For Miles Kolbrun, over the last decade things had gone from good, to bad, to worse, to better and, finally, to good again. To say that things were now going "good" was, in fact, putting it mildly; to say things were going better than three years ago was a tremendous understatement. His story was a fantastic one that he seldom told, because it was seldom believed. He had lost everything and then lost himself, was found and then found himself and, finally, ended up in the same place (with his old fortune replenished twice over).

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 world known on the starcharts as Planet I5-0023E.

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 body mass, they became intoxicated quickly). 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 three 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 out of boredom he introduced ritualistic sacrifice. He also introduced them to the concept of property, which resulted immediately in countless wars between tribes. The poor creatures would come to him in the wreckage of his ship to ask him to resolve disputes, 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 gambling, 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 Golden Nerf—that preached spirituality, philanthropy, and all those good things. Kolbrun was exemplary at observing the rituals and paying his tithe, but he never quite got "into it." One night at the convent, when asked his interpretation of the Way of the Nerf, he hesitated, dumbfounded (and also somewhat drunk), and then went on in a spontaneous, rambling answer about self-sacrifice that he'd made up from the top of his head. "The Nerf is a selfless animal," he had said, slurring his words, "it provides us with nourishment, with milk and meat, and all it expects in return is compassion. And what is compassion, my friends? Why, it is compassionate. What a fine example the Nerf sets for us! To live modestly, to sacrifice and give back, to uh, graze—not literally, mind you."

Even though he forgot what he'd told them when he woke up the next morning, they evidently did not; his comments were regarded as wise and profound, and this select group of church members soon extrapolated from his words their own interpretations and practices (which were kept secret, of course, since divergence from church doctrine was considered heretical). Their belief system even included metaphorical "grazing," not for grass, but for the opportunity to do selfless deeds.

Kolbrun was sick to his stomach when he heard about the sect, and how gullible its members were. He had no interest in leading another cult, and distanced himself from them as well as he could. In fact, he soon came to realize the similarities between the Order of the Golden Nerf and the religion that he'd 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 knew 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. Kolbrun was given the choice of ceasing his exploitation of church members, or being excommunicated. He opted for the latter; he was done with religion, and with its arbitrary, artificial rules. Life, he decided, had to be lived to its fullest; here in this convent he was wasting his time just as he had on Planet I5-0023E. He packed his things and readied himself to leave.

The followers who had founded their own secret sect based on Kolbrun's inane ramblings, however, saw his excommunication as an act of persecution and rose up against the Elders. The last he heard, long after he departed the convent, the Sacred Order of the Golden Nerf had slaughtered one another in the great schism that followed. That is, with the notable exception of the Elders, who escaped the carnage and each purchased luxurious villas on the beaches of Spira. They enjoyed this new, extravagant life a bit too much, however, and only months later found themselves deeply indebted to the Hutt Cartel which, one night, sent bounty hunters to go from villa to villa and blast each Elder to death in their sleep.

Kolbrun owned nothing to his name except the few credits he'd swindled and the simple brown robe that was the customary dress of the church. It just so happens, however, that this robe could easily be made to look reminiscent of a Jedi Master's garb, especially when the hood was drawn. He didn't realize this until he wandered, despondent, into a bar on Chommell Minor. There, he was referred to as "Master Jedi" and, more importantly, his drink was free of charge. Thus, he was presented with his next "business opportunity." He found a suitably remote town where the word of his deeds would not be widely spread, and began representing himself as a Jedi.

At first, he explained his lack of a lightsaber by claiming that such a weapon was an intimate and integral part of a Jedi's life, and was not to be bandied about for frivolous purposes. Later, however, he purchased a palm-sized holoprojector that was capable of emitting a beam reminiscent of a lightsaber, and brandished it to impress children, or women, or to frighten those who questioned his credentials. Such people became more common, however, especially as he prevailed upon the locals to provide him with room and board, and free food and drinks at the local restaurants and taverns. He also began a relationship with a stunningly beautiful, blonde, lithe, but reclusive widow named Casey. For Kolbrun, the relationship was entirely sexual, but for her it was something more intimate. For reasons that he wouldn't understand until later, the locals also disapproved of this relationship (perhaps relationships were forbidden for Jedi? Kolbrun wasn't sure) and became more suspicious of him, accordingly.

He found it necessary to demonstrate his Force powers to deter the skeptics, and concocted a scheme to do so. He bought a stun blaster and, with much trial and error, disassembled and reassembled it in a fashion that could be hidden in the sleeve of his robe. The barrel was removed, and the firing nozzle taped directly to his wrist so that the stun blast would appear as a burst of lightning emanating from his hand—or so he thought. He summoned the entire town to the square, but his plan went horribly wrong when, instead of shooting a stun blast, the contraption exploded and sent his robe up in flames. When he'd finally thrown the robe to the ground, stomped out the blaze, and stood there naked, the townsfolk saw what was left of the device taped to his arm and knew, right then, that he was a fake.

The admiring crowd instantly became a mob, and Kolbrun was thrown in the town jail to await sentencing the next morning. That is, if Casey, the widow, hadn't come to his rescue. Visiting him that night, she told him that she still loved him, and they shared a passionate kiss between the bars of his cell. She still loved him even though he had decieved her, she said, because she too had decieved him. Much to his horror, she revealed herself to be not only a Shi'ido—also known as a "changeling," or "shapeshifter"—but a male Shi'ido. It then transformed into something hideous resembling a Wampa, and proceeded to tear the prison guards limb from limb, goring them to their screaming, bloody deaths, and then released Kolbrun. He immediately left Casey behind and fled Chommell Minor in his/her/its shuttle, in which they were evidently meant to escape together.

Once he was alone and safely in hyperspace, he threw up in the refresher, smoked three glitterstim joints (in the hopes of destroying his memory of the last several hours), and passed out. This is one part of the story that Kolbrun did not often recount for many reasons but, primarily, because he claimed not to remember it.

Several planets and prostitutes later, he made his way to the ocean world of Pantolomin. There, he sold the shuttle—not mentioning that it was stolen—in order to pay his way into a high stakes game of sabacc on the Coral Vanda, a submersible luxury liner famous for its casinos. Dressed garishly in shorts, a floral shirt, and aviator sunglasses, Kolbrun stood on the dock with his eyes closed, smelling the sea, feeling the breeze, hearing the sounds of the gulls and the crashing of the waves and knew, then, that he was about to be a rich man again. This was the life, he told himself. His winnings on the Coral Vanda could buy him his own resort on Alakatha, where he could spend every day at the beach with a girl from Zeltros, no, two girls from Zeltros to provide for his every desire. He opened his eyes, sighed contentedly, boarded the liner and went straight for the sabacc tables.

An hour later, he was 7,500 credits in debt. It should be noted, however, that over the course of that hour he had, at one point, accumulated an impressive 81,200 credits in winnings. Never one to quit when he was ahead, however, he soon squandered the entire amount and then some. His floral shirt damp with a nervous sweat, Kolbrun proceeded with his backup plan—cheating. He produced from his pocket a small device called a skifter, a rigged sabacc card which could be surreptitiously slipped into Kolbrun's hand to replace one of the cards dealt to him, with its own suit and value substituted at his whim.

The cards were dealt. Kolbrun studied his hand through his sunglasses and smiled. "Seven thousand five hundred," he said, seeking to break even once again. The other players at the table shrugged and indulged him, having become accustomed to his exorbitant bets, boasts, and losses. He snuck his three of flasks into his sleeve and replaced it with his skifter which, in this case, took the form of the Queen of Air and Darkness. It gave him "Pure Sabacc"—a perfect hand of twenty three—which he dropped onto the table triumphantly. The other players shook their heads in amazement as they folded, with the exception of one whose eyes narrowed so much it was a wonder he could actually see out of them. "Two of a kind," the man said ominously, laying down his hand to reveal two Queens of Air and Darkness (there were supposed to be a total of two in an entire deck, no more).

All of the players rose instantly to their feet, some knocking aside their chairs as they did so. More than one reached inside a coat or pocket menacingly for what one could only assume was a blaster pistol or, perhaps, a vibroblade. The room fell silent. Kolbrun made a show of blaming the man with the two pair which, unfortunately, convinced no one. Security intervened, the skifter was discovered and, after a brief attempt to flee (he made a run for it across the floor and locked himself in a refresher, but surrendered thereafter as he realized he was outnumbered and, also, underwater) he was detained. The majordomo of the casino surprised him, however, by offering him a choice; the Coral Vanda would be at sea for another month, and he could either remain in detention for the duration and be handed over to authorities upon return to port, or he could agree to work off his 15,000 credit debt in the casino and be confined to his quarters after hours.

"I don't do 'adult entertainment,' if that's what you mean," Kolbrun said, wary of the proposal. The majordomo shook his head, exasperated. "You're a cheater, Mr. Kolbrun," he explained, "and it's a well known fact that cheaters make good dealers—they can recognize when another player is skifting or manipulating the field. It just so happens that one of our sabacc dealers mistakenly ate some variety of poisonous fish and has been taken ill. But his misfortune is your gain, Sir." Kolbrun liked this idea even less; he had never worked an honest job in his life (a sabacc dealer wasn't quite an honest job, but too close for Kolbrun's taste), and he was afraid that it was a slippery slope to eating lunch from a paper bag in some dreaded cubicle, somewhere. Or even worse, having to shave! (he had what he considered to be a "weak chin," and usually sported a modest beard to disguise this fact). But considering his alternative, he did not agonize long over the decision.

"I'll do it on one condition," Kolbrun said.

"You're in no position to impose conditions, Mr. Kolbrun."

"Free drinks at the bar."

"No."

"Fine," he said, sulking. "I'll do it anyway."

The majordomo explained, as his binders were removed, that he would be watched closely and, furthermore, that he should subtly encourage sabacc players to take more risks because the casino's revenues had fallen in recent months. As it turned out, Kolbrun was very good at this—he was especially successful at calling into question the masculinity of tourists whose spouses were also present at the table, thus inducing them to wage higher. He realized, however, that all of the people at his table were fundamentally self-destructive beings; they all wanted to bet high, to take risks and to feel that exhiliration, but most of them just needed a push to do it. Kolbrun had always been a persuasive salesman of sinful things (spice, firearms, munitions, etc.), and now he found it quite easy to be the persuasive voice in one's ear—the enabler—to convince people to cast aside their inhibitions and do the risky and sinful things they'd always wanted to.

"Live a little!" he would tell them, or "You only live once!" or "Life's too short!" He made a handsome sum of credits for the casino in this fashion, but it didn't stop there. Sabacc players would come up to him at the bar after the game and ask his advice on other matters, as well. Some drunken guest wanted to break a bottle of chardonnay on the head of another guest? "Live a little!" Kolbrun would tell him. Someone's wife wanted to cheat on her husband with one of the waiters? "You only live once!" he would say. Some poor bastard lost all of his credits and wanted to shoot himself? "Life's too shor—well, just do it!" Kolbrun didn't care; most of the time he was tired from working and resented having to do it in the first place, and he found some small satisfaction from indulging people's worst instincts and desires.

When the Coral Vanda finally came into port once again, the majordomo made good on his promise and let Kolbrun go without pressing charges and even gave him a fair sum of credits to send him on his way. Just as he crossed the gangplank, however, he was stabbed in the back with a vibroblade by some anonymous passenger who, one assumes, blamed Kolbrun for some calamity in his life for which he was mostly responsible. He collapsed in agony onto the wooden pier and, in mere moments, passed out from the pain (this incident remains the only time he'd been seriously injured in his life). Well, not too seriously; the wound was superficial, and easily treated at the Coral Vanda's medical bay.

His awakening in the white, antiseptic room was also a metaphoric awakening for him. His life remained lost in doldrums, he realized, and despite his varied schemes and enterprises over the last decade, he was essentially the same—if not worse off, having been stabbed and all—than he'd been before. He had been keeping a low profile for long enough, he decided. It was time to go home, and just then he was presented on his holoscreen with the perfect reason to do so: the New Republic and the Imperial Remnant had just agreed to an historic peace treaty. Kolbrun's eyes were alight. As usual, he saw a business opportunity and, this time, it was doing what he had always done best.

Kolbrun sighed with relief some weeks later, breathing the familiar, polluted air of Coruscant as he beheld the only 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 with a loan and with his meager funds from the Coral Vanda, 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 remarkably 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 clients within the Republic (the Senate had, apparently, become terrifically corrupt during Kolbrun's absense).

Yes, circumstances had finally conspired in Miles Kolbrun's favor, and things were going quite well. Quite well indeed.