Prologue

Darth Vaderman was boredly sitting and skimming through the filmscript, which he didn't understand anyway, because his magnificent hair (which the bastards had ordered dyed black!) had done him the favor to fall into his face. From backstage, a voice hissed at him:

"You're supposed to be looking into the palantir, you moron!"

Vaderman startled, then glanced to the right and left in a frightened manner.

"What?!" he exclaimed. "I hear voices! I'm turning crazy!"

"No, you dolt, we've hired you a prompter."

"Oh! And why didn't anyone tell me? Imbeciles, I'm old! I could have had a heart-attack! What, do you want me to quit?"

A general rumor made itself heard from backstage:"Yes, yes!"

Vaderman pretended not to have heard that, then he picked up his Force-powered fishing staff and fished his palantir out of the trash compactor.

"Who threw my magic crystal ball in the trash compactor?" he frustratedly asked. "How many times do I have to tell you? My room is the one near the trash compactor!"

A soldier who was standing by the control panel coughed a little to get his attention, then he said"

"Excuse me, moro-... err... Sir, but you haven't paid your rent, so you were moved to the trash compactor. By the way, I would advise you to be careful with your new room mate; he eats all he sees.

Vaderman started to cry, he threw the staff at the respective soldier and whined pitifully:

"I'll tell on you! Let the Empereye see how you treat me!"

A profuse sigh came from backstage.

"Stop picking on him," said the Almighty George Lucas. "I know it's fun, but we have a movie to finish here. (moving on to Vaderman) And you, pay attention: if you behave and look in the palantir, you'll meet one of your relatives. I promise."

Vaderman wiped his nose with his new black cloak.

"Okay," he agreed and grabbed the palantir.

An image formed in his crystal ball: it was the hairy Princess Gimleia, who was just trying on her new pink dress, but was unable to get it past her extravagant wheel-shaped hairstyle (to read: beardstyle). Although he almost choked on so much beauty, Vaderman continued to look, for he had discovered the golden bauble on the Princess' left ring finger. His face brightened immediately and he gaped, with his tongue coming out in a roll – the classic posture.

"Look – something small and pretty and shiny!" he cried enthusiastically and began to point at it frantically, while he was rocking in his chair. "What is it, what-is-it, whatisit?"

"Err... Sir," answered the same soldier (lack of personnel), "that's a piece from your Master's collection. It's a trademark."

"And why has my Master given it to (he pointed at the image in the palantir) him... her... it?" Vaderman pouted and wilted in his chair. "Why hasn't he given it to me?"

"He didn't give it; it was stolen."

"And... if I brought it back, would he promote me?"

"Sir, you can't be promoted anymore. You already hold the most important function in the Empire, aside from your Master's."

"Oh!" Vaderman looked confused. "Really? Then... will he give it to me?"

The soldier had no more time to reply, because Vaderman was already convinced and had briskly risen from his seat.

"Bring me Wormtongue!" he commanded.

"Sir," the soldier answered, "in this story he is Count Worku. And anyway, you killed him while you were drunk – you threw the palantir at him. ... And I'll probably get fired for revealing the plot in the other three movies."

"Oh... okay, then who can you bring me?"

"Well... Tarkin of Angmar and the other solwraiths. Be careful – they're pretentious."

"... Who's that?"

The soldier would have answered, but, right at that moment, a dagger with a strange shape and design found his forehead.

"It's us," the explanation came in a cold voice from behind Vaderman.

The latter turned and could count exactly nine faceless figures wrapped in some manner of black cloaks that were quite ragged and burnt. One was still smoking at the corners.

"Who..." began the one at the front, the tallest, menacingly, "...told us that the ship's power core was our room?"

Vaderman thought – he vaguely recalled the moment he had done the assessment of the available space, and somebody had suggested that, unless he wanted to stay there himself, he should send the nine.

"Umm..." he smiled innocently from ear to ear. "This soldier!" (He pointed at the man who was now lying dead on the floor.)

"A pity," remarked one of the cloaked figures. "Had I known, I would have tortured him first."

"Hmm..." the one who was obviously the leader intervened again. "I thought it was somebody with a long white beard."

Vaderman had a sudden idea.

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten," he spoke hurriedly. "You're right! (He took the script from the table and began to skim through it, ripping pages in the process.) It was Obi-Wan the Gay... err... I mean, the Grey!" he finished triumphantly.

Tarkin of Angmar snatched the script from him and looked at it with a critical eye.

"You're too insecure," he commented. "You'd better not lie to me... Or else you'll find out what the power core is like, especially when you're sharing it with my winged mount, who got stuck there!"

"I'm not lying!" Vaderman begged. "It was that bastard Obi-Wan, who hates you because you get paid more!"

"Uh-huh..." said Tarkin of Angmar, only half-convinced, and then he ate the script. "Paid more, my ass... they didn't even give us food. (He finished chewing and swallowed hard.) So, why are we here now?"

Vaderman pointed at his mouth.

"It said in there!" he remarked. "But it doesn't matter, now you have to get that ring!" He pointed to the palantir.

"Gross," the Nine mumbled as one. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes!" Vaderman enthusiastically urged them. If we obtain it, The Empereye will give it to me... ehm... I mean... if we don't obtain it, he'll throw us all into an even stronger power core!"

"Okay, we'll get your stupid ring," Tarkin of Angmar promised, then turned towards his squad.

They all pulled out huge hairbrushes (to read: beardbrushes).

"Let's go, boys," Tarkin bid them.

One by one, they headed towards the ship's command console, to establish the course. The last one grabbed Vaderman by the beard and pulled him in their wake, despite the noisy protests.

Behind them, a long sigh came from backstage... again.

"The plans!" George Lucas yelled nervously. "Someone tell the moron about the plans!"

"Don't worry," a team-mate's voice was heard. "The plans are inside the ring, which is a fake. Let's go have a cup of coffee."

-- To Be Continued --