This story is so far from anything I normally write that I feel I need to explain that it resulted from a challenge. A dare.
It was originally posted in three separate chapters, but I've consolidated them all into one. So the entire story is now here; just scroll down to read the whole thing
Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
Lowest Common Denominator: A Soap Opera in Three Acts
Act I
moderato, accelerando
If there is one thing I take seriously, it is propriety. Appropriateness, decorum, delicacy, dignity, refinement, respectability, seemliness – all of these values, all of these ideals have been championed and upheld for the five generations that my esteemed family has owned and operated the Hotel Mauvais – that 'special little place;' that quiet, discreet hideaway on Coruscant where the wealthy and well-bred can commune discretely with heir own kind, away from the socially- and fashionably-challenged rabble.
It's not that our guests don't have their little peccadilloes. Far from it. But what sets our sort of guests apart from the rest – and therefore, what sets our elegant little hotel apart – is the commonly understood need for discretion in all things. What we don't see or hear, we don't talk about, and all is well. What we do see is sophistication and elegance. Our guests count on us to provide them with the ultimate in privacy and style. Until now, we have never let them down.
Until now.
I blame the fall of the Empire for the vulgar behavior and mass-market excesses that are beginning to leave unsightly stains on the very fabric of society. It's not that I was particularly fond of the Empire – I mean, black and white can be very chic, but over time, event that grows incredibly dull. But at least under the Empire, people know their places. There were the privileged, and then there were all the rest. Both kinds knew their stations, and remained within them. But now – now that the rather excessive freedoms of the New Republic are reducing society to its lowest common denominator and toppling the stout pillars of civilized life, I no longer know what to expect. Not even the Hotel Mauvais – that sanctuary for the upper crust – is safe.
Vap'id keeps peeking at me through perfectly curled lashes. I must stop wringing my hands – it's such a vulgar gesture. I scowl at my fashion-plate receptionist to bolster my dignity and authority, and she goes back to phantom-filing her faultless iridescent nails.
Loud voices from outside begin to interfere with the soft strains of music that filter into the plush hotel lobby day and night. Oh, no. Not still more of these people. There are already too many of them in the suite upstairs. Admittedly, it is my largest suite, but still … couldn't they have found a more appropriate venue somewhere? A burlesque hall, perhaps? Or better yet, a military canteen on a faraway outpost? What in the Rexian Tarpits possessed them to want to hold their sordid little soiree here in my hotel?
More to the point, how did they get past me? Why did I allow them to make the reservation? I think back frantically. Oh, yes. It was described to me as a small private party for a General. Some fairly high-up New Republic names were dropped. That was it. Under the Empire, the upper echelon military staff was invariably discrete and retiring. I can't be blamed for making certain assumptions. But these people! They are beyond the pale…
I straighten my shoulders, raise my chin and step closer to the door, hoping that it is a mistake and that I can turn them away before their unfortunate choices in footwear can trample the exquisite rugs – but alas, it is not to be.
"Where's the Solo Party?" a burly, unkempt-looking human wearing (of all things) a flight suit – bellows at an embarrassing decibel level. I can barely refrain from "shushing" him. "Fifth floor," I say hastily, hoping they will all disappear very quickly.
To my horror, he is followed by not one, but two seven-foot creatures that have obviously never been introduced to the technology of the razor, and who most assuredly have no fashion sense since they aren't wearing clothes. I don't suppose the bandolier full of ammunition that one of them is wearing counts. I open my mouth to inform him of the hotel rule against weapons in the rooms, and then shut it again. He and his zoological kinsman are very…tall.
The pilot-looking person stops at the front desk and leers at Vap'id, who giggles like the common shopgirl that she was until I hired her as a decorative accessory to ornament the front desk. Dressed properly, she is undoubtedly dazzling and gives the hotel an instant dash of high-fashion panache. Unfortunately, the moment she opens her mouth, the illusion is shattered. I have warned her not to speak. Ever.
"Hi!" she drawls, forcing me to stalk over to the desk to reprimand her but the pilot-person is already engaging her in conversation.
"I've flown all across this galaxy and I've seen a lot of people, but I don't think I've ever seen anybody as beautiful as you. What's your name?"
I clear my throat threateningly, but to no avail.
"Vap'id," she intones through her nose, somehow making three syllables out of two. I wince.
"Vap'id," the pilot-person repeats unnecessarily with the same God-awful intonation. "That name is as beautiful as you are. I don't suppose old stiff-neck here would let you off early so you can join our party?" He nods loutishly in my direction. Vap'id's turquoise blue eyes go wide and she lets out an unladylike snort.
"Excuse me, sir," I say stiffly, suddenly conscious that the two large furry creatures are breathing loudly just behind my neck. "The receptionist is on duty all evening. I'm afraid I cannot spare her."
The pilot-person slouches brazenly against my reception desk as though it were nothing more than a sticky bar in one of Coruscant's innumerable subterranean dives, and looks me up and down. "Aw, c'mon… what's your name, anyway?" I draw myself to my full height, which puts me somewhere far below the furry things' shoulders. "My name is Soo," offer reluctantly, but correctly. "Maire Soo. I am the proprietor."
"Well, c'mon, Mr. Soo, couldn't you let this gorgeous lady off early – just this once?"
"Certainly not," I sniff. "Your party is upstairs."
"Too bad." The pilot-person shrugs, winks openly at Vap'id, making her giggle inanely again, and slouches off toward the back of my lobby followed by the creatures. I reach for my fine linen handkerchief to dab at the droplets of perspiration that are beginning to form on my upper lip. The lobby doors open once again and a crowd of four more of those scruffy-looking pilot people – couldn't they at least change into proper clothing for a party? – surge into my lobby pulling along a fifth man who is wearing full military dress uniform, handcuffs, and a blindfold. If my eyes don't deceive me, the insignia does indeed seem to be that of a general.
I have the horrible sensation of having my mouth fall open. I shut it quickly, but continue to stare.
"Where the hell are we?" the blindfolded man yells while his companions snort and snicker repugnantly. "Chewie! Chewie, buddy, get over here and knock their heads together!" One of the furry creatures by the lift – the one wearing the bandolier – throws his head back and makes an excruciating noise that almost could be taken for laughter, but mercifully makes no move to comply with the General's wishes.
I don't have to ask where they are going. "Fifth floor," I inform them dourly while mopping my brow with the handkerchief. I somehow doubt that any of them will find the overt gesture offensive.
The General is shoved across the lobby, the lift arrives and takes them all in, the doors close, and a tidy silence, broken only by a few well-mannered strains of music, once again fills the lobby of the formerly bijoux Hotel Mauvais, giving me a little respite until the COM sounds at the reception desk.
"Answer that, will you?" I say to Vap'id. I need a moment to collect myself.
"But you told me never to…."
"Just answer it!" I snap.
"Geez," she says, and then answers the call with a nasal "hello?" She listens for a while, then says, "OK," and puts down the COM.
"Well?"
"Guy on the fifth floor is complaining about loud music."
I didn't know that it was possible to feel oneself go pale, but I do. I feel every drop of color drain out of my face. They didn't say anything about there being music. This means … this means …that I will have to go up there.
Nothing like this ever happened under the Empire. Imperial Officers never played loud music. They never made a sound. And they always insisted that their own people carried out the debris in the morning. They were… discrete…
"Watch the front desk," I instruct Va'pid. I hold up my communicator to make sure she sees it. Call me if you have the slightest problem.
"OK," she agrees placidly. But then she says, "Do you want me to go up instead?"
Stupid girl. As if I didn't know what she was up to. Pilots, indeed.
"Stay!" I bark, and march across the lobby to the lift.
Act II
allegro furioso
The fifth floor consists of only two suites – the one that I rented to the pilot people because I foolishly thought they represented the new power structure in the Galaxy, and the one that is currently occupied by… oh, my stars, the Prince. I was too rattled downstairs to realize who had complained about the noise. But of course – the Prince is in town. His Grace is accustomed to being given the large suite whenever he demands it, even at a moment's notice, but this time he had to accept the secondary accommodation (with ill grace, I might add).
This was getting worse and worse. The Prince is one of the wealthiest people in this part of the Galaxy and therefore able to choose to stay at any hotel, but he always chooses us. He has been our finest and more reliable patron, and it is largely due to his influence that my hotel continues to be popular in certain lofty circles while the political players come and go. We never have given the Prince never has had cause to complain before. But then, he never has been relegated to the lesser suite before. And now this….
Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear…
The lift doors open. Their soft hiss is instantly overwhelmed by the sound of thumping, throbbing music that is polluting the normally hushed foyer between the two suites. To my left are the heavy double doors of suite 5B, behind which I am sure to find the irate Prince; to my right are the unknown hells of Suite 5A. Smoothing down my jacket and assuring myself with delicate fingers that my cravat is perfectly adjusted, I turn left.
At my discreet signal the door to Suite 5B is opened by a glittering silver protocol droid with a breathy female voice.
"May I help you? Oh, Master Soo. I'm afraid Prince Titular isn't here."
"Not here?" I sputter. "But he, or someone from his party just called the front desk to complain about the music…"
"Oh, yes, Master Soo. He did. But then he became quite irate decided to take matters into his own hands. He went across the hall and banged on the door of suite 5A very loudly, and was admitted. He didn't ask me to accompany him. And I'm afraid he hasn't been back since."
I gasp in terror. The Prince has been swallowed up by the rabble! With the bravado of outraged dignity (not to mention pure panic at the thought of losing his custom) I whirl around and march straight toward the doors of suite 5A.
At my signal the door practically falls open in front of my nose and an avalanche of music and noise crashes down on me. All I can see in that blinding first moment are flashing lights intermittently outlining the silhouettes of many, many bodies of a dismaying array of shapes and sizes and colors. It looks shockingly like one of those unspeakable clubs that you find at ground level in the wrong parts of Coruscant.
The whole crowd seems to be singing along to the music in a strange language I don't recognize.
Why, em, see, aye…. They're waving their hands in the air, too.
How did they all get in here?
What are those flashing lights? Where did they come from?
Why, em, see, aye…
Come to think of it, where is the music coming from? We certainly didn't provide it, and I don't remember authorizing…
Something bumps against my knee and emits a piercing whistle. I look down only to see – an astromech droid! A mechanic! A tool! Something that belongs in a machine shop or on a starfighter, not in an elegant hotel! We don't allow their kind in here! The image of great globs of grease being left on the fine carpets and furniture is too much to bear, and in a basso profundo that is quite unlike my normal, cultured tenor, I bellow, "WHO IS IN CHARGE HERE?"
Why, em, see, aye…
Out of the seething masses a wholly unexpected sign of civilization appears before my disbelieving eyes. A golden protocol droid simpers toward me. "Oh, hello, Sir! How may I help you? I am C3PO, human-cyborg relations…"
"At last!" I cut him off impatiently. "Who is in charge of this … ah… event? I am the hotel manager. There have been complaints. I must see the person responsible.
"Oh yes, sir!" the droid agrees pleasantly. "I'm so happy that you are here! These people all seem to have gone mad. It's quite dangerous – the occupancy in this suite far exceeds the fire regulations."
"Well," I say, mollified that he understands my position, even if he is only a droid, "if you take me to the person who is responsible, I'll take care of it."
"That would be General Calrissian, Sir. But I'm afraid that he's not here right now. He said something about a cake…"
Why, em, see, aye…
The music is having the same effect on my nerves as a perfect new ensemble ruined by last season's shoes. "There must be someone I can speak to," I insist. "I DEMAND TO KNOW WHO IS IN CHARGE!"
At that precise moment the music ends and my cry is heard throughout the sudden pause in the festivities. I feel as though I've been transported into the final act of a horror holovid, as all eyes in the room suddenly turn to me.
"Soo!" someone bellows. "Just the man!" The crowd parts, and striding toward me in full sail with his headdress askew and his glittering cloak furling behind him is… the Prince.
The blood drains out of my head and my knees begin to buckle.
"Do be careful, Sir," the protocol droid fusses. "It seems that the floors in this suite are quite uneven. People have been swaying and falling down all evening."
"Your Grace," I say faintly, trying to find the words with which to apologize. "I'm so…"
"Who would have thought it, Soo?" The Prince wraps his beefy arm around my shoulders. I am caught. My nose wrinkles automatically at the whiff of perfume he exudes… it's last year's best-seller … "A party like this, here in your hotel!"
"I know, Your Grace," I gasp, "If you will just…"
"Splendid, man, splendid! I always thought you were an insufferable snob, but this is a side of you I'm happy to see! Great party! Come over here and have a drink…."
"It's not my fault, Your Grace, it's just that… what?" Someone shoves a large glass full of an amber liquid into my hand. It looks like it has soap bubbles on the top. I clutch the offensive beverage helplessly while the Prince pulls me deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Underworld.
My com falls out of my hand, but I can't retrieve it to call for assistance because the Prince has my arm pinned against my side.
"You!" I hiss to the droid as I am being hauled away. "Get help!"
"Oh dear, oh, dear, oh dear…" he babbles.
"Do it!" I demand. "Get the authorities!"
"Er, yes, Sir," the droid says haplessly. "But I'm only a droid. People don't listen to me…"
I know the feeling. Although I remain helpless in his grip, the Prince is ignoring me because he's too busy leering at the scantily clad females who keep sidling up to us.
"Whom should I call, Sir?" the droid asks anxiously.
Whom indeed? The restive crowd begins to close in around the Prince and me. I think frantically, buffeted by visions of corrupt Judicials, scandal and social disgrace. Then inspiration hits like a bolt out of the blue.
"Go to the Suite across the hall and call the Fire Department!" I shout to the droid just before he disappears from sight.
"Music!" someone else shouts. "Where's the music?" And then, "Make him sing, Prince!"
Make whom sing? What are they talking about?
A chant goes up. "Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing!" My captor grabs a drink from someone and chugs it in one long gulp. Then he belches. Then he throws back his head and laughs. I have a very bad feeling about this.
"Come along, my fashionable friend," he says, as though I had a choice. "You're going to sing us a song." By now we have reached the other side of the crowded sitting room of the suite where a large monitor of some kind is floating in the air. A microphone is pushed into my hand. A kind of primitive thumping music begins to play. I still don't know where it's coming from.
"Sing?" I protest. "Me? Certainly not! I don't know how."
"Sing," the Prince says, waggling his eyebrows significantly. "I insist."
"Sing what?" I ask, stalling.
"That," the Prince says, pointing at the words on the monitor. I read the first two lines in pure disbelief. "That? I can't sing that! What are you thinking? That's just… that's just…" I'm spluttering, but the wind goes out of me when one of those seven-foot furry creatures suddenly appears out of nowhere, seizes me, and deposits me atop a priceless Old Republic-era antique desk, which appears to have become my stage. Clutching the microphone, I survey the chanting crowd in abject terror.
"Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing!"
The monitor floats up to my eye level. The music groans and pounds. The crowd cheers. Directly below me, clutching a drink in his hand is the General whom I saw being dragged through the lobby earlier. Actually, from this angle he looks quite fetching in his long, shiny boots. The furry creature with the bandolier is standing directly by his side, while the other looms ominously by mine. Next to him the Prince is chanting and applauding with the rest of the crowd.
Sometimes, a man has to do what a man has to do. I take a breath, raise the microphone to my lips, and begin.
I'm too sexy for my love too sexy for my love
Love's going to leave me
The crowd at my feet hoots and roars.
I'm too sexy for my shirt too sexy for my shirt
So sexy it hurts…
The General looks away, holding his hand over his eyes, but everyone else seems to be enjoying it. I start to sway a little.
And I'm too sexy for Milan too sexy for Milan
New York and Japan
Well, the skies haven't opened and struck me dead yet. I stare directly at the General and my hips begin to swivel.
And I'm too sexy for your party
Too sexy for your party
No way I'm disco dancing
The crowd is jumping up and down, and starting to sing along. Quite honestly, this isn't as bad as I thought… I'm getting warm, though, so I strip off my jacket and toss it into the crowd. The applause is deafening.
I'm a m…model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
OK. So I do a little turn. Sue me. The crowd loves it, even though the General is now covering his face with both hands.
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I do my little turn on the catwalk
The crowd loves me! They really love me! My, it's warm. I open my shirt a little, and run my hand down my chest. Thank goodness I kept my appointment to have it waxed yesterday. The General is trying to make a run for it, but the large furry creature has him firmly by the shoulder.
I'm too sexy for my car too sexy for my car
Too sexy by far
There's something about this music, I think, shaking my shoulders and my hips. Something primitive, yet compelling. I grin at the General, whose party this seems to be, after all, and I've just tossed him my shirt when the hotel's fire claxon sounds. The door to the suite flies open, and as if there weren't enough people in the space already, bulky firefighters begin to pour in, terrifying the crowd of partygoers.
I'm outraged. We were just having fun. What idiot called the fire department?
Oh.
Oh, dear.
I think I need a drink.
Act III
andante, ritenudo
A frantic half-hour after my triumphant debut on stage I'm back behind the reception desk of the violated and misused Hotel Mauvais, dressed only in crumpled trousers and the spare shirt I always keep in my office, staring disconsolately at the recently and painfully lowered balance in the hotel's checkbook. The jacket, shirt and cravat that I so blithely discarded earlier – I blush just thinking about it – vanished, trampled under the feet of the hoards of people who thundered out of Suite 5A not long ago. Like my hitherto elegantly clad chest, the chic, discrete Hotel Mauvais has been laid bare to disdain, and ridicule, and …contempt.
"Cheer up," Va'pid says beside me. "Everyone had a good time."
"Don't speak," I snap automatically.
"Geez," she mutters, and blessed silence falls again until an unfamiliar voice rouses me out of my self-pitying stupor.
Sourly I glare yet again at the large, puzzling construction that someone has left behind in the middle of my lobby. It looks for all the world like a three-tiered cake covered with tawdry paper decorations, and sits on a platform with wheels. But for a cake, it is enormous – it almost looks large enough for a person to climb inside. I can't imagine what it's for, and even worse, I don't know who left it here.
Barbarians. All of them.
"Have you seen my droid?"
I raise my suffering eyes to see none other than the General himself slouching over the counter in front of me. He doesn't look at all worse for the wear. In fact, he looks as though his evening is just getting started.
How nice for him.
"Your droid?" I have no idea what he is talking about.
"Yeah, a protocol droid. Gold. He was upstairs, but then he got lost."
"No," I growl, and then shoot a quick, cautious glance at the fuzzy bandolier-decked creature that is hovering right behind him. He seems tame enough at the moment, so I go on bitterly, "But I found your …ah…layer cake." I indicate the eyesore in the middle of the lobby. Surely you would like to take it away with you now?"
The General looks at me with something approaching wide-eyed innocence, the scoundrel. "Me? Don't look at me. I had nothing to do with it."
"Hrrrmmmph," I go back to my contemplation of the tragedy of the checkbook. I know I'm being rude, but I just can't help it. What does it matter now, anyway? It's over. It's all over. The Hotel Mauvais will never be the same again, and it's entirely the fault of these ruffians, these barbarians, these unkempt peasants who think they can get away with anything now that the rule of law has been overthrown.
"We've gotta find him, Chewie. She'll kill me if I've lost him for good," I hear the General say to the creature, which rawls atonally in reply.
Well, it's nice to know that there is someone, somewhere who canthat strike fear into the heart of a man like that. A woman, no less. Perhaps she would like employment here… I glower at the useless Vap'id, who merely bats her eyelashes at me.
"Whaddaya mean, 'look casual, there she is'?" the General says, suddenly sounding panicked.
"What? Who?" I look up, but he evidently is speaking to his towering companion, who replies with a strangled-sounding noise. Both of them are staring across the lobby. The General doesn't look innocent any longer; he looks downright nervous and guilty. Momentarily diverted from my existential gloom by malicious satisfaction and the potential thrill of gossip, I shift my position so that I can survey the lobby better. This I have to see.
Craning my neck, all I can see are two people, a man and a woman, both wearing long, boring utilitarian cloaks. They don't look particularly intimidating, and they haven't got an ounce of style between them. Disappointed, I'm about to look away again, when the General says, "What are you doing here, Princess?"
Princess? That's interesting. I lean further to the side, trying to peer around the end of the reception desk.
"I could ask you the same question, General," the woman says, coming closer, while her companion remains in the background.
"You know how it is," the General says, shifting uncomfortably and suddenly sounding a bit boyish. "I got dragged here. It wasn't my fault."
"Uh-huh." She comes to a stop right in front of the General. They are staring at one another as though the rest of us don't exist.
Oddly enough, the woman looks vaguely familiar. Suddenly curious, I switch on the data center on the desk.
"Did you come to check up on me?" the General murmurs.
"In a manner of speaking," the woman purrs.
They certainly seem to know one another well. I stretch further for a better view.
"Feathers," the General says suddenly, in a voice that suddenly sounds somehow strangled. "What are all these feathers?"
What? I strain so hard to see that my chair almost tips over. Vap'id starts giggling, and I gesticulate at her wildly to make her stop, unbalancing myself further.
"A little something I threw on," the woman says throatily.
My chair falls over sideways with a crash, making Vap'id gasp and snort. The furry creature growls at me, but neither the General nor the woman – the Princess? – pays me the slightest attention. They are only looking at one another. From my unique vantage point lying sideways on the floor, I catch a glimpse of the General lifting the woman's cloak off her shoulders, and sure enough, underneath she is wearing a few handfuls of strategically placed purple feathers… and very little else. I swallow. It's certainly … unorthodox.
Very quickly the General fastens the cloak around her again, and as I'm trying to quietly right my chair I see him glance toward the large cake-thing, and then back at the woman in the cloak.
"You didn't … you weren't … Leia, please tell me you wouldn't have …"
I begin feeding names and titles into the search engine of the hotel's data center when suddenly the General's voice changes and he barks at the woman's hitherto silent companion. "Luke, how could you let her do this?"
Princess Leia. Luke. My fingers fly as I key the entries into the data center's search function.
"You think she'd listen to me?" the other man retorts. "Jedi powers couldn't make her change her mind."
I enter "Jedi" and wait impatiently for the search results.
"Get a grip, Han," the woman says, sounding amused. "Lando assured me it was going to be a very small, very private party. I figured I'd come and embarrass you. Given your way with people, who could have guessed you're so popular that your little stag party would turn into a mob scene? Besides, better me than some other woman…." And here I could swear that she shoots a dark look in Vap'id's direction.
Aha! Stag party. Vulgar custom, primarily on mid-rim planets, in which, aided and abetted by his freeloading friends, a groom carries out his final debaucheries before his wedding. And they chose my hotel for this travesty? Mine? HOW DARE THEY…
The Com sounds. "Get that!" I hiss to Vap'id while forcing myself to think.
The General is getting married. To this familiar-looking woman? On a hunch, despite their appearances, I add the names "Han" and "Lando" to my search and re-direct it to the society pages.
The General bends over the cloaked, feather-clad woman as though he might gobble her up any minute. "I was just wondering," he rumbles, "what's holding those feathers in place."
"Mr. Soo…" Vap'id begins, but I shush her impatiently.
"There's only one way to find out," the woman murmurs back.
"But Mr. Soo…"
"Hush!"
Success! There they are! I stare at the datascreen in utter disbelief. I thought she looked familiar! Princess Leia Organa, General Han Solo, Jedi Luke Skywalker, and the mighty Chewbacca (I glance fondly at the walking carpet that is leaning on my reception desk), heroes of the Revolution and highly influential figures in the New Republic, are all standing in my hotel lobby, wearing purple feathers, fetching boots, a debonair cloak, and a dashing bandolier respectively. Such stylish people. So cutting edge. I sigh happily, all misery forgotten.
"Let's get out of here," General Solo says hoarsely to his intended. "Just the two of us."
These very well connected individuals had the good judgment to choose the Hotel Mauvais for their soiree… wait, what did he say? They're going to leave?
"It's the Prince! From 5B!" Vap'id blurts.
"So what?" What do I care the Prince? He's SO last regime…
"But he's got their droid…"
And that is when I have a scathingly brilliant idea.
"General Solo!" I call out in my most accommodating voice as he and Princess Organa are turning to leave. "A word, Sir, if you don't mind…"
He turns back, looking impatient. "What is it?"
"Your droid, Sir. Haven't you forgotten your droid?"
He looks puzzled, then suddenly enlightened. "You mean you've found…" he glances quickly down at the woman by his side, and changes his tune. "Right you are. Can't forget him, now, can we?" He looks at me expectantly and I beam. Now we're getting somewhere. General Solo needs my legendary assistance and discretion. I pour it on.
"But of course, General. I'll have him report to that special suite we arranged for you."
"Special suite?" Princess Organa asks. General Solo cocks an eyebrow at me. I'm in my element and segue smoothly into making him look like a hero.
"Yes, My Lady. We deeply regret the inconvenience caused to the General and his many, many friends earlier this evening by the untimely and inexplicable arrival of the Fire Department, and to make up for the deeply deplorable inconvenience, we have arranged for the General to have the use of a smaller, but no less elegant and very private suite on the third floor for as long as he requires." I smile graciously. "Complements of the Hotel Mauvais, of course."
"Han! That's a lovely idea!" the Princess smiles, taking her hero's arm. It's fascinating to watch the General all but melt into a puddle.
"Let's go," he gasps. A Stray feather has escaped from under the Princess' cloak, and he can't seem to take his eyes off of it.
I've got him.
I've got all of them.
The Hotel Mauvais' star is once again ascendant.
"Suite 3A, Sir. I'll have your droid sent there right away."
"Don't you dare!" the General orders over his shoulder. He and his lady are heading for the lift in a hurry.
"Very well, Sir," I agree. "I'll make certain he is looked after." I'm sure the Prince won't mind an extra droid for the night. I showed him a good time, after all… "And don't worry about the cake," I call out after the General's retreating back. "I'll take care of it myself!"
"Quickly," I whisper to Vap'id, "have fresh flowers and wine sent to suite 3A. And make sure room service is available on a 24 hour standby. Those two aren't coming back out for a long time."
She grins, and I smile back, all harmony restored. "On second thought, have the Prince send down their droid, will you?" I add. "I'll keep him with me. He's quite a pleasant fellow."
"Nope," Vap'id says blandly. "Can't do it. The Prince said that their droid and his droid have been talking all night and that he's going crazy listening to them and that their droid won't leave. He wants you to come up and take him away."
Smoothing my shirt down over my chest, and adjusting the cuffs, I prepare to carry out one of the many little services that only the very best hotels can provide. But before I head for the lift I survey the hotel's plush lobby, thinking about how out of place the furry warrior, the austere Jedi and their assorted friends looked here. Now that they have all left, peace and silence reign again.
Peace and silence are so last regime.
Perhaps it's time to do a little redecorating.
Fin