Summary: Master Yoda and his faithful sidekick Obi-Wan Kenobi
play hooky.
Feedback: On knees begging
Disclaimer: All characters abused in this story are not my
property. I merely stole them and twisted them. No harm was
intended and I swear I will return them when I am through with
them. Thankyouverymuch.
Obi-Wan stretches out his hands and accepts the helmet I have
offered. Obediently he nods and places the protective gear onto
his head. He swivels his neck back and forth several times.
"Master Yoda, I can't see anything with the blast shield
down," he states.
"Then lift it up you should, padawan," I chide.
He does as instructed. "Oh yes, that's much better," he grins.
I begin to doubt my own wisdom in choosing Obi-Wan to assist me
in my exercise.
We head out to the vehicle docking facility. As we near, I set
my doubts to rest as I am caught up in Obi-Wan's enthusiasm.
"Ooh, Master, she's a beauty!" he exclaims gazing upon my new
Sithster Z-27 speeder bike. Eagerly he rushes over to it,
running his fingers along its smooth, silver lines. "So the
dealership dropped it off for you four days ago? I can't
believe you've resisted taking it for a spin all that time."
"Many duties does a council member have, young one," I remind
him. He is observant though. The last few days tried my jedi
resolve more sorely than even a dark lord of the sith possibly
could. "Patience must a jedi have, Obi-Wan."
"Of course, I suppose that's why you're the jedi master. Your
amazing restraint or the brilliant way you got us the day off
would get you my vote for a council seat," Obi-Wan says. He is
referring to the masterful subterfuge that I orchestrated in
order to give myself a few hours of free time. During the last
council meeting, I suggested that it had been some centuries
since anyone had cleaned out the attic in the jedi temple.
Naturally, being the helpful being I am I offered to lead the
clean up crew. When no other volunteers from the council were
immediately forthcoming, as I knew they would not be, what with
all that jedi wisdom going on, I suggested recruiting a
padawan. Apprentices have always been an eager source of cheap
labor and no one objected. When I subsequently requested
Obi-Wan's presence at the clean-fest, his master was more than
willing to let him assist me. Less, I think, out of a genuine
desire to help than from fear he would be asked to join us as
well. The plan worked like dream. Obi-Wan and I now have the
entire day to try out my new roadster.
I begin to pull my leather driving gloves on when I hear the
chirping of my com-link. Obi-Wan's eyebrow's shoot up towards
the top of his head in surprise. I flip a switch and speak,
"Yes?"
"Hello Master Yoda," Mace Windu's voice reverberates
metallically through the speaker. "How are you doing?"
My force sense urges me to be wary in my reply. "Fine I am
Mace. Working hard we are. Much dust here. *cough, cough* Large
mess too," I act.
"You know, that's really strange. I mean, here I am standing
in the attic and I am not seeing much of a mess at all. For
that matter, I am not seeing you and Obi-Wan, either. Of
course, all that dust could be obscuring my vision, but
somehow, I doubt it," Mace replies sarcastically. "I knew you
and that padawan were up to something."
"Taking a donut break we are, back soon we will be," I try.
"Whatever," Mace tosses back. "The real reason I am calling
you concerns my wallet."
"Wallet?" I gulp.
"Yes, my wallet. It seems to be missing a few things."
"Things," I sweat.
"Yes, namely my driver's license and a wad of cash. Now my
instincts told me to ask you about that. Any idea why?" he asks
acidly.
"Clouded your feelings are. Meditation I suggest," I counsel.
"Humph. Well, I'll give you a suggestion. If you and that
padawan get yourselves in trouble, don't call me to bail you
out!" he huffs at me.
"Bail you could not make without cash," I scoff and click off
the receiver.
Obi-Wan is looking at me nervously. "Are we in trouble Master
Yoda?" he softly asks.
"Not yet, young one. But time there still is for that. Saddle
up!" I encourage. Immediately he smiles and climbs up onto the
seat. Obi-Wan reaches down and I grasp his hand. With the aid
of the young man's strength and a tweak of the force, I take
the driver's seat. Admittedly, the sithster was not
manufactured for someone with my build, but the ingenuity of a
jedi should never be underestimated. I find that by sitting on
Obi-Wan's lap, I can easily reach the handlebars. The height of
his legs also affords me an excellent view of the road. I knew
he would come in handy on this trip.
I turn the ignition switch and the engine begins to thrum with
pent up energy. The entire bike is vibrating with the promise
of speed and power. Ahhh. Did I say that out loud? I turn my
head and realize it comes from the young apprentice behind me
who is grinning broadly. I don't know which is purring louder,
the engine or Obi-Wan.
I push the accelerator and we jerk forward. Instinctively,
Obi-Wan clutches my waist. His choice of handholds is not,
however, entirely appropriate. "Your hands you must watch,
padawan. Jealous would Qui-Gon become," I tell him. He blushes,
mutters an apology and readjusts his grip.
Easing the sithster into traffic, I decide to move slowly in
order to acquaint my self with the feel of the vehicle and
adjust myself to its controls. Obi-Wan points to the fuel
gauge. "Master Yoda, it looks like they didn't bother to put
much in your tank. We'd better find a refueling station before
we go too far," he notes.
"Cheapskates," I reflect upon the dealership.
We make our way down the long block. I am learning the
controls rapidly and am becoming used to the sithster's motion,
but I believe I could do better with less distraction. There is
an annoying repetition of bleating and tooting sounds blaring
behind me in a most disconcerting manner. I tilt my head back
to ask Obi-Wan, "What that noise is, padawan?"
The apprentice leans forward to speak in my ear, "The other
vehicles are honking at us Master."
"Why," I query.
"Well," he begins sheepishly, "you're going rather slowly and
since this is a no-passing zone, they can't get around you.
They need to exercise more patience, I think."
"Learned well you have your lessons, boy," I praise him. I
increase my speed fractionally to appease the other drivers.
Apparently it is not enough, however, because the noise level
continues to climb. At this point I am even able to pick out
voices shouting obscenities and alluding to my parentage. My
concentration is broken by the voice of my passenger shouting
above the din.
"Over there, Master Yoda," Obi-Wan cries, "a refueling station
on your right."
I engage my turn signaling device and approach the
Seven-Eleven. As I turn, the vehicles behind me whiz by, some
coming within micro-inches of my speeder bike. Sentients are
yelling insults in a multitude of languages. I decide to give
them the finger. I realize I don't have a middle finger. Damn.
I turn to my trusty sidekick.
"Obi-Wan," I order, "the bird you must flip them!"
"Yes, Master," he acknowledges my command. The padawan is not
content to merely stick his center digit into the air. He is
making a big production. I am only now realizing that as much
as the honking train of vehicles behind us annoyed me, it
genuinely pissed off Obi-Wan. He is channeling his disquiet
into a large theatrical gesture. The apprentice leans back
casually and stretches his arm out, palm up. With a pointed
flick of his wrist he flicks out his finger in sync with a
derisive sneer which plays across his lips. To emphasize his
movements he begins yelling rudely at the drivers, instructing
them on various sexual positions which they can achieve with
themselves, their vehicles and various members of their own
families. It is most impressive. I will have to remember to
have the lad teach me some of his more scathing retorts.
I pull the bike up to the pump. There are many nozzles flowing
in and out of the apparatus with markings like 'leaded,'
'unleaded,' 'dilithium' and so forth. I leave Obi-Wan to make
heads or tails of it and go into the facility to pay for the
fuel and buy a beverage.
The pimply faced boy behind the counter is completely enclosed
in a plastic cage. The only opening to his prison is a small
stainless steel bowl into which customers are placing their
payments so that he can scoop the credits out with his pasty
fingers. I cannot imagine what type of disease he has
contracted that requires him to be so isolated. As the long
line slowly moves forward, I feel pity for him. Whatever his
illness, it has seemingly affected his muscle control because
he is processing orders with the speed of a glacier. The que
inches forth. My neck is aching from constantly looking up
towards the counter that I begin to fear I will never reach. I
am finding it difficult to feel sorry for this boy now that it
is plainly obvious that he is using his disease as an excuse to
slack off. The acne-assaulted clerk is ringing orders so slowly
it feels as if time has stopped. The line moves minutely closer
to his zit-ridden visage. Antsy beings in front of me shuffle
their feet, working cramped muscles. I take another small step
forward. I have a flash of insight, this plague-carrier is
seeking to gain a measure of revenge upon those of us not
infected by making us wait in this torturously endless line.
Finally, after approximately one million years, I step up to
the counter. I shove my credits into the silver bowl and scream
at the evil one, "Your blood money you may have, you spotted
bastard!"
Obi-Wan is standing next to the sithster when I at last
return. He takes his seat and holds my drink while I climb up.
He looks curiously at the cup and asks, "Master Yoda, do you
want me to hold this for you while we drive?"
"Necessary that is not, Obi-Wan. Accessories I have had
installed," I answer. With that I push a button and a cup
holder extends from the dash. The apprentice sets the cup into
the plastic ring. "Fits only to Big Gulp, buy you not the Super
Big Gulp, young one." He nods his understanding and we exit the
refueling station.
We cruise along the city streets, heading for the open road.
As we drive, Obi-Wan begins teaching me the fine art of
performing disgusting gestures. We are eager to leave the
traffic and find an empty highway. Before we get there,
however, I am struck down by the full force of my 44 oz.
beverage. Desperately I scan the buildings zooming past for
signs of a restroom facility. I spy a drinking establishment
whose parking lot appears to be filled with other speeder
bikes. I pull in and park.
Obi-Wan does not follow me as I dismount. He is looking
apprehensively at the door. "Master Yoda, I don't think we want
to go in there. This is a biker bar."
"A bike we have Obi-Wan," I try to explain calmly but the
pressure on my bladder is wreaking havoc on my jedi control.
"These kinds of places can be kind of rough, Master, I'm not
sure," he begins, but I interrupt. "Inside we will go or
explode my kidneys will," I tell him, making a beeline for the
door.
I race towards the rear of the cantina. There are several
doors all of which sport silhouettes of various beings on them.
I choose one that seems to depict a bipedal mammal. When I am
finished I look for Obi-Wan. He is chatting with several
hulking beings who are arranged around him in a circle. His new
friends seem to be curious about the young padawan. I assume
they have questioned him about his life training to be a jedi
knight because I see Obi-Wan's hand glide down to grasp his
lightsaber. I decide to join in on the conversation as I am a
member of the council and well versed in jedi training methods.
As I enter the ring of beings to stand next to Obi-Wan, one
particularly ugly creature points to me and asks in pigeon
basic, "Who you?"
"Yoda I am," I respond. Obi-Wan has slid up next to me, his
legs press against my back. "How I may help you?"
A second being answers. This one is a rotund human female who
has chosen to wear the skin of a dead animal wrapped tightly
around her body. The parts of her body that are not covered by
tattoos anyway. "We just want to play with your pretty boy
here, Gramps," she twists the words out of her mouth around a
hungry grimace.
I turn to my companion, "What means this Gramps, Obi-Wan?"
He looks down before answering, avoiding my eyes. "It means
revered elder, Master," he claims.
"Well," I address Obi-Wan's admirers, "many duties has this
apprentice. No time does he have for play. Good-bye."
I begin to move towards the door with Obi-Wan literally on my
heels. Ouch. I sense one of the larger more amorous beings
reaching to grab the padawan from behind. I feel the force flow
around me, I pull it in and redirect it. I sense Obi-Wan doing
the same. As one we release the force as a wall of energy
focused at the love struck hooligans. Flailing appendages and
toppling tables challenge gravity to reach the ceiling, only to
plummet back towards the floor. Two jedi race for the exit.
Before we make good our escape, I turn in the doorway to
practice the lessons Obi-Wan has given me. I clutch my genitals
roughly and call to the ruffians, "These you will suck!" I see
several beings have regained their footing and are making their
way towards me. In an instant I feel Obi-Wan's strong arms
about me, lifting me and racing us towards the sithster. We
mount up and speed away. Just before we clear the parking area
I send out another force push, toppling all of the speeder
bikes in the lot and throwing off any pursuit.
As we head down the street a profound sense of relief hits me
and I settle into a driving rhythm. Finally the exit sign
appears which will take us to the least occupied part of the
city.
I turn the sithster onto a large expanse of open highway and
gun the engine. The rapid acceleration flings me back towards
Obi-Wan who instinctively clutches me about the waist. Holding
on for dear life, the padawan's face is inches from mine and
his mouth close enough to my right ear that I can hear the
excitement in his voice. "How about some tunes, Master?" he
asks. I obligingly flip the com switch. The loud bass thrums
through the sound system in tune with our rapidly beating
hearts. I increase our speed a little more. The wind whips our
jedi cloaks, the sound they make is like the flapping of an
angel's wings. The light of the twin suns shine down on us,
warming our faces. Their glory is reflected off the cycle's
chrome and Obi-Wan's hair. His padawan braid trails behind us
like the tail of a red-gold comet. I stretch out my feelings
and sense the living force. It dances along with us as we speed
down the asphalt. It feeds off the joy of our newfound freedom.
Obi-Wan's voice smiles into my ear like a melody. In his tones
I hear the song of the open road, urging me on. "Open her up,
Master Yoda. Let's see what she can do," he sings. I hit the
accelerator and we fly.
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