As P.T. walked into the circus early one Friday morning, he heard what could only be described as an angry explosion of the most colorful language he had heard in a while.
"You schutta!" As he walked into the main area of the tent, he saw Anne angrily standing in front of a man dressed in a dark overcoat, her hands on her hips. "Why would you even think of doing that?" P.T. looked over at Lettie, sitting nearby, silently asking what in the world was going on.
"Apparently that's one of the men who denied starting the fire the night you came home from the tour. Anne heard him boasting to someone that he had started the fire, and she's—well—pretty irate." She beckoned for P.T. to join her in the bleachers, gesturing surreptitiously in order not to attract the attention of the two figures in the ring.
"But… shouldn't I be there to—ah—mediate?" P.T. asked. Lettie shook her head.
"Anne seems like she's got it under control," she responded. They looked out at the ring just in time to see the man swing a clumsy punch at Anne as Phillip walked in the door, carrying a loop of rope. Phillip's eyes widened as he dropped the rope and rushed toward the center of the ring, but Anne ducked the incoming fist lithely, neatly sidestepping the drunk and knocking him to the floor as she kicked her leg under his to unbalance him and landed a vicious blow to his face. The man yelped, toppling over onto the sawdust floor, and Anne glared at him.
"Don't," kick, "you," kick, "ever," another kick, "do anything," kick, "to anyone," kick, "here at the circus ever again." She punctuated this last statement with a sharp blow to the man's stomach. "You—shabuir!" Lettie covered her mouth as not to laugh too loudly, but P.T. heard a rather hastily muffled snigger as Anne yelled at the man.
"What's that mean?" P.T. asked. Lettie doubled over in silent laughter, tears rolling down her face. They heard yet another shout from the ring as the main entrance to the tent was thrown open to admit one of the albino twins and three policemen.
"Di'kut!" The policeman marched toward the center ring, handcuffing the man as Anne stepped away to join Phillip, her face no more red than usual, not even breathing hard.
"What happened?" Phillip asked. Anne smiled at him.
"Everything's fine," she said. "I was merely dispensing justice on someone who was foolish enough to hurt my family." She began walking over to the stands where P.T. and Lettie were seated, but paused halfway to turn towards the man again.
"Kaysh mirsh solus!" she hollered. An idiot, indeed.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this! Sorry it was so short. For those interested, here's a guide to the Star Wars insults Anne uses in my fic:
Schutta: a small ugly rodent native to the planet Ryloth. Not a compliment.
Shabuir: 'jerk' but stronger.
Di'kut: idiot.
Kaysh mirsh solus: 'He's an idiot," literally: 'His brain cells are lonely.'
The last three are Mando'a, the native language of the planet Mandalore. Schutta is Ryl (also known as Twi'leki or Rylothian), the native language of Ryloth.
