Oh, I figure the Sarge isn't too picky. speeder radiator fluid, whatever the hell the Ewoks ferment. I'm just saying it's to the point an Officer quality dude remained noncom, but also didn't fail out of the service.
Like sometimes he has to close an eye and stare a bit to measure something out.
I am not saying he is a drunk driver.
I can not promise this level of detail in the fic. We're talkin' like Gilligan impairment, Vince Vaughn dies, and Schmoogs moseys off into the sunset.
These are like, 200 word chapters after all.
Essentially, if Sarge had been sober, Luke Skywalker would never have made it to a cockpit. In fact, Sarge would have loudly protested. Hence, Radiator fluid.
This also has a slight reality mix. Submariners stole the 180 grain alcohol out of torpedo's. Called it torpedo juice.
Okay, so here's Chapter 5, consider it a preview or whatever.
Sgt. Schmoogs was a practical man. A practical man surrounded by death. By Fire, by blaster, by mangling, he'd seen just about every type of death one could see. And then some, depending on theater.
So the battle of the forest moon of Endor was a bless'ed charnel house. No, he hadn't had to fire his fifth or sixth hand blaster rifle, and he was thankful for that. He'd personally tested each rifle for his squad, and to say he was alarmed was an understatement. He'd thought his men would have been better off with sticks and rocks, but the mission was under the blasted princess and her consort, "General" Solo.
To say Schmoogs was not a fan of the General was an understatement. When officers wing plans, men die. And a shrug was as far a battle plan as Solo ever mustered.
So he sat on his knees, hands behind his head, and waited for the piercing whine that would usher him to darkness.
But it didn't come. Those same rocks and sticks he would have preferred his men to have rained down on the bleached bastards, and he was in the thick of it. Blood and death, fire and soot. He fought with everything in him, and more.
And he found himself folded into a force. Not of the men he had trained, who openly joked about killing him and taking his place, no he found himself among a gibbering clan of three foot tall morons. But they listened better than the human troops he had ushered. Through simple hand gestures, he commanded one of the finest group of soldiers he'd ever served with.
Those brave little gits braved everything, being mashed to poo by the chicken walkers, weeping over their fallen brethren before pulling them away for funeral rites, Those bastards had a spirit both electrifying and terrifying. They Did. Not. Quit!
And neither did schmoogs. Later, at the victory celebration, he was horrified. Stormie meat was a main entrée, so he drank whatever it was the furry little bastards fermented, and he kept drinking.
-7 years later-
Needless to say, when Sgt. Shmoogs failed to muster after the celebrations, he was discharged. Not dishonorably, he'd been wounded bad enough for a medical, but the new government disclaimed a lot of alliance personnel, claimed they were volunteers, undeserving of a pension. Veterans of the clone wars were no source of sympathy.
So Schmoogs stayed. He lived a simple life, with his radiator juice, or whatever the furry naffs had managed to ferment that week. He stripped hides for supplies. He'd sell off pelts of particularly attractive beasts to the resorts. Every madam on Coruscant wanted a fur coat, and as long as it was shiny enough, who cared where it came from. Shmoogs knew none of those socialites cared if they were wearing wookie, so what was a six legged nightmare beast worth? Quite a lot, if he wasn't mistaken. They had pretty fur despite resembling something you'd rather die than look at.
Which found him at the landing site, two morons in speeder troop armor holding pristine E-11's, as he negotiated with the latest moron tailor at the resort.
"Now I'm not saying these are bad pal, what I'm saying is that we're under constraints. Constraints that keep us from moving in the usual fluid market, if you know what I mean, and I know you are. You are after all, a business man my friend. And so I'm going to make you a deal. These furs are spectacular. Amazing even. If I could get away with it, I'd give my mistress and my wife each one of these damn' things, and I'd be golden, but I can't. So I'm going to have to insist you take the case."
"Roight then, what's in the case." Shmoogs amicably replied.
"See, that's the problem, you can't ask me that, you've just gotta take it.". Replied the motormouth.
"Why, that sounds just fine to me, I'll just be popping the corner then, havin' meself a look".
"I-I, I guess that's okay. This is fresh off Coruscant, hot poo friend, the hottest. You'll have no trouble moving this down at durga's"
"And now what makes you think I have business at durga's" The reply was sharp, the eye contact piercing. Shmoogs didn't mix business, that lead to entanglements. Entanglements weren't a part of his current life.
"And what the KARK am I supposed to do with these purple Flargin, Electicity dischargin' ONIONS?" He bellowed. He hadn't drawn a weapon, he didn't need to. The guards had actually mellowed, stowing their rifles behind their backs. Apparently Fast Talk was a poo boss, and they didn't much care for them.
Sadly, this was the perfect storm. Shmoogs had dried a bit more than he liked, found himself in a deal he liked even less, and he recognized the powder-keg he stood upon.
Even worse, he flat didn't care. He raised a fist in the air.
"W-wha-what is this?" Fast talk stuttered, "I mean yeah, independent contractor power, represent, but-"
Shmoogs dropped the arm. The two guards lost their heads, literally, as two shadows dropped from their trees, bone blades dripping.
"Fuh- KARK! Look, we can make a deal, I know we can make a deal".
"Deals up Fasto." Shmoogs dropped a kick in the center of fast talk's chest, he went over the edge of the landing pad. Not the farrest drop, but it was one that would require medical attention.
Meanwhile, the resort began to burn.
