#rhomm

Cretcher “I Will Throw You Out Of An Airlock and THEN Shoot You”Rhomm.

Cretcher “I’m gonna sit on your counter drinking your vodka with you at blaster point” Rhomm

Cretcher “I’m takin’ your speeder or your arm - no, not the cybernetic one” Rhomm

Cretcher “Thrown into a pack of cannibals as an object lesson and emerged the alpha” Rhomm

Cretcher “I Will Skullfuck The Next Hutt That Tries To Order Me Around” Rhomm

Cretcher “Bludgeon a Sith To Death With His Own Lightsaber Hilt” Rhomm

Cretcher “You only get hungover if you stop drinkin’” Rhomm

Cretcher “It ain’t burglary if you shoot them first” Rhomm

Cretcher “There ain’t any problem that can’t be fixed with a headshot” Rhomm

(The intro for Cretcher **********ing Rhomm as ‘The Jedi Knight’ for that playthrough.)

He was below. The Bunker was the one guaranteed place where he and the soldiers could be free of Imperial spies undermining their liberation efforts. He would go up soon enough and rally the troops - push to get the Imps off planet...But not before the first explosion. Not before the slaughter and destruction the Force should have warned him why didn’t it warn him WHY DIDNT HE SAVE THEM WHY DIDN’T YOU WARN THEM WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP THEM WHY DID IT FAIL WHY DID YOU FAIL YOU FAIL YOU FAIL YOU FAILURE YOU FAILURE YOU FAILURE-

He woke. Drenched in sweat. His head was killing him - everything was threatening to creep back in.

The first swig of the ‘day’ put a swift end to that. 

He sat. Minutes passed. His eyes remained shut, mentally forcing all of that shit back into the dark, locked little corner of his brain with alcohol-reinforced chains. He’d slipped up last night. Fell asleep rather than passing out. Hadn’t had enough to drink. Harder to dream when properly pickled. 

Another swig. Not making that mistake two days in a row. 

Finally he stood, listened to every crack and pop his body. He felt old.

“Y’are old, y’old Kath.”

His throat was dry, voice hoarse and generally unpleasant to the ears. 

Swig number three. Oh, yes, it would be a good day.

He lurched his way toward the refresher, his body fighting the good fight to rid itself of toxins. A futile attempt really, but it had to try. 

A look in the mirror was somehow less flattering than he felt. Weeks of untrimmed grey over his face, hair unkept and getting too long in the back, yellowed eyes with none of the former sharpness, even the tattoo latticing the left side of his face seemed out of focus. He stretched, grunted, drank, and felt which scars ached more today than the others.

The bottle was empty by the time he finally was dressed and staggering out the door. The shaders he wore only just made it bearable. If he’d woken up any earlier, he might have had to face the full light of day rather than what many would consider quite a lovely evening. 

He moved on autopilot. He’d stumbled this route many a time, and his thirst guided him the rest of the way. There were a number of little dive cantinas off the beaten path that he enjoyed stuporing in. Routine. He went in, added to his tab, found a corner, watched the dancers, drank, and just tuned the Galaxy out. 

Like he had the past two decades.

Twenty years, a dozen planets, and-

Company.

 He shook his head and forced the feeling away. It did not belong in his conscious mind. Instincts of the Old Life belonged in the dark corner. 

It was an older Mon Calamari, and while his clothes were civilian, everything else - posture, gestures, mannerisms, all that were Republic Military through and through. 

“Mas-”

“No.”

“-ter R-”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I just w-”

“Not happenin.’”

He was standing and making for the door already, not swaying as much as he would have liked. The Mon Calamari was following. He’d gained two companions at his flanks. Idiots. Undercover was the SIS’ specialty, not the Army’s. 

“The Republic needs-”

“-A lotta things but I ain’t one of ‘em.”

He wasn’t going to lose them. Not easily in his state. If they found him at the cantina, they knew where he lived. And he wasn’t about to skip the planet that easily - he wasn’t a fugitive. Not really.

He grabbed a bottle on the way back, and greeted the ‘welcoming committee’ in his apartment. Whereas the cantina crew had attempted to go undercover, the fine folks waiting for him had not. Shiny uniforms and all. 

Well then. 

He dropped down into his chair, cracked open his drink, and had at it. Once a third of it was ‘comfortably’ in his gullet, he gestured to the group.

“Make yer damn pitch and get it over with.” 

And they did. The Cold War was certain to break down. The Jedi Order was rebuilding and bount to be stronger than ever - a lie but one they wanted to believe - the Empire was getting bolder and bolder, the Republic needed Heroes and warriors more than ever. It needed-

“A man who died twenty damn years ago, even before that kriffin’ Treaty.”

One of the soldiers shifted. He didn’t need his connection to the Force to know what he was thinking.

“Oh fer kriff’s sake kid, I know I an’t actually dead. But I ain’t that person anymore. Jus’ an old drunk waitin’ for th’end. An’ I’m pretty damn sure there ain’t a damn thing you can say t’...I’unno...reignite m’patriotic spirit.”

They sat and stood in silence for a few good, long minutes.

“...Sir...were you familiar with General Var Suthra and the Special Weapons Projects?”

Cretcher Rhomm is led out of a Planetary Security Department, still in cuffs, and in slightly mussed up fatigues. There is a podium and several very interested reporters waiting outside the station. One of the Security Droids deactivates his cuffs - freeing the old drunk to roll his shoulders, stretch, yawn, spit, and then approach the waiting crowd.

"Mornin'. Anyone got a water 'r somethin'? Lockup nights always leave a bad taste n' the like. Y'do? Yea? Gimme. Thanks. Right. So. Guess I won huh? Bet yer all lovin' this eh? Story've the year. Curious how yer all gonna spin it though. Figure a lot've ya dug up m'records an're decidin' whether t'take the ol' war hero route or electin' a criminal route. 

Well I couldn' give a nerf's ass 'bout what you kriffs say 'bout me. Ain't in this fer the career shit 'r anythin' like that. Doin' this 'cause I'm real tired've the whole politically correct crap. We're at war? Yeah. Last thing folks need t'do's worry whether or not th'jagoff they elected works for 'em or fer Czerka."

He grins a broken grin, scratches his nose, and holds his arms out to the side in open invitation. 

"Seriously. Hit me with th'smear campaigns. Call fer the recalls an' kriff. The normal people've spoken. But till the slimeballs try an' put me out on my ass I'm gonna do this job an' do it the best I can. But lemme put it out on holo right here'n' now. I ain't a good man. I love drinkin. Fightin. A lotta drugs that're seriously kriffin' easy t'get on the streets...s'pose I gotta do somethin' bout that...damn....eh. But y'gave me this job so I'm gonna do it. An' hopefully I'll do it well enough that next time elections come 'round I'll've made things better 'nuff that people won' feel they need t'elect a bastard to get things done."

After a moment, a pause, he belches, cracks something, and chuckles. 

"Oh an' Birg Hedley this don' change a thing y'still owe me eighty credits."

From the varied responses, the results are as follows.

54% - Cretcher Rhomm

30% - No

16% - Other.

*On the Holonet the Republic Anthem plays, flags wave, and it is all very patriotic. Rhomm stumbles on camera, glances around at all the pomp and circumstance, scowls, spits, draws his blaster and shoots something off camera. There is a small explosion, a few yelps, and all the music grinds to a halt. He scratches at his stubble, drags a chair on camera, and sits unceremoniously on it and addresses the camera*

"I hate these [BLEEPED] advertisements and the [BLEEPED] censoring [BLEEP] but all the campaign advisor's're sayin' it's gotta be done. Name's Rhomm. Cretcher [BLEEPING] Rhomm. I'm runnin' fer Senator've Coruscant.. Why should y'vote fer me? Cause I'm not a total [BLEEPING] [BLEEP] like the other [BLEEPS] runnin fer the office. Last one was canned fer corruption and [BLEEP] an' all the others're upper class [BLEEPS] who don' know what its like bein' raised anywhere but the top [BLEEPING] towers. I'm a soldier. Been one most've m'life. An' the one thing I'm promisin' is absolutely no Nerf[BLEEP]. Am I the smartest son of a Hutt? Nah. But I ain't gonna ignore the smart guys. So if you're tired of bein' ignored, feelin' like yer Senator represents [BLEEPING] corporations n' [BLEEP] rather than the people? Vote fer me."