Post by Fromikeable on Aug 19, 2014 23:49:58 GMT -5
Y'know, Jaemus really wasn't a bad place. It was a nice little planet, out of the way, out of the galactic spotlight, but it still had life to it. It wasn't as flashy or in-the-galaxy's-face as Kuat or Corellia or Duros, but it still had shipyards. It wasn't as important as Coruscant or Korriban or Mandalore, but it still had people.
It wasn't as depressing as the galaxy at large, but it still had drunks. And if Horst was anything, he was a drunk by this point.
To say he was now an alcoholic might not have the nail square on the head, but you'd be hard-pressed to come up with a better term. And really, if he was one way or not, he didn't much of anything care at this point. He flew sober, and he smuggled sober, but the minute credits were in his hand, they were flowing down his throat. There was something about being a traitor to his country and something about being an enemy of the country he was in that made him...
Well, just a tad under the weather.
The shipyards didn't help much; they reminded him of the old shop on Corellia and the long trips with the Navy. Throw in the fact that there seemed to be quite a few Sith troopers around the spaceport that day, and Horst had been guaranteed not to make it more than a few feet before finding some booze and making aaaaaaaaaaaaaaall the colors blur together. Part of him wanted to shoot at them... to yell at them... and part of him was downright jealous and utterly nostalgic. And at the bottom of the bottle, it all just boiled down to a severe need to tell one of them, at least one of them, a few charitable thoughts.
Of course, considering he was already hammered, those thoughts were bound to be kind of hard to understand.
But no. Horst was many things, but a man who couldn't hold his liquor wasn't one of them. No, instead he sat at the counter of a small bar, finishing his drink, before dropping a few credits in his glass and sliding it forward. Spinning around to get up, the floor was suddenly a whole lot less stable, and as the Corellian swayed a bit in his slow walk, all he could do was grumble in a gravely voice and squint both in frustration and an effort to see straight.
"Frakkin' feet... frakkin' knees, don't frakkin' wobble... frakkin' door's gotta' open... frakkin' hand's gotta' open tha' frakkin' door..." The only sound someone at the door could hear beyond the ambient noise was the light cursing of a man obviously none too pleased.
It wasn't as depressing as the galaxy at large, but it still had drunks. And if Horst was anything, he was a drunk by this point.
To say he was now an alcoholic might not have the nail square on the head, but you'd be hard-pressed to come up with a better term. And really, if he was one way or not, he didn't much of anything care at this point. He flew sober, and he smuggled sober, but the minute credits were in his hand, they were flowing down his throat. There was something about being a traitor to his country and something about being an enemy of the country he was in that made him...
Well, just a tad under the weather.
The shipyards didn't help much; they reminded him of the old shop on Corellia and the long trips with the Navy. Throw in the fact that there seemed to be quite a few Sith troopers around the spaceport that day, and Horst had been guaranteed not to make it more than a few feet before finding some booze and making aaaaaaaaaaaaaaall the colors blur together. Part of him wanted to shoot at them... to yell at them... and part of him was downright jealous and utterly nostalgic. And at the bottom of the bottle, it all just boiled down to a severe need to tell one of them, at least one of them, a few charitable thoughts.
Of course, considering he was already hammered, those thoughts were bound to be kind of hard to understand.
But no. Horst was many things, but a man who couldn't hold his liquor wasn't one of them. No, instead he sat at the counter of a small bar, finishing his drink, before dropping a few credits in his glass and sliding it forward. Spinning around to get up, the floor was suddenly a whole lot less stable, and as the Corellian swayed a bit in his slow walk, all he could do was grumble in a gravely voice and squint both in frustration and an effort to see straight.
"Frakkin' feet... frakkin' knees, don't frakkin' wobble... frakkin' door's gotta' open... frakkin' hand's gotta' open tha' frakkin' door..." The only sound someone at the door could hear beyond the ambient noise was the light cursing of a man obviously none too pleased.