The Importance of Wearing Helmets, Part 1

THE IMPORTANCE OF WEARING HELMETS, PART 1

Because gags that keep going on and on and on and on still don't get any funnier by themselves. A continuation of the adventures begun in 'Just Another Crazy Beginning' and 'Don't Worry, Everyone Crashes on Taris Their First Time!'

And on and on and on and on...

TARIS: UPPER CITY: 1800 (STILL DAY 3)

That face-plant into the wall must've broken my jaw. I can't feel it. I'm not in pain, but blood is guzzling down my neck. I taste iron in my mouth and the right side of my face is swollen, too. The mighty Raven Velis, Egregious Treasure Hunter Extraordinaire and Liberator of Found Goods... fallen so low. It's a tragedy.

I turn away from the mirror. Deal or no, I'm going to brutalize that clod-eating-pile-of-bantha until Upper City of Taris don't shine.

Mr. Scruffy's innocent face peeps in around the doorframe. 'Are you okay?'

'My headssh the shuiz offa schutta-valloon!'

'It's not that bad.'

'Loo', it' shollen like a shtuffed gizshka!'

'You'll be alright. We'll make a trip to the medical center.'

'Oi hate you. Thish ish all your fault.'

'My fault?'

'Oimgonnakillshyouwhenthishisallover--'

'Maybe you should consider just not talking, full stop.'

'$-#&-)@(*$#&%#*)(!*@#$@#$%*()%*(#@&$@#!#, flyvoy!'

The bastard's actually smirking. And shaking his head, 'Is that the best you've got?'

'$#$-&$#-$-#&am#)%&p;-)@(*$#&%#*()@#$%*%*$#^@$)(&*#@#*@#$%*%*()#@-#!!!'

'Alright, alright. I'll be here tomorrow, too. Good to know your expressive vocabulary remains undamaged. You must be damn-near one of the most persistent people I've ever met.'

'$#$-#&-)@(*$()#&%#*()@#$%@#$%*()%*()#@.'

'That's what I'm talking about.'

I glare at the stinking-gonad-for-brains and try to conjure up the most vehement punishment. Slow death over a thousand years in the pit of the Sarlacc, or thirty straight days of watching Gungan courtship rituals on DiscoverNet. I can't decide.

'Thish ish in violassion of oor deal.'

'Na-uh,' Republic Denial shakes his head. 'You're the one who rammed your own face into the wall; that had nothing to do with me. Why did you duck, anyway?'

Because I like breathing without blaster holes in my chest, you fraggin' idiot. If looks could kill, there'd be laser beams from my eyes.

'You know you could have hit the door-panel and just stepped back into the apartment, don't you?' Blinding, gonad-cleaving lasers.

'Hey, did that blow do some damage to your eyes, you're looking kinda--' Lottsa lasers.

'--er, right. Here, let me take a look at that.' Orange leads me to the table and sits me down in the chair. 'We still have some bandages left over from the medkit I used earlier...'

His hands are warm against the sticky mess that's my face and neck, fingers running firmly down the jaw line, deft as he presses along the bone. I can feel the blaster calluses lining his fingers and palm, but his touch is surprisingly gentle, almost tender, as he wipes away the blood with a wet towelette before applying the adhesive seal and wrapping more bandages around my head.

'Oooowww,' I complain.

'Don't whine,' he chides, 'Your jaw isn't broken. Just a little bruised, is all.'

I try to pout, but my swollen cheek's stuck.

'That should hold you until we get to the Med Center. Dr. Zelka Forn's a friend of the Republic, and I'm sure he'll have you patched up in no time. Good thing med services are free in Taris --- one of their many 'human sentient' perks.' He frowns as if it's a bad thing. 'They're got complete coverage for all their citizens and impressive privileges for human visitors as well.' I nod, still wondering where he thought the drawback came in. We head out the door for a second time, my mouth nearly sealed shut by the lump of cloth around my face.

I pause to kick the body of the Sith thug who's the source of all my pain. All this trouble and he only had twelve creds and a lousy pocket switchblade when Republic Two-Gun was done. I sigh, resigned. I'm gonna need a really dishonest job fast if I was ever going get off this over-developed planetoid.

A wave of hot speeder exhaust and the taste of ozone greet us as we step outside. It's night out over Golden Taris, but you can hardly tell. The planet is one big city of many things, but the most marked of which is the sharp divide between the economic status of its Upper citizens, and the denizens of the Lower City. The top half acts like the world belongs to them, and admittedly, for some it's actually true. The rest of the podgies, however, live in a state of self-deluded grandeur only rivaled by the kind of vadge-trash you get outta an Ithorian on a glitter trip; you can practically see the marks drawn in concentric circles over their fat backs, like nerfs pegging for a slaughter. But the preds of any urban jungle know well-enough to keep to their own, and way I hear it, the Exchange has got its grip sunk pretty vicious in this town. No one touches the top-heavy Tarisians so long's the Exchange is milking them, and the 'Thorities are paid more than enough to look the other way. Politics. It keeps the fat bastards happy and the black market buzzing. Meanwhile, the rest of the rots settle it out in the lower regions, and when all's said and done, I think I prefer the more straightforward sort of dishonesty that lurks in the bollocks of Taris over its gilded, golden counterpart. If nothing else, no one has to cash to fall into bribery.

But for the moment, what with the store signs clashing for Most Blindingly Garish display of the night, and the woozy, red kaleidoscopic vision caused by the blood clots over my eyes, I am making hazards at keeping up with Tightpants, the fuzzy light blur of his orange back moving too-fast away, too-quick for my legs to catch up.

I've just about lost sight of him when I collide into something, an annoyed 'Ooompf!' rolling out my mouth as my head sinks into a nose-full of bantha dregs and cheap intoxication.

'Heeeeeey,' the loud and walking smell greets, 'What's this, boys? C'mere and check it out!' The odor resolves into a couple of hairy hands and thick legs stuffed up into a patchy gray jumpsuit, with stained, yellow teeth grinning down at me as I look up. 'It looks wot of 'em new alien whatsits, 'ey? Haha! What're you doing here, then, short stuff? Get lost trying to find yer mothership?' The others behind Loud and Smelly -- a lanky man with a bushy mustache, a red-nosed thug, and an even uglier cooze wearing a belt with a buckle the size of Peragus -- gaffaw appreciatively.

I try to work my way around the drunk, but fat phiz just won't move. 'Geouva vy way, fafan!' I grumble into the cloth around my head.

But he's too busy making obnoxious gestures with his hands to notice, pointing at me while winking at his friends, as if I'm not standing right here, miming Gungan ears over his head.

'You ssshouldn't be wandering ort here, buddy, not 'mongst us humans. Now youse gottsa pay us a toll.' Bushy-Beard butts in.

'Oi onna ut you ouwn an guvva leeva ishka!'

'Oho! This one's got a temper, boys!' Loud-Smell says and gets another chuckle from his skag-worm posse. I settle for glaring sullenly. 'Whattsa matter squirt, Cathar got your tongue?'

'We're not looking for any trouble,' Republic's thin voice cuts through from behind, and I crane my neck around just to see him, 'Just a couple of travelers down on our luck, trying to get on our way. How 'bout you cut us a little slack, fellas?'

'Spacers,' Red-Nose spits out from behind Loud-Smell, 'We ain't taking no orders from you, scum!'

'Yeah!' Peragus-Belt joins in, hooting. 'Who you think you are, swooping in 'ere and taking our wimmim?'

Oh yeah. As if a palatic dirt-face like yerself could ever get a 'wimmim' you didn't have to pay for, you tauntaun-bollicking gimp. Red-Nose gives me a strangled look, as if I'd said it out loud. I stop, my hand halfway to my pockets, and grin innocently him through bloody teeth. I don't want to attract more attention, but I catch sight of Republic's mouth about to open again and probably get us into a whole bantha-load more trouble. I have to make my decision fast, so I jam my hand into my pockets and pull out a fistful, waving the other hand to get everyone's attention.

'Ay shaygehd!' I shout and flap my free hand in Loud-Smell's face 'Oike ish!' and I let loose, creds spilling out my fingertips into the air, like silver and blue mynocks, making their inebriated eyes to bulge greedily at the sight of cash. As the first of the small disks start hitting the ground, I duck into the opening past Peragus's huge belt and use the opportunity to check his pockets. The large oaf is distracted by the shiny, but somehow manages to clip me a lucky one as he lunges for the creds, his thick fists clocking on my noggin just before I'm clear. I fall, left arm and elbow bent awkwardly beneath me, the other covering my face, and not for the first time, I really wish I had a helmet, or a face-mask, or anything, really, for this damn stupid, idiotic heroing business.

Now something's pulling on my leg, dragging me down, and I kick desperately, trying to get away. 'Hey, HEY! Ouch, my eye... Hey, watch it, it's me!' And I realize it's the pilot-jockey's arm, pulling me away from the melee. I go limp. 'Are you alright?' he asks, hauling me out and tossing me like a sack of chuff over his shoulder. 'I think we could have talked that out!' he mutters as we start running down the street, 'We're trying to keep a low profile, remember?'

He thinks I was causing a commotion? 'Thugs oike shiny thingsh!' I slurr back and try to shrug as best I can. I can't believe the old coot. As if I'd ever go looking for this grade of trouble. Amateur.

We attract even more eyes as he dashes down the street with me onboard, and I wave politely to the passersby, as if being hiked around by a doofus soldier was a completely normal activity that I did everyday. Which, sadly, isn't that far off sometimes, what with all the death warrants and the occasional piloting-under-the-influence arrests and all.

Razor-Impaired finally lets me down as we near the clinic some six blocks away, and we manage to slip through the doors without any further drunken encounters. The center is open twenty-six hours, all day and night, and we're greeted at the entrance by one of the curmudgeonliest orderlies I've ever seen.

'What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy? Go talk to Zelka Forn if you want something!' he screams, waving a long syringe irritably towards the inner rooms, perhaps looking to poke an eye out. I cover my face with my hands, and peer out between the cracks as Orange leads me in, and I can't help but notice the words 'Gurney' printed in big, bold, san-serif letters on Shrieky the Medic's chest as we walk away. With a stupid name like that, I guess I'd want someone to carry me away in a stretcher too, I tell myself.

'That's not funny!' The nurse shrieks, as we walk away, 'YOU THINK I HAVEN'T HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE! I'VE HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE!'

'What did you say to him?' Republic asks after we pass out of earshot. He glances back, 'That orderly's face is all scrunched up like a kinrath pup.'

I blink a little uncertainly, which is the most expression I can get right now on my increasingly numb face. In the white light of the clinic, I notice for the first time that Flyboy's got a purple patch the size of a speeder transponder spreading across his left eye. 'Wha' thappen twoo thor aye?' I ask, pointing to him and then to my own eye.

He gives me a sour look. What's that supposed to mean? He's about to speak when a rusty medical droid ambles up and cuts Scruffy off with a series of beeping introductions.

Dwooweet Dewoo: Please state your name and purpose.

''Ere duh shee da doc,' I reply, mumbling carefully around the cloth. 'Isshy fwee?'

Beep-bewoop. Doweet: Of course. May I please have your name and identification?

'Thy Lanthime,' I slur through the bandages, ignoring Scruffy's puzzled look. The droid beeps and prints out an examination waiver for me to sign, which I take and scribble something on the sig line before handing back and turning to look at Agent Orange, 'Low Pwofile, wewenbwer?' His eyebrows don't lower, but he keeps quiet as the old droid leads us over to Patient Examination Station #4.

Against the far side of the med center, a mellow-looking chap with a droopy mustache and matching eyes is puttering around a secure-looking door glancing nervously over his back as he wipes his hand over his bald head over and over again. We're led out of sight to the room right next door, but the man follows right along in a moment, all fluttery hands and sweaty brow, with darting, anxious eyes. The droid introduces the man as the Doctor Forn I'm here to see. Judging by the feathery pink lines around his irises and the greasy gray pallor of his brown skin, I'd dare say Doc Modern is a little too fond of his own medicine.

'Ty Landime?' he asks, reading off the report from the droid. He looks me up and down and then at the paper, entirely unconvinced by my clever disguise.

'Whassapdothk?' I say, friendly-like, and wink at him with my good eye, sliding him the stimmer's shake as he extends his hand, a move that causes a glimmer of recognition to twitch across his face. He catches himself and the eyes narrow, even though I'm giving him the two thumbs up and a wink to let him know we're on the same side. Tighty looks confused, but no one bothers to explain. I sit down on the patient table and wait for the Doc to inspect me.

He purses his lips but doesn't bat a lash as he checks my injuries, cutting away the crusted rust and red threads, wiping off the blood with something stinging before stuffing my face, literally, with a foamy kolto seal. Doc Forn doesn't ask questions, and as he's finishing up, I can't help thinking that he is my kind of doc.

'Don't move your head and don't talk for the next ten minutes,' The bald medic says to me as he finishes setting the healing mask, 'it'll take about that long for the outer skin to heal.'

He then gives me the usual eye and ear inspection, taking extra time to prod around my brain-crate and examine the neck area, saying, 'Looks like you two have seen a lot of action,' the last bit as much for Scruffy's bruised eye as it is for me, 'Get in a fight on the way over?'

'Nhaaa,' I say, thick-tongued.

'Don't talk,' Doc snaps.

'Just a few drunks as unhappy to see a few down-on-their-luck spacers as we were to see them, that's all. Er, 'Ty' fell off a speeder,' Scruffy offers in lame explanation while rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, an obvious tell that makes me wanna slap him: You frackin' idiot, don't make it so obvious you're lying!

'Turn around and let me take a look at the damage on the back...' Doc says to me, either not noticing Republic's giveaway, or not caring. 'Ah... right... it's like I thought...'

'Wha? Meh?'

'One more out of you and I'll patch this the old fashioned way -- with stitches. And trust me, kid, that leaves scars even laser surgery won't fix.'

I gulp, nodding, and zip, and try to count the dust motes in the air instead of talking.

'You two are Offworlders, right?' Scruffy gives a careful nod.

'You the legal guardian?' Doc asks the pilot, and Hot-Pants stutters.

'Er, well, I guess... Uhm. Yes. I can make legal decisions.'

Doc nods and waves him out. 'Good. Could we please step outside and talk for a moment?'

I'm still heeeere! I try to broadcast telepathically in case that worked -- I totally saw that on a Jedi space opera once and it was so freezie -- but no one pays any heed. Doc looks down at me, unconcerned, and asks, 'Has anyone talked to you lately about the importance of wearing helmets?'

What kind of idiot naffing question is that? If my whole face wasn't sealed because of this mask... I settle for staring skeptically at the Doc.

'We -- have -- a -- great -- informational -- vid -- on -- it -- right -- here,' Clueless continues, clipping the end of each word as if it's wrapped plasteel. 'I -- will -- play -- it -- for -- you -- now -- while -- we -- wait -- for -- the -- kolto -- patch -- to -- settle.'

'Mmm-momhmn.' I manage, lips pressed carefully together. I glance over for Ossus Bread, but he's already gone. The odd Doc Forn is just opening up some wall compartments when I catch sight of the racks upon racks of processed stims sitting, forlorn and neglected, on the cabinet shelves. It's enough to make my squinty eyes to go wide, and I have to whip my head away just so's it's not completely obvious that I'm staring. Doc rummages about and pulls out a syringe before grabbing the remote and dropping a squeaky flatscreen from the ceiling.

An overly-friendly female voice begins speaking as the lights flick off and the screen glows blue.

'Welcome. This is the Sith Imperial Helmets and Armour Equipment Training Video. For your safety, please pay close attention to the instructions on your monitor as we take you through the step by step process of donning the new Scintillus 34-K Retrograde helmet and armour...'

My brain is juicing with excitement and my hands and legs feel noodlely as Doc hits me with some kind of med before stepping out of the room, letting the safety information vid run of its own accord. 'I'll be back in ten,' he says before vanishing out the door with a soft swoosh. Major scoozie! I sing in my head, and I'm practically prancing to the cabinets, my hands on the lock with a security tunneler I'd pick it up offa Gurney and hum lightly to myself (he had 'em, I took 'em, I didn't bother with details like asking why).

It's a ridiculously low-grade lock for my skill and the kind that'll pop before you can even say, 'I'm a dober-eating Gammorean.' In the background, the Sith vid is still babbling and I half-listen in, for lack of anything better to do.

'... Step Two: adjusting your headpiece. Your Sith Retrograde helmet is designed to adjust to fit all head shapes and sizes, provided you are a human male or female, of medium weight and standing a minimum of five feet six inches in height. Locate the re-adjuster button in the lower left corner of your new helmet. Turn the dial until...'

Beep-beep-beep-beep. Click. It's the lock. Beep-beep-beep-crklinktttt... CRACK.

Huh? I look down at the half of a security tunneler in my hand. Uh... I don't think this was supposed to happen.

I claw at the other half of the security tunneler with my fingernails and manage to jerk it out, frowning. I'd done this a hundred times, why was it...? I shake my head, trying to focus. I pocket both the halves of the tunneler and slit the lock with ex-Sithboy's switchblade instead, inelegant as that is. What did I do wrong? I wonder as I stuff stims and spice packs into my pockets as fast I can. The vest holds a good number of shots and the few kolto patches I find go into the back of my pants. I break the security tunneler into smaller pieces and stuff them in between the two pieces of the lock to seal it. I'm just done closing up the panels when Reedy's voice cuts in through the turmoil like a knife.

'What do you think you're doing?'

'Er,' Holy Hothmonger! I had forgotten about him. 'Nwoice cabwinetwy?' I say, moving quickly while trying not to open my mouth.

The pilot frowns, waves of suspicion sloughing off him. I smile. Strolling casually, I wander back and plunk down to watch the blue-tinged dust-motes on my patients' table.

Grooourourrroooo... says my stomach. I sigh. Stims can keep you going for so long, but even spice has to wear off at some point, and that's when the desires for food and nourishment eventually catch up. My arms and legs are feeling kinda weak, too, probably the adrenaline rush of near-death experiences finally wearing off. In fact, I feel awfully tired, like my eyelids were too heavy, and maybe I should get that checked by doc, but I can't see too clear, it's all going...

ZZZzzzzzzzz...

'Oh, right, like that explains anything...'

End.