant Security Force
Homicide, Larceny, Special Cases
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