Loic Monerat & The Lizard Brain Spice Smuggling Syndicate by Chris Herron, Greg Provan (book club suggestions .TXT) 📖

holding together, apart from that, he was in rags; topless, his xylophone ribs exposed, his pale flesh was oil-smeared, bloodsoaked, and vomit-flecked. He shuddered as he looked at the ugly jagged scar across the side of his potbelly. The dirty-beige mask they had put on his face only completed the look, giving him the appearance of some insane, cannibalistic criminal, in need of immediate muzzling.

 

This had definitely been the roughest week of his life, he just hoped it wouldn’t be the last week of his life, or if it was, he prayed at least for a quick death, not slow torture at the hands of a hedonistic Hutt, please gods, no.

 

The doors opposite the ones they had entered, and which the majordomo had vanished through, swayed open again, and the Abednedo was back, accompanied by a protocol droid and two more Shistavanen, an orange-furred one and a shit-furred one. The new guards bared their teeth as they entered the room and their heckles rose, low growls, gnashing their fangs. It occurred to Loic that they were speaking in their own tongue, some unutterable canine language, they were probably talking about Bossk, weighing him up against the four of them.

 

‘His Distended Highness Okkra will see you now’, announced the ram-faced majordomo, and beckoned for them to follow. For the umpteenth time in the smuggler’s rapidly-diminishing life, Bossk grasped Loic by the back of his neck, and with the reptile’s sharp claws digging into his flesh he was shoved forward. He stumbled, fell, scuffed his knee, then got back to his feet and limped out the room pathetically. As he ungracefully exited, he stole a glance at the dragon-shaped golden carvings on the doubledoors as they passed through, noting his tear-rimmed blue eyes in the reflection of the metal, noting the sunburned flesh peeling from his bald scalp, and the bags under his eyes so black above the mask that wrapped around his mouth so tightly he could barely breathe, let alone speak.

 

Okkra had been in a depressed funk the past few days, so to cheer himself up he had decided to go all out for his 776th birthday by hosting a tournament - nothing pleased the big orange slug more than bloodsports. He had crimelords from local sectors select the best fighters from among their slaves and each one was pitted against the other, one after another, in battles to the death, until one remained standing, that slave would be rewarded with freedom. Some slaves even trained for it, and their owners ensured they were well-fed and well-rested by the time of the battle royal, after all there was a cashprize for the master whose slave was the victor.

 

In the beating heart of Okkra’s murderous mesa was a small amphitheatre, left behind by the original inhabitants, and which served the Hutt and a hundred-or-so of his closest allies and staff as an arena for the day. And it had been a long day, in the morning, after second breakfast, they had pitted wild beasts against each other in the fighting pit and bet on the outcomes. At first lunch, they ate whole roast spitmeats and watched as some of Okkra’s enemies, people who had crossed him or been disloyal, were brought before the Hutt as sacrificial gifts. They were flayed alive while he ate his gravy-covered ribracks and laughed enthusiastically. Then, post-prandially, the prisoners were dismembered and crucified, before finally being set alight to act as torches to illuminate the room, burning cadavers on flaming wooden crosses; a sick, gruesome, circus of death.

 

By late afternoon, the stench of death and burning flesh was so putrid in the small arena, and with the desert heat, that some droids were deployed to sprinkle the place with perfume, but it did very little to mask the obscene stench, which seeped into the fabric of your clothes and soaked into your skin and crawled down your throat, gagging.

 

After pre-supper snacks, Okkra was presented with birthday gifts from his guests. At the foot of his overstuffed auburn belly was piled trinkets and treasures from the galaxy-over; pouches of precious pyronium gems, clothsacks of exotic rainbow-coloured foodspices, overflowing bags of Ahch-To seasalt and Kashyyyk wheat, and barrels of finest Bespin Port, soft fur pelts for rugs, and rare silken materials from distant moons for drapes. The Huttlord drooled and lavished over them all as he slurped greedily from his druglaced punchbowl and sucked on his oversized, opulent hookah, carved from Chammian ivory in the form of a Hutt’s head, no doubt another gift.

 

Plumes of fire erupted sporadically and theatrically into the air from pyros positioned in every corner. A wooden banqueting table lay pregnant with food; fruits, seeds, nuts, and unidentifiable marinaded and cured animal meats from every corner of the Rim Sectors. The crowd writhed and bulged in a riotous rabble, inebriated, bloodthirsty, fights broke out here and there. Gamorrean bouncers tried to maintain order but the crowd was lively and barely-contained. The clamour of voices, the thudding of feet, occasional screams of victims punctuated with whoops of joy from aggressors. Hoots, snorts, whistles and whines of every kind of creature.

 

All manner of scum the galaxy over was crammed into this joint; horned Devaronians leered from alcoves, quarrelsome Quarren rolled dice with lapin-faced Squib. A huge red Massassi loomed over a Sabacc table watching a flock of Geonosians shuffle cards. Even a pair of Trandoshans lurked in the shadowy fringes. The species within this domicile were myriad and heterogenous, every pirate, spicebum, bounty hunter or gangster that was ever affiliated with Okkra’s criminal schemes, and had not been murdered by him yet, was present. Everyone was heavily-armed, and everyone was imbibing narcotic substances and strong liquors.

Sunset meant the beginning of the tournament. Okkra wriggled and convulsed on his perch, surrounded by sycophants and servants, the crimelord licked his grotesque warty lips as the first contestant was brought to the fighting pit. It was a dishevelled wookie, scabrous, clumps of fur missing, a haunted expression on its hairy face. The wookie made short work of the Iktotchi that was thrown in to face it; grabbing the creature by its horns, putting its foot against the chest, and ripping the horns clean out of the Iktotchi’s red-scaled skull as the sufferer screamed and howled. The wookie wasted no time in using the newly-acquired weapons to frantically beat its opponent to death. Okkra guffawed, delighted at the irony of being bludgeoned to death with your own horns.

 

The battered corpse of the wookie’s victim was tossed by its defeater into the baying crowd, where a cluster of Jawas relieved it of its garments, which they scurried off with. The hornless Iktotchi’s naked red body was scooped up and tipped down a stone well to some unseen depths below the arena. A new opponent was shoved in with the victorious wookie, a sullen-looking Dug. Still clutching a horn in each hand, the wookie made that peculiar battlecry they make and rushed to meet its opponent head-on.

 

Okkra was still bellowing a throaty laughter at the demise of the previous entrant, when the main doors opened and his majordomo entered, flanked by the guards. Trailing behind them was the scuttling service droid, the terrible Trandoshan, the cyan-skinned Chiss, and the dismal Monerat, who hobbled forward in his chains and looked at the wild mob with woeful wet eyes. The reek of slaughter invaded his nostrils as it crawled through the breathing slits in his face-covering, the smoke from the fires stung his eyes, the alluring scent of spice pricked his senses, but above all, a cold and familiar feeling of dread settled in the smuggler’s stomach like a lump of Keshirian concrete and loosened his bowels…

 

Okkra’s majordomo padded forward with slow graceful steps, the careful footsteps of a being who seldom hurried. Maax sensed the Abednedo could use that staff of his well, though it was his counterpart’s wits that gave Maax pause. The Chiss had learned what he could about his opposite number before he departed Sarkraa’s palace. Grav Nedi, a dangerous individual apparently, fiercely intelligent, subtle, his sharp mind worth a hundred of Okkra’s thugs. Was he the puppet master behind Okkra’s rapacious business ventures? Like Maax he had not been in his position long, details were scarce. It seemed the vaunted position of majordomo did not yield a high life expectancy.

 

Shutting out the obscene din, the Chiss’s ruby eyes observed the situation; how many heads were awash in the tide of crapulence, possible escape routes, weapons, watchful sober-eyed sharpshooters. There was roaring laughter as Okkra’s unsavoury guests gambled and cheered at the happenings in the area. He let his gaze fall to the fighting pit as he passed by, idly curious to what was the source of such boisterous hilarity. A long-tormented wookie chased a cowardly, strangely-shaped creature who darted hither and tither always seeming to evade capture by inches.

 

It did not happen immediately, but eventually the hall fell as silent as a crypt. Conversations died, cut short mid-sentence, drunken criminals would stop mid cheer and poke their comrades to look at the new arrivals. The change in atmosphere was so palpable, the crowd fortunate enough to be afforded seats in the amphitheatre forgot the wookie and came up for a better view, even the dubiously talented musicians ceased their sonorous dirge. For it was Bossk the bounty hunter, Bossk who had blasted a squad of Okkra’s goons in half. As Maax and his companions moved to Okkra’s dais, the throngs inched slowly behind them, encircling them, none wishing to miss what happened next. Grav Nedi nimbly ascended the stairs and perched at Okkra’s side.

 

‘Maax Da’Viore, majordomo to Sarkraa the Exquisite.’ The Abednedo announced theatrically. Okkra cast his rheumy baneful gaze down upon the newcomers. And what a sight they made: a scarlet-eyed, stern-faced Chiss, his glittering gaudy robes more brazen than even the sight of his vulgar blue skin; their prisoner, the would-be assassin and failed smuggler, Monerat, who stood chained, masked and shivering, and towering behind them the undaunted, troublesome Trandoshan, the aweless Bossk. Maax stepped forth and offered a flashy ostentatious cape-swirling bow.

 

‘Exalted Okkra, I have come here at the behest of your beloved cousin, Sarkraa the Illustrious. She sends depthless tenderness and devotion on this your 776th birthday. She has sent a gift,’ Maax swung his arm towards Loic, ‘the vile and treacherous, Monerat. In her wisdom she ceded that you would devise a more fitting punishment for this cur than even her most audacious cruciation.’

 

Okkra returned the empty platitudes with more of his own, weary of dreary Huttese customs depriving him of important seconds he could instead spend gormandizing. ‘My cherished kinswoman will forever be my heart’s treasure. I thank her for her kindness and wisdom. Now, tell me truly, why does the smuggler still yet live.’ The crimelord, who fancied himself a demigod, asked in Huttese.

 

‘This foolish wretch, a man alone, with no friends and no succour, took it upon himself to weave the vilest of all malefactions,’ Maxx said, and slapped a balled fist into his palm for emphasis, ‘a cowardly attempt to bring harm to you, and the nerve to blame my venerated mistress. The bounty she placed on his head has been honoured though, as a gesture of goodwill she offers him to you, to punish as you see fit.’ Okkra’s heavy eyelids narrowed.

 

‘He will face agonies of mythical proportion,’ he replied. This brought cheers from the audience, whose quenchless bloodlust was never satiated, so long as it was not their own blood at stake. Maax looked to Loic with pitiless eyes noticing how the smuggler’s own eyes bulged with terror-stricken hysteria.

 

‘Sarkraa believes the time has come for expansion,' continued Maax, 'that new opportunities are ripe. I have many proposals to make at a suitable…’

 

‘And what of the bounty hunter?’ Interjected Okkra, his gaze meeting Bossk’s own for the first time. Maax could imagine a hundred hands moving slowly to their holsters. This was a delicate situation, the moment Maax had