The Old Republic, License to Kill. Learning Permit, License to Thrill.

The twin suns of Tatooine hit the fins of Obok’s speeder bike and gleam in the eyes of the rabble mulling around the vendors. A Jawa, drunk on juri juice, narrowly misses being clipped by the nose of my Ubrikkian Striker. Slow to react, I hear him scream “Utini!” about 20 meters after our close encounter. Obok Stillsky is pursuing a Rodian bounty hunter who took credits, rather than fulfill his contract. In the Great Hunt, taking a bribe rather than closing your contract is punishable by death, at least in Obok’s mind.

Ubrikkian Striker Speeder

The summer prior to my sophomore year I remember walking to my soon-to-be high school to attend a week long drivers ed course. The morning sun was gentle and wouldn’t be a problem until later in the day. The course was useful, mostly because upon its completion, it lowered car insurance premiums. It was also a good way to meet other incoming sophomores from different junior highs around the area.

Obok had taken any bounty he could get his hand on, on a multitude of planets. Any side jobs made available to him, no matter how minuscule, were accepted. Obok scrimped and quested until he had reached level 25 and had 40,000 credits. In TOR, not only do you have to be level 25 to be eligible for speeder piloting training but you also need 40,000 credits to pay for it. The irony, Obok already owned a star ship (The Abort Ion). He had already piloted his way to different galaxies but until just seconds ago, Obok had never felt the hot desert wind blow through his armor while seated on a speeder bike.

There were about five cars total, running through the cone course in the parking lot of the high school. Each car had two occupants that would switch off on the task of driving. For the most part you would just idle through the course, take your time, and leave at least a two cars length distance from the car in front of you. Today’s class, however, would go a little different.

Traversing the epic landscapes of Tatooine by foot would be painstaking at the very least, deadly for most. Obok knew where ole-tentacle-eyes was enjoying his riches, thanks to a generous donation of information from a Bith staring down a blaster muzzle. A little dive cantina that had watered down drinks but great Twilek ass was the perfect place for a washed up bounty hunter to spend his negotiated credits. It would also be a great place for Obok to corner the bugged-eyed-bastard and maybe, pick up a date.

On the opposite side of the circular course I noticed a car take a turn too sharp and acquire a coned shape passenger under its front right tire. My passenger and I laughed. Instead of just stopping, the driver panicked, accelerated and wrenched the cone deep into the wheel well. My passenger and I cringed. The class instructor, also one of the high school counselors, blew the air horn signaling everyone to stop. Everyone did, except for the one toting a cone.

Getting to the Rodian’s retirement party quickly was an essential part to Obok’s plan and having a speeder made it possible. Getting the drop on a bounty hunter was an advantage for Obok but getting the drop on a drunk bounty hunter was even better. The cantina was multileveled and the VIP section was down stairs, that’s where Obok’s mark would be. Scoping the the room from the bottom of the steps, the Rodian stood out just like you would imagine a green skinned would. Drunk and throwing money away on drinks and dancers you could tell he was having fun, which made it that much more enjoyable for Obok to kill the mood. Like Moses of fiction, Obok parted the Twilek sea of dancers, “Sorry to interrupt.”

To be continued…