His trouble had begun nine years ago, when the Neimoidian mafia he'd been supplying had failed spectacularly in its efforts to unseat Jamulon Desilijic Tiure as the premier spice distributor on Dantooine. The Neimoidians shifted the blame—as is apparently their custom—onto Kolbrun, thus becoming the most formidable yet of his many enemies. When his bar on Coruscant, the Perlemian Pub, was burned down (and he barely escaped), Kolbrun decided it was time to cut his losses and get out of the city.

His plan was to go somewhere that he wouldn't be found. Little did he know how soon he would wish, desperately, for someone—anyone—to literally find him.

Kolbrun packed a freighter full of spice and left Coruscant discreetly. It should be said, however, that whatever else he might be, he was not a pilot; there was a particular region of space, on his way to the Outer Rim, that required ships to leave hyperspace, adjust their course, and then continue on their way. Well, either Kolbrun had jumped to lightspeed too quickly, or he'd left it too quickly (to this day, he still wasn't sure), but he exited hyperspace at the transfer point at a hyper-accelerated speed. The freighter strayed off the hyperspace route and was brought down by the gravity well of a nearby, unnamed planet.

At first, he was thankful that he'd somehow survived the crash, which had landed him in a dense and exotic jungle and crippled his freighter beyond repair. However, he soon discovered why no one bothered to visit this planet; it was populated by a small, rodent like species (also unnamed, as far as Kolbrun knew or cared). They were intelligent, tribal, and senselessly violent. Apparently, he would learn later, they collected the skulls of pilots whose ships occasionally crashed on this planet, as Kolbrun's had. In any case, they were ready for him.

However, the engine had caught on fire and set ablaze one of the crates of spice; Kolbrun climbed out of the wreckage and raised his hands haplessly in air as the rodents surrounded him, and as he did so the vapors from the spice washed over them, and they were instantly subdued (on account of their tiny bodies). They threw down their spears and knives and lay on the ground, giddy with euphoria. From that day on, they considered Miles Kolbrun their God and did whatever he told them.

At first, this was of little comfort to Kolbrun. He wanted nothing to do with these creatures, and brooded for days in his ship as it became apparent that he wasn't able to repair it. He would occasionally go on long treks through the seemingly endless jungle, trying to find a port or settlement or perhaps another wreck with operable communications (his own ship's comm had been knocked out). All the while, they would follow him and when he got lost they would show him the way back. Weeks later, when he stopped crying and resigned himself to his fate, he started to have fun and abuse his power over the little creatures like the bastard that he was. Might as well enjoy himself, right?

Thus, he would make them fight each other, or ferment rudimentary alcohol for him, or other unsavory things all in exchange for spice. He started making up new arbitrary "holy days" for them to observe, and arbitrary times to fast, and arbitrary times to abstain from reproduction, and arbitrary times to make war on other tribes, and certain arbitrary ways to groom themselves, and certain arbitrary manners in which to walk and talk to each other and to Him, and so on. It became quite a cult, all on the foundation of getting high off of spice (thankfully, Kolbrun had brought literally years worth of spice, and also used it heavily himself).

His new religion was also very successful among the rodent-like creatures because they had life spans of only six months, so that hundreds of generations came and went and the mythology of Kolbrun, the diety, was passed down from each successive generation and exaggerated more and more each time. Eventually, he styled himself as something of a tyrant. Desiring something other than plants to eat, he introduced cannibalism into the culture, and ritualistic sacrifice. The poor creatures would come to him in the wreckage of his ship to ask him to resolve disputes about property or marriage, and he usually decreed one of the two to be executed. Problem solved.

This went on for quite some time (years, Kolbrun would later discover) until he eventually tired of it. He became restless, once again. He considered suicide, but decided he'd make another attempt to find a way off the world first. He remembered that the planet wasn't far from the hyperspace transfer point, and considered that perhaps lighting its jungles on fire would be seen from space. He ordered it to be done, and it was done. Unfortunately the fires were not visible from space, but were instead buried under columns of smoke (this, incidentally, made life even more miserable for the locals).

Fortuitously, Kolbrun's salvation came by mistake—the exact same mistake that he'd first made. When another freighter was seen tearing through the skies above, Kolbrun was ready; he had conserved just enough power on his ship to fire up its few remaining systems (lighting, life support, etc.), enough to be detected on sensors as an energy reading on an otherwise lifeless, worthless planet. Luckily, the pilot of this second freighter was more capable than Kolbrun had been, and managed not to crash at all. The signal was recieved, and Kolbrun was, at last, rescued (and none too soon, because his tremendous supply of spice was finally beginning to dwindle, and he suspected that the rodents might well turn on him when he stopped performing "miracles," i.e. spice induced ecstasy and hallucinations).

He flipped the confused creatures an unflattering hand gesture as he ascended miraculously (via tractor beam) into the skies.

For those who knew Kolbrun, it was the next part of the story that was, in fact, the hardest to believe. For a man so enamored of himself, and of alcohol, and drugs, and prostitutes, and countless other vices, it was difficult to imagine that he might one day, genuinely, desire some sort of consolation or purpose in life. But this is exactly what occurred when he was finally rescued from his long, desperate years of isolation on that forsaken world. All of his enemies had forgotten that he'd existed (the Neimoidian fellow, apparently, had been eaten by one of his rivals; another one of their charming customs). To Kolbrun, it was a new lease on life and, this time, he was determined to get it right.

He found some junkies and sold the rest of his spice to them (hey, have to start somehow) and began traveling the Outer Rim doing charitable works. He eventually he joined a real religious order—the Sacred Order of the Mynock or Nerf or whatever it was, he didn't remember—that preached spirituality, philanthropy, and all those good things. Kolbrun was superb at observing the rituals and paying his tithe, but he never quite got "into it." Soon, he came to realize the similarities between this religion and the one that he made up himself; arbitrary holy days, arbitrary times to fast, arbitrary things to eat or not eat, arbitrary times to abstain from reproduction, certain arbitrary ways to groom themselves, certain arbitrary ways to walk and talk to each other, and so on. His faith was shaken.

But shaken or not, Kolbrun still new a business opportunity when he saw one; without hesitation, he started swindling the church, collecting "donations" supposedly for the Order but, in fact, actually for his own pockets. However, he was soon confronted by the elders of the church, not because he was behaving immorally, but because they were doing the same thing and resented him for discovering their racket and cutting in on their profits. And so began a crime war as fierce as any Kolbrun had ever fought on Nar Shaddaa or Coruscant—all in the name of the Mynock or Nerf or whatever it was.

Eventually, he fled after amassing a formidable amount of money and, several planets, casinos, and prostitutes later, he returned to Coruscant. He read later that the church had killed itself in a mass suicide, except for its leaders, who retired to the beaches of Alakatha. They were apparently deeply indebted to the Hutt Cartel, however, who paid them a visit one night, years later, and blasted them to death in their beds.

Kolbrun sighed with relief, breathing the familiar, polluted air of Coruscant as he beheld the one place he'd still called "home" for all those years. He found that the criminal scene had fallen into disarray in his absense; there was tremendous fear that the peace treaty (which opened the Imperial Remnant to trade, and also required a crack down on smuggling) was going to deliver a fatal blow to the black market. But while the rest of the criminal enterprises on Coruscant warred with each other in the waning days before the treaty was ratified, Kolbrun saw an opportunity. He purchased his bar back, got in touch with his smuggler and client networks—which were, largely, still in place—and opened up shop.

Kolbrun went to his Imperial contacts and told them that trade was going to mean regulation, and it made business sense to offload as many goods and surplus military armaments and equipment onto the New Republic market as possible before the treaty went into effect. This pitch was wildly successful, and soon Kolbrun was making enough credits to double the size of his old operation. He even opened new restaurants, including a high class establishment conveniently near the Senate Rotunda to cater to his increasingly high class clientele within the Republic (the Senate had, apparently, become splendidly corrupt during Kolbrun's years of isolation).

Yes, things were now going quite well for Miles Kolbrun. Quite well indeed.