Mr. Stephens twists a tiny silver knob and the Death Star's dry goods inventory scrolls up on a small computer monitor. He is sitting in his cramped office at a desk built into three walls. That morning a movement alert informed him that they will be away from all supply depots for forty two days, and he wants to make sure his supply is topped off.

"Fourteen tons of white flour, twelve tons of whole wheat flour, eighteen tons of bread flour, "etc. He moves to pre-made pasta. "Seventeen tons of elbow macaroni, eighteen tons of spaghetti, two tons of penne." Mr. Stephens spits out his toothpick and reaches over to a comlink. "Duke! Where's the penne?"

"I think it's on the menu this Friday," says a metallic voice.

"No, I mean in storage. My inventory shows only two tons."

"Really? Huh." There is a pause. "I'm going to need a quarter ton his tomorrow. I have to use up some artichokes before they go bad and I can only move it in Florentine pasta."

"Can you use elbow mac?"

"Are you fucking high? What's the problem?"

"We are going into deep space for forty days and penne is the command deck's favorite pasta. The bastards eat Arrabiata like fucking zoo animals."

"Yeah, you don't want to piss off those cocksuckers." Another pause, a little longer. "Sorry, but we got to move this artichoke. It's starting to smell like asparagus."

"You do that. I'll figure something out." Mr. Stephens hangs up and throws a new toothpick in his mouth. "Shit." He jumps up and runs out of his office.

After an elevator ride up seven hundred floors, Mr. Stephens trots to the entrance to the Death Star's galactic communication center. A storm-trooper stops him before he can open the door.

"Hold it!" the trooper yells. "This is a restricted area."

"Do you know who I am?"

"You are someone who is not allowed in the com center."

Mr. Stephens waves two fingers. "You are mistaken. I am allowed to enter."

"I am mistaken. You are allowed to enter."

Mr. Stephens hustles past him. "So easy."

Inside the com center, he struts to one of many officers at comm stations snatches the headset from his head.

"Hey! I'll have you executed!"

"Fuck off. This is catering business. Go get a coffee." He pulls the young officer from his chair and plops into it, and pulls the headset on. "Connect me with Imperial Logistic Command." He taps his fingers as he waits. "What? Yeah, this is the Death Star. What?" He tries to listen through some static. "The Death Star. It's new. You know, big and round. Shoots lasers." He nods. "That's it. I need some penne dry pasta. About twenty tons." He nods. "Where is that?" Pause. "Copy that!" He throws down the headset and runs out.

Mr. Stevens enters the cockpit of an Imperial shuttle. A pilot is going over an engine status report on a small screen.

"Hey, poindexter. I heard your cargo bay is empty." Mr. Stephens sits in the co-pilot seat. "I need you to fly this pig to Ceti Alpha One."

"Ah, that's not how this works, pal." The pilot is stupefied. "All shuttle flights are planned weeks in advance. This is not a land speeder."

M.r Stevens pulls a blaster from his pants. "Take off now, or I'll blow your head off."

The pilot crosses his arms and shakes his head. "No," he says with a smug grin, and his head explodes.

"Asshole." Mr. Stevens puts down the blaster and pokes at a bunch of buttons and pulls some levers. The engines startup.

The shuttle lifts up from the landing bay, turns around, and flies away.

After a two and a half hour trip, the shuttle comes out of hyperspace over Ceti Alpha One. It drops into the atmosphere and streaks toward a large industrial city on the edge of a vast plain. Thousands of acres of different crops are growing along several rivers that run from a nearby mountain range.

The shuttle flies to the center of the city and hovers over a crowded landing pad in the center of a complex of enormous warehouses. The shuttle rotates left and right, trying to find a way to drop down between the other space crafts. It touches down barely scratching a Corellian freighter.

The nose ramp lowers and Mr. Stevens trots out and heads toward a large warehouse with a large sign that says "East Galactic Distributors." After he is inside, he stops to catch his breath and grab his liver. A supply droid walks up to him.

"Good day, sir. Will call is on the second level. Please bring your order ticket back here when ready."

"Thanks, rusty. Where do I make a new order?" Mr. Stevens holds up a small identity card. "Imperial business."

"Orders for the Empire are made through the Imperial Logistics Command's wireless trunk. Or by fax."

"Yes, but that is too slow. I need twenty tons of pasta now. It's for the Death Star."

"What is the Death Star?"

"You know, big and round, shoots lasers."

"Don't know it. Try Will Call and see if they can help." The droid points to the ramp to the second level. Mr. Stevens runs as fast as can. At the second level, he sees a line of eight humans and aliens.

"Ah, nuts." He walks up to the back of the line and catches his breath. He taps the shoulder of a reptilian alien with big eyes and a small mouth. "Hey, buddy. How fast is this line moving?"

"Barely. I've been here ten minutes."

"Thanks." Mr. Stevens wipes his mouth and exhales. "Can you make an order at Will Call?"

"I'm not your friend, asshole. Stop talking to me."

"Oh, sure. Sorry." He looks down the line to the window. A supply droid is handing a thick stack of paper to a human. He walks away and a walrus faced dude goes up. Mr. Stevens holds up his identity card to those in line. "Excuse me! Imperial business. Can I cut line?"

"No!" "Fuck off!" "Get lost." "Eat shit, narc!" "Blow me."

"Okay. Just asking." He reaches behind his back and pulls out a foot long metal tube. A yellow beam emerges with an electronic screech. "Sorry, chaps. Just business." He swings the lightsaber and beheads the reptile in front of him. The others turn around and a few run away and the others pull out blasters. Mr. Stevens bats away the blaster bolts with the lightsaber and closes on the shooters. Well aimed swings slice off a few hands and another head. He walks up to the window stabs the saber through the walrus face's back. "His order is canceled," he says as the alien collapses.

"Cancellation confirmed," the droid says. "How may I help you?"

"I need twenty tons of penne dry pasta and I don't have an order."

"Do you have credit with us?"

"I work for the Empire. We have credit with everybody." He holds up his identification.

The droid does some internal computing and stuff.

"Hello, Mr. Stevens. I see you have an unlimited credit account, and you have earned four hundred and seventy million reward points. Would you like to use points for a gift basket? It has a silky Gouda, stone ground crackers, and a lovely summer sausage."

"No, I don't have time for a gift basket." He thinks for a second. "Fuck it, I'll take a basket. How many baskets can I get?"

"One hundred and twenty eight thousand."

"Just one for now. What about the penne?"

"We have fourteen thousand tons in this warehouse. We are expecting five and a half tons from the factory tomorrow morning."

"Give me the fourteen. Where's the factory?"

Twelve minutes later, Mr. Stevens is standing next to the shuttle ramp watching a cargo lift carry four pallets of boxes into the ship while he eats sliced cheese and sausage on a cracker.

The shuttle lifts and flies into the city. It hovers over a large factory with "Organa Brothers" painted on the side. The shuttle spins around and drops onto a platform near a loading dock. The ramp opens and he runs into the loading area.

Inside, twenty something workers are moving pallets of boxes around. A few look outside and see the Imperial shuttle and pull blasters from their pants. Then everybody has a blaster pointed at Mr. Stevens.

"Whoa! Hold on cowboys!" Mr. Stevens holds up his hands. "I'm a customer!" A blaster bolt sizzles by his head and he drops to the ground as other bolts zing over him. He rolls twice and jumps to his feet, wielding his lightsaber. Pew, pew, pew! The blaster shots are deflected by the yellow blade and strike stacks of boxes.

A supervisor type runs out of a small office. "Stop shooting! You're damaging the product!" The workers hold fire but keep their blasters pointed to Mr. Stevens. The supervisor at the shuttle. "Where are your storm-troopers?"

"What? I'm Head of Catering, not Head of Summer Camp Kabuki Theater." He powers off his lightsaber. "I'm here for a drop shipment. The droid at East Galactic Distributors should have called."

"You're Mr. Stevens?" The supervisor looks at his clipboard. "Five tons of dry penne pasta. We four and a half is packaged. The last half ton is still drying."

"I'll take what you got. I'm in a rush."

"Great!" The supervisor waves to the workers to move pallets to the shuttle. "Sorry about shooting at you. We thought we were being attacked by the Empire for our political beliefs."

"No worries. I don't let politics into my business. I'm very happy you can accommodate me."

The supervisor looks at the clipboard. "I think you are our best customer. Spaghetti, penne, elbow, rigatoni. Have you tried any of our new gluten-free pasta?"

"Nobody in the Empire eats gluten-free. They would rather bloat."

"Fair enough." He looks to the shuttle. A worker gives him a thumbs up. "Ah! You are loaded up. Thank you for your business and for coming in to see us." He holds out his hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet another professional." They shake hands. "Gotta run." Mr. Stevens runs to the shuttle.

The shuttle floats into the landing bay and gently lands. Fifty storm troopers run out of portals and surround it, pointing guns. Darth Vader casually walks out, cape flowing, and stops in front of the opening ramp. Mr. Stevens walks out with his gift basket and stops in front of Vader.

"Who the fuck are you?" Vader asks, pointing his finger at Mr. Stevens.

"I'm Mr. Stevens, Head of Catering. I need you and your cosplay choir boys to fuck off so I can unload this shuttle."

"I am not someone you talk to like that." Vader holds up his bent finger. Mr. Stevens starts to choke, and he holds up his finger. Vader's mechanical breathing stutters and he gets agitated. They both drop their hands and breath normally. "Shit sandwich! I thought I was the only one who could do that."

"Well, you ain't. Clear this deck so I can unload this dry penne."

"Oh, balls! Today is Penne Florentine day!" Vader spins around and waves his hand forward. The storm-troopers hustle out of the landing bay followed by Vader and his flowing cape.

"What a prick." Mr. Stevens holds his hands to his mouth. "Duke! Where are you? Bring the pallet jacks!"