This was a challenge on The Wedge Antilles Admiration Society Webpage. I couldn't find a link to post it there, so I post it here. Anyways, the challenge was that it had to be about 200 words and start with the line, "What do you mean, we don't have any left?" I thought of the story in my algebra class (typical, I can't concentrate in that class, anyhow).

Anyways, it's completely tongue-in-cheek. I might make this a series of parody-esque stories... depends. ;D Oh, and if you can place the name of the story, email me, and you get a cookie. :D


The Worst Day Since Yesterday

"What do you mean, we don't have any left?" Wedge demanded, slamming his fist down. "How the stang do you expect me to run a squadron without any?"

The supply clerk shrugged from behind his much-abused counter. "I dunno, sir. I ordered it, and it was logged in. I know I saw it in the last shipment -"

Wedge's evil death-glare shut the clerk up. He made a threatening gesture, thought better of it, then stalked out. His very aura of evil-temperedness kept people who would have normally bothered him away.

He nearly ran to his quarters and threw himself into his chair, unable to concentrate on anything. Withdrawal was a horrible thing. How could a military installation possibly be out? There must be a rule somewhere… it was enough to make him defect to the next Imperial he saw.

He jerked from his malicious thoughts as Wes came bounding in, smirking nervously. Wedge glared up at him; he was far acting far too happy and energetic to be in the midst of such a disaster.

"Guess what, Boss!" Wes giggled, sending shivers of agitation down Wedge's spine. He didn't wait for an answer. "Well, ummm… it sorta started off as a practical joke, but, uh -"

Wedge knew he was going to regret this. "-Wes, spit it out." He had a very bad feeling about this.

"Well, you know the maintenance checks that had to get done on the airlocks?"

The Corellian put his head in his hands. "Sith, Wes. What, or worse, who did you space?" He hoped it wasn't too bad. He didn't want to face the paperwork.

"Well, we, er… how to say it…"

A death-glare helped loosen the taller man's tongue. "I accidentally spaced the shipment of caf."

The supply clerk looked up as a scream of anguish echoed down the passageway.


Hours later, Wedge leaned against the bulkhead in the hallway, peering out of the airlock window. In his hands, a steaming cup of hot caf. Outside, Wes was scooping up individual beans, and he would be, until Wedge had enough to last until the next shipment.