Writer For Hire – But Only If You’re a Fett

June 30, 2005

CLUNK!

“Oh, what’s wrong with you now, stupid car!” I snap. Sounds as if going up our bumpy, pit-filled dirt lane one too many times has jolted something loose. Okay, so maybe part of it is that I take the lane way too fast – it’s probably a miracle I haven’t nose-dived it into the canal yet. But still, it’s annoying when mysterious clangs come from the engine or, like last summer, the alternator dies at an intersection in downtown Boise. Then again, I only paid eight hundred bucks for the Ford Tow-us, so I guess you get what you pay for.

I pull into the driveway, grab my purse, and shimmy out the passenger door – I still haven’t gotten the driver’s door fixed. Maybe I’ll have to talk to Darth about it. He’s got a knack for machinery, and besides, if he hasn’t already done his share of tampering with my car, I’m a Gungan.

CRACK!

Okay, that wasn’t my car. It sounded like a blaster…

CRACK!

“What are you doing?!” I scream.

CRACK! A bolt of sizzling red energy goes skyward, and the still-smoking corpse of a starling hits the driveway at my feet. The person responsible for this untimely death lowers his weapon and glares at me through a T-slit visor.

“Darth! Get your cyborg butt out here now!”

“I’m right here,” he tells me, looking up from a notebook. I get a glimpse of the page – he’s keeping a tally of his friend’s hits.

“What’s Boba Fett doing here?” I demand.

“I am still a Dark Lord of the Sith,” he tells me. “My mission here does not excuse me from my other responsibilities. Boba Fett is reporting the success of his last mission and collecting payment.”

“And what does that have to do with killing the local wildlife off?”

“We were killing time until you came home,” Fett replies, and he raises his blaster to take out another bird.

“Don’t shoot that!” I exclaim. “It’s illegal to shoot magpies!”

“How can it be illegal?” demands Vader.

“It’s some kind of deal with Mexico, I think,” I tell the two men. “If we don’t want them killing the bald eagle, our national bird, then we can’t kill the magpie, their national bird.” Okay, I can’t validate the authenticity of that story. It’s just what my mom says.

Fett snickers. “Sounds like an urban legend if I ever heard one.”

“Just don’t shoot them,” I order. “Better safe than sorry. Same goes with birds of prey. You get slapped with a huge fine if you injure or kill a hawk or falcon.”

Vader and Fett exchange a quick glance. “Fett, dispose of the body,” Vader advises. “Make sure it can’t be traced to Kenya’s property.”

“As you wish,” Fett replies, and he lowers his gun and heads for the field, picking up a large dead bird on the way.

“What did you shoot?!” I exclaim.

“Some sort of hawk,” Vader replies. “It was going after your brother’s chickens. I thought you would appreciate the favor.”

I sigh. We’ve had this problem before – not with the bounty hunter, but with hawks. Last summer a red-tailed hawk moved in on our property and killed six young chickens. Fireworks didn’t scare it off – it seemed totally unafraid of humans. Upon calling Animal Control and the Birds of Prey Center, we learned that there was nothing we could do but keep our animals locked up, since it was illegal to shoot the bird even if it was terrorizing us. I’d rather not have last year’s chicken massacre repeated, but then again, I can’t afford a fine either.

“Done,” Fett announces, coming back. “I destroyed the body.”

“Thanks,” I tell him. “So why did you need to wait until I came home before you left?”

Fett looks at Vader as if asking permission. Vader nods, and he turns back to me.

“I’ve read your work,” he says.

“On Fanfiction.net?”

“Of course. I have… issues with your ‘Reborn’ trilogy.”

“What ‘issues?’ The fact that I made you a Sith?”

“No. Well, yes, I have issues there, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” He kicks the body of a crow aside. “I want you to write another chapter.”

“Fett, the story’s over. There’s nothing more I can add to it.”

“Yes, there is. My story needs… closure.”

I think I get what he’s saying. “You want me to write about your father-son chat with Jango.” I shouldn’t be surprised; several people have come forward and asked for that. I wonder if one of those people wasn’t him using an alias.

“Yes.”

”I’d love to, but I have three stories going at the moment. People are waiting for updates on ‘Catacombs’ and ‘Heir to the Ring,’ and if I don’t hurry up on my novel I’ll never get it to a publisher…” Yes, I’m writing an original novel, but don’t get your hopes up – I’m at a stuck point on the second chapter.

“I’m afraid you’re bound to the deal already,” Fett tells me.

“What do you mean I’m bound to the deal?”

Fett points at Vader, who gives an indifferent shrug.

“Part of Fett’s payment for his last mission was the promise that you would add the requested chapter to ‘Reborn.’”

“Thanks,” I tell him sarcastically. “Like I don’t have enough on my plate.”

“One chapter,” Fett says quietly, in a neutral tone that is about as close as he ever gets to actually pleading. “I only ask one chapter, not a ‘Lord of the Rings’ sized novel.”

I decide to humor the two men. After all, they’re not asking much. And it’s not like I wasn’t already thinking about adding a companion piece to ‘Reborn.’ Besides, how many times does a fanfic author get to take a request from her second-favorite Star Wars character?

“On the stipulation that Fett cleans up his mess and Vader sees why my car’s making funny noises,” I tell them.

“Deal,” they say in unison.

I leave the Masked Marvels to their work and go in the house to dig out my writing notebook.

***

To: Kenya Starflight
From: Boba Fett
Subject: Reborn Chapter

Thank you for the advance copy of the chapter. I hope you will post it quickly.

Be warned – you have gained a cult following among the stormtroopers on Kamino. If you ever elect to come to our galaxy, brace yourself. And bring signed pictures – TK-620 wants your autograph, and I’m sure he won’t be the only one.

Boba Fett

To: Boba Fett
From: Kenya Starflight
Subject: Re: Reborn Chapter

This is the last time I ever do a story for hire. Got that?

And you can tell Mr. TK-620 that if I ever come to his planet, it won’t be without an armed escort. I have a following on the Seattle planet? Scary to say the least.

Don’t know when the chapter’ll be posted. Maybe a few days. Tell your friends to be patient.

Kenya Starflight

Drowning Darth

June 27, 2005

AAAAaaaahhhhh….

Another family reunion come and gone. I guess I should be glad these things only happen once every three years for our clan. And what do I have to show for it? Five extra pounds due to the fact that every time we get together we eat, the e-mail addresses of two cousins who are also Star Wars fanatics, and a sunburn so bad I have blisters the size of quarters on my shoulders.

For the most part, it was your average family reunion. Hot dog roasts, some outdoor games and relay races that are only fun the first time you play them, the usual passing around of babies and family gossip, and the slapping of butts. Okay, so it was MY average family reunion – don’t ask me what the obsession with rear ends is about, okay?

Getting-to-know-you type games were inevitable, but I found that I enjoyed them. Seeing as I couldn’t pick three-quarters of these people out of a police lineup, it was handy being able to identify them somehow. The game we played was a “Human Scavenger Hunt,” where we had to acquire the signatures from people who fit under certain categories, such as “has been to Asia” or “has the youngest baby” or “has served in the Armed Forces.” I ended up signing a lot for “writer” and “has seen Napoleon Dynamite,” which should have read “wasted two hours of my life trying to find a plotline in Napoleon Dynamite.”

Vader stayed out of the games for the most part, though he did sign Brandon’s paper under the heading “has never gotten a speeding ticket.” Never gotten a speeding ticket?! Hah! Not for want of trying, I’ll bet.

All in all, though, the highlight of the reunion was this Friday’s unorthodox (for us) activity – Roaring Springs.

Roaring Springs is a small-to-medium-sized water park on the outskirts of Boise, a fair drive from our house, and it looks like something the people of Kamino might dream up if they were very, very stoned. I had mixed feelings about this activity. On the one hand, it was a hot day, and this was a fun way to cool off. On the other hand, there are members of this family I really didn’t want to see half-naked.

After breakfast and an excruciating drive, our large family descended upon the park like an insanely warped clone army, no doubt striking terror in the hearts of the lifeguards, employees, and other park-goers. After quickly changing into our swimming gear – and finding out who among us had beer bellies, hairy backs, cellulite, tattoos, and/or piercings in odd places – we had a picnic lunch and scattered. I found myself under a tree with my brother, seven-year-old cousin, and baby niece, trying to convince the two boys that they needed to put on sunscreen before they took off. I didn’t want to hear them whine when they scorched themselves.

“If you want them protected from the sun, why did you have them strip to the waist in the first place?” Vader remarked, coming to stand by the table where I was sitting. Was that potato salad smeared on his mask? How the heck did he eat anyway? Mom’s always blaming me for food going missing, but I never suspected it could be Darth.

“Because taking a dunk in Jedi robes isn’t exactly haute fashion on Earth,” I replied, thrusting my niece at him. “Hold the kid while I get sunscreen on Brandon’s back.”

“Now just a minute…” he protested, but Rosemary* settled down in Vader’s arms as comfortably as if he were her father or grandfather. Not for the first time I wondered what it looked like to outsiders – it must be a shocking thing to see a four-month-old baby floating in midair. But no one so much as gave us a second glance. I’ll never understand how these things work.

Before you harp on me, yes, I’ve seen Episode III and the whole youngling scene. I’m not ignorant. But seeing as Vader had not yet expressed homicidal behavior toward anyone in my family (though he did clench his fists reflexively every time my psychoanalyst uncle passed by) I trusted him with Rosemary for a few minutes.

A few hours later, having run the gamut of rides that didn’t look too suicidal – Raging Rapids, Endless River, Whitewater Bay, the Avalanche, etc. – I hunted down a few of the older cousins and invited them to join me on the Mammoth Canyon ride. Mammoth Canyon (also known as the Family Fun Ride or, less commonly, Sleeping With the Fishes) is a raft ride that seats up to five people, and one of the freakier aspects of this ride is that part of it takes place in total darkness.

Guess who showed up, dripping wet?

“Just a minute,” I told the cousins, then pulled Vader aside. “What the heck did you do?”

“Your cousin Mark pushed me into the wave pool,” Vader replied.

“Mark?” I almost asked if Mark can see him too, but then I remembered my second cousin was almost totally blind. “Mark can hear you? He knows you exist?”

Vader nodded. “He has agreed to keep this secret.”

“What did you do to make him shove you into the wave pool?” I asked.

“Never mind,” he shot back. “Where are you going?”

“To Mammoth Canyon. Want to come?”

“No thank you.”

“The wave pool didn’t kill you; this won’t either.”

“I will pass.” He started to walk off.

Then an absolutely evil thought came to me, and I grinned demonically before speaking.

“Good idea. After all, Mammoth Canyon isn’t for the faint at heart.”

He turned slowly. “What did you call me?”

“Nothing. I just said…”

“Did you call me a coward?”

“No, I just said Mammoth Canyon isn’t for the faint at heart.”

“I am NOT faint at heart.”

“Then why not take a run on the slide?”

“One ride,” he replied, accepting defeat.

We stood in line for the blasted ride for twenty minutes, climbing stairs until we could almost see into the next county. The four of us loaded up in the raft, the two cousins totally oblivious to our new raft-mate, and the lifeguard shoved us into the darkened tube that began our trip downstream.

Then the curves started. I knew for a moment what clothes in the washing machine feel like. And from somewhere in the blackness, I heard a deep, electronic-sounding voice utter the foreboding words “Oh [deleted]!!”

Thirty seconds later the raft came shooting out of the end of the slide, and I got my heart started again. The two cousins were laughing and cheering and insisting that we try it again. I was the only one to notice the empty spot in the raft. Someone had fallen out.

I turned back toward the end of the ride to see Darth Vader shoot out of the tube and belly-flop into the pool. It looked like, somewhere along the line, he’d gotten separated from his cape. The garment followed him like a drowned animal a few seconds later.

Much later, when I declared myself too tired and sunburned to continue, I dried off, redressed, and went out to my car to see the Dark Lord sitting in the passenger seat, dripping all over the upholstery, and whonking his helmet against the dashboard, moaning something about why did he let me talk him into coming to this reunion in the first place.

Refraining from an I-told-you-so lecture, I sympathized with his state of mind and drove him home. We would both unwind – him from the park and me from my family – in front of a few showings of Castle In the Sky.

*Name changed

Mixed Nuts

June 22, 2005

Why me? How could this happen to me? What have I done in a former life to deserve this torment?

I walk in from work, stressed out the kazoo, to find Brandon and Vader playing “Quidditch World Cup” on the Playstation. Oh sure, they can be relaxed about this. They’re not the ones that are going to have to do the hard work.

“Who’s Slytherin?” I ask out of simple curiousity.

“I’m Hufflepuff, he’s Slytherin,” Brandon replies with a definite whine. “And he’s kicking my butt.”

“Sorry,” I reply without really meaning it.

“You seem stressed,” chimes in the Dark Lord of the Obvious.

“What, do I look stressed?” I ask, forcing as much sarcasm into my voice as I can. “I’m not stressed. What makes you think I’m stressed?!”

Brandon groans as his Chaser takes a mean Bludger attack onscreen. Sarcasm’s usually lost on him.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me we had a family reunion coming up this weekend?” I demand.

“Mom’s been talking about it for two months,” Brandon points out.

“As has your sister,” Vader adds.

“Well, sorry I’ve been a little out of the loop, I’ve been kinda busy. But you know what this means.”

“I get to see my cousins?” Brandon offers.

“That too, but it also means we have to clean house.”

“Aw, man,” he groans.

“What is so terrible about a family reunion?” Vader asks. “One would think you would enjoy the opportunity to become reacquainted with your relatives.”

“You don’t know my relatives, bucko. Ever been to Jabba’s Palace?”

“No, but I have a spy there. The place is crawling with lunatics and oddballs.”

“That’s my family for ya.”

“Ah.”

Now don’t get me wrong – I love most of my family. But I prefer to love them at a distance. (Like a certain Sith I could mention.) Being around people who could only fit in at the Outlander bar in Episode II (or better yet, Monty Python’s crew) for more than a few hours, let alone a four-day family reunion, would drive me to the loony bin.

Don’t believe me? For starters, there’s my weird uncle Ethan*, a homosexual psychology major who sees fit to psychoanalyze everyone he encounters at the family reunion – “Kenya, why do you feel the need to write such elaborate stories about copyrighted characters?” He constantly wears these broken, crooked glasses, which shouldn’t bug me but does. Go get them fixed, Ethan, for crying out loud!

Then there’s Li*, who married into the family and so has no right to complain about being mixed up with such a bizarre bunch. He’s a surgeon from Hong Kong, which is perfectly fine, but it’s quite funny when his kids get splinters and scrapes and sprains and refuse to let Dad look at them – “I want a REAL doctor to help me!” they insist.

And we can’t forget my brother-in-law Hyrum* -- Yoda’s long-lost twin brother. Chunky, bald already at twenty-eight, constantly stained with engine grease from his mechanic job, and barely five feet tall, his off-the-wall comments and bizarre sense of humor make Jim Carrey look perfectly sane.

Did I mention Uncle Calvin*? Yeah, he’s going to be fun, I can tell. Cowboy to the core, his idea of a good time is to pick on the little kids by lassoing them as they run away. He’s a big tease, too – my little brother tries to avoid him, since he likes to call him “Brandy” instead of Brandon.

Grandpa Johnson* -- need I say more? Working on his third wife and constantly bragging about his latest international cruise, he knows how to burn his kids’ inheritances pretty well. He’ll probably dish out early Christmas presents at the reunion, which I always dread. I mean, come on, what is a confirmed Star Wars geek gonna do with an antique (read: totally falling apart) paper-doll book or a flamenco dress?

And I can’t even skip out of the reunion by saying I have to work – by some stroke of fate, I have the weekend of the reunion off. I wonder if some relative didn’t call the bookstore and lean on the manager.

“Look at it this way,” Vader explains. “Once the reunion is over, your mother will have been around the lunatics for so long that she’ll have no right to call you crazy when you speak to me.”

“Yeah right,” I retort. “Once the reunion is over, you’ll have been around the crazies for so long, you’ll be crying to go back to Corusant, whether or not your mission’s accomplished.”

“We shall see.”

Okaaaayyyyyy. Someone doesn’t get hints well.

“Let me make this perfectly clear, Darth – DON’T COME TO THE FAMILY REUNION. You will live to regret it.”

Once again, I’ve forgotten the Skywalker rule of thumb detailed in the “Pathetic Life Forms” post. “You think you can tell a Dark Lord what to do?”

I sigh and go to my bedroom to change clothes. Let him come. We’ll see how he feels after he’s spent some time in the cuckoo’s nest.

Stay tuned for an “after-reunion” update blog.

*Names changed

Pathetic Life Forms, or Darth vs. The Goat

June 15, 2005

Did I mention I live on a farm? Yep, five acres of rampaging weeds and half-dead apple trees somewhere between two hick towns and two wanna-be-big cities. One good thing about living in the state famous for potatoes, white supremacists, Napoleon Dynamite, and most recently Deep Throat is having the opportunity to have a nice big patch of land without actually being expected to grow anything useful on it.

And yes, we have animals. Over the years our “farm” (I use the term loosely) has played host to a number of different kinds of animals. Besides the usual motley crew of kid’s pets – dogs, cats, goldfish, rabbits, hamsters, and a week-long stint with an iguana – we’ve also had steers, pigs, goats, ducks, chickens, and turkeys, not to mention human animals such as teenagers and Sith Lords.

At one time we had over fifty domesticated animals on our property, but right now the total stands at a measly ten – two goats, seven chickens, and the most psychotic cat in the country.

Most of the animals are my brother’s responsibility. And he takes it seriously – he may detest helping with the household chores, but he loves his cat and chickens. He even has them all named – and is the only one who can tell most of the chickens apart.

“This one’s Blackie,” he tells Vader this morning, taking him outside to see the animals. “And there’s Brown-Crown, Braveheart, Hook, Sunshine, Buffy, and my rooster King.”

“I see,” Vader replies, feigning interest. For someone who’s come face to face with such horrors as acklays, reeks, nexus, gundarks, and who-knows-what-else, a hen’s boring.

Braveheart, a black hen and the boldest chicken in the lot, struts up to the Dark Lord, gives him a precursory glance, then proceeds to attack his boot – not just pecking, but a crazed wing-flapping assault as if his foot were a snake. Braveheart has issues with people’s feet. Don’t ask me why.

“That’ll wash off,” Brandon assures Vader once he shoos the chicken away.

Since the goats are my responsibility, I take it upon myself to introduce Vader to them. He’s already met the cat, of course – Tiger’s not allowed outside. An orange tabby we rescued from the shelter, he lost his tail in some nameless accident before we got him. I swear Tiger’s possessed – he likes to roll in dirty laundry, he eats spiders, he chews on houseplants, he drinks from the toilet, he will race mindlessly around the house for hours on end… you get the drift.

Tiger and Vader seem to have a relationship made up of mutual tolerance – each lets the other be. At least, that’s been the rule ever since Tiger jumped on the couch in the middle of the night and landed straight on Vader’s face… um, mask. Inhaling cat hair is not the most pleasant experience in the world, so I can’t fault him for slinging the feline across the living room and into the kitchen. The cat survived, but now he won’t have anything to do with Darth.

But back to the goats.

What is it about creatures in black that makes them ornery? The aforementioned Braveheart’s a Black Sexlink (yes, that’s the real name of the species, don’t laugh), and she’s practically the devil in feathers. Our black pygmy goat, Shadow, was undisputed queen of the barnyard – she even had our irritable old cowdog scared to death of her. For a time she lived in a big pen behind the barn with another pygmy goat, who she pushed and bossed around like nobody’s business.

Shadow’s dead now, but her cellmate, Frosty, is still around. Frosty’s almost ten years old, which is old for a goat, and she’s not exactly thrilled to meet Darth Vader. Then again, Vader’s not exactly thrilled to see her either.

“Of what use is a goat to you?” he asks.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t tell me you’ve never had pets,” I retort, pulling up a thistle and offering it to her. Frosty snatches it away like a starving creature, despite the fact that I fed her just an hour ago.

“This is not a pet; it’s livestock.”

“Okay, we used to breed and sell pygmy goats. But ever since our stud male died, we’ve just been keeping the females as pets. Frosty’s the last one.”

“I thought you had two goats.”

“Well, the other one’s not a pygmy goat.”

Cocoa, our other goat, is housed separately from Frosty, and he’s about as different from her as they come. She’s a white pygmy goat, with short legs, a round dumpy sort of body, and ears like a rabbit’s. Cocoa’s brown (as if you couldn’t guess from the name), tall, skinny, and has floppy ears like a basset hound’s. While we got Frosty from a reputable breeder, Cocoa is the result of having a stepsister who works at the animal shelter (“Someone found a goat wandering down the highway and brought it here – do you have room for it?”). Frosty’s old, placid, and expects nothing more than food and an occasional scratch behind the ears; Cocoa’s young, hyperactive, and expresses his affection by jumping on whoever’s stupid enough to go into his pen.

“Don’t go in, whatever you do,” I warn Vader as I throw some hay over the fence. “Trust me, you’ll regret it.”

“He looks fairly harmless,” Vader counters.

“You can go in if you want, but don’t come whining to me afterward.”

I must have forgotten one of the Skywalker rules of thumb – if someone tells you not to do it, it’s gotta be fun. At any rate, my warning goes right over his helmet.

Brandon comes outside to throw scraps to the chickens. I turn my back on Vader for just a moment to ask my brother if he fed his cat this morning. But before he can answer, I hear two ominous sounds – the gate to Cocoa’s pen opening and shutting, and the unmistakable thump of eager hooves racing across dirt.

“This should be amusing,” I say to myself, and I turn to look.

Despite Vader’s claims to the contrary (see “The Dark Lord Speaks,” which I still haven’t forgiven him for), he does weigh a good deal – all those cybernetic components don’t help any. But Cocoa, despite weighing a comparatively measly hundred and fifty, has a few advantages over Vader: A) a running start, and B) a naturally exuberant personality that rivals Jar Jar Binks’.

The Incredible Flying Goat hits Vader in the chest, and down they go in the water trough.

Brandon busts up laughing. I can’t help it – I join in.

“KENYA, GET THIS BEAST OFF ME!”

“Ah, he’s harmless!” I retort, still laughing. Hey, after the brawl he calls an “incident” two weeks ago, I’m not feeling too sorry for him. Besides, this is more entertaining than pro wrestling.

Cocoa, still holding Vader down for the count, proceeds to express further joy that someone has come into his pen by nibbling at his chest controls. Vader proceeds to express his emotions toward the unlucky goat by resorting to the Force.

Much later, when we’ve pulled Vader off the poor goat, assessed both of them for serious injuries, and dragged the panicky Cocoa out from under the deck, we decide that, from now on, Vader should have no more to do with what Obi-wan Kenobi calls “the pathetic life forms.”

Whose Idea Was It To Let the Sith Drive?

June 13, 2005

I must have a suicidal streak. That’s the only reason I can think of that I would allow Darth Vader to play chauffer.

Although I guess I could blame my sister. She’s the one who suggested a family run to Costco. The plan was to help Mom choose fashionable frames for her new glasses, then get ice cream at the mini-café. But seeing as all of us – Mom, sister, brother, niece, nephew, and I (not to mention a visible-only-to-me cyborg) – wouldn’t fit in one car and my sister didn’t want to drive on the freeway, I was drafted into driving.

As passengers were divided up – Mom would drive my sister’s car with my sister and her kids in tow, while I’d transport my little brother and Darth – I couldn’t refrain from a minor complaint. After all, I wasn’t too fond of freeway driving myself. There’s something about going 70+ MPH in a two-thousand-pound steel death machine with irritable commuters and hulking semis rocketing past me that just doesn’t agree with my sanity.

“Seventy miles an hour?!” Vader replies, shocked. “That’s child’s play!”

“Yeah, podracers go MUCH faster on the game!” my brother, Brandon*, adds enthusiastically. So far he’s the only person besides me that can see Vader, though he’s kept quiet about it. Partly because he’s a Star Wars fan too and knows how these things go, but mostly because I threatened him with a swirlie if he so much as breathed a word. Hey, the kid fears me more than Darth any day.

“Sorry, but I’m not a speed demon like some people I can mention,” I reply, opening the door. “Get in, Darth. Behave yourself at the store.”

”If you are unsure about driving to Costco, perhaps you should let me drive.”

Brandon cheers.

“Um…” I have to think about that a minute. On the one hand, I detest the freeway and would gladly let someone else drive. On the other hand, I’ve seen Vader’s driving in the movies, and it’s not a comforting thing either.

“C’mon, it’ll be cool!” Brandon cheers.

“What you think is cool and what I think is cool are two very different things,” I remind him.

“It’s a twenty-minute drive, Kenya,” Vader argues. “What can possibly go wrong?”

“All right,” I concede, going to the passenger door. “You owe me anyhow for hacking into my blog, you know. Everyone’s going to think I’m a crabby whiner now.”

“And you think I misrepresented you?”

“Oh, shut up.”

He starts up my ’95 red Taurus. It’s not the best car – it has over a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it, the driver’s side door doesn’t open from the inside, getting the power windows to work is a fifty-fifty proposition, the front bumper fell off in a minor fender-bender two years ago, the brakes squeal like an R2 unit undergoing torture, and who knows what else is wrong with it. But it gets me from point A to point B well enough, and that’s all that matters to me.

“Just be careful,” I warn Vader. “There’s a kid in the back seat, remember.”

I might as well be trying to reason with a five-year-old in a candy store. For a Jekyll-Hyde transformation has suddenly taken place inside that steel helmet, and the dignified foreboding Sith Lord has been abruptly replaced by a grinning, foaming Adrenaline Junkie.

I suppose I should count myself lucky that he manages to keep it under control until we hit the on-ramp and promptly lose my mother in the five-o-clock rush. Maybe something about being surrounded by traffic activates some sort of chase instinct left over from his podracing days, or maybe he decides to introduce me to the joys of the freeway if I would just open my mind. Whatever the reason, he clutches the steering wheel, rolls down the window (which works today, wonder of wonders), and stomps on the gas.

“Slow down, Vader!” I order. “SlowdownslowdownslowDOWN-LOOK-OUT-FOR-THAT-MOTORCYCLE-ACK!”

The nightmare has begun. I have just unleashed a monster.

My car wasn’t built for acrobatics like this, but somehow it stays in one piece as Vader snakes in and out of traffic, the Taurus rearing onto two wheels at times as it executes an especially tight turn. I hear a lot of hysterical screaming that Brandon later insists was me. I also hear the maniacal metallic laughter of a Dark Lord clearly enjoying himself.

“You’re gonna get us all killed!” I shriek.

“Kenya, you are too skittish for your own good,” he tells me, weaving between two semis.

I’m pretty sure we passed my mom back there, but it’s hard to tell. All I’m seeing of my fellow motorists is streaks of color and the occasional raised finger. I don’t bother explaining that little treat to Darth, since I’m pretty sure he can figure it out on his own. For now, I just close my eyes and pray to God that if he saves my miserable geek butt today I will never again play hooky from church to participate in another Star Wars Movie Marathon. All the while the headlines flash through my mind:

MANIAC DRIVER CAUSES TWENTY-CAR PILEUP ON I-84. RED TAURUS FOUND AT SCENE, BELIEVED TO BE SUSPECT’S VEHICLE. SUSPECT AT LARGE, BELIEVED TO HAVE FLED SCENE. PASSENGER INSISTS DARTH VADER WAS DRIVING, HAS BEEN TRANSPORTED TO INTERMOUNTAIN MENTAL HOSPITAL.

At last the world slows down, and I hear the car engine die.

“We’re here,” Vader informs me. “You might want to let go of the door handle.”

I release the sweat-slicked handle, gasping for breath. “I… am… driving… home.”

“I thought you hated the freeway,” Brandon pipes up. “Besides, that was fun!”

“That’s the LAST time you’re allowed behind the wheel of my car,” I snarl.

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” he protests.

Mom and my sister show up, looking puzzled.

“How’d you get here before us?” Mom asks.

“Don’t ask,” I reply, glaring at Vader, who’s trying to look innocent and failing miserably.

*Name changed – you know the drill

The Dark Lord Speaks

June 9, 2005

While Kenya is at work, I would like to take advantage of this opportunity to address the readers of this blog and clear up a few matters.

If you are expecting an introduction or an explanation of exactly who I am, then may I ask why in the galaxy are you reading this in the first place?

Likewise, if you are expecting me to explain why I am studying the fans on this world, or why I have enlisted the aid of Kenya Starflight in my quest, you are mistaken. Kenya’s curiosity on this issue will never be satisfied, and neither will yours. Live with it.

I would, however, like to clear up a few matters.

First of all, I am NOT a lazy, irritable, high-strung Anti-Christ who derives pleasure from inflicting injury and finding fault with organized religion. That would be Emperor Palpatine. And if I find a reader of this blog has contacted the Emperor with this revelation, I will personally hunt him or her down and see that he suffers an excruciating death.

Second, Kenya greatly exaggerated the… incident detailed in the “Four Hundred Pounds of Raging Cyborg” post. I acted purely in self-defense, and I ceased my attack the moment I realized who she was. I did NOT nearly grind her into the carpet, nor did I nearly rip her arms from their sockets as she would claim. She didn’t even suffer a bruise. And for the record, I do NOT weigh four hundred pounds.

Third, Kenya is not the martyr she depicts herself as. I did NOT threaten her in order to recruit her to my cause. On the contrary, she practically begged me to go home with her. The woman is obsessed with my character – you should see the posters in her room. If she has second thoughts about admitting me into her house, she should remember that she brought this upon herself rather than go whining to the general populace in an Internet blog.

Fourth, she is quite overreacting regarding the religious “argument” we had last week. I am certainly not trying to prove Mormonism is a crock of poodoo. She should count herself lucky that at least she is a citizen of a non-Imperial planet, where she is still free to pursue such a religion.

And finally, I do help around the house. Why does she think her piece-of-junk car is still running anyhow? If there is someone in this house that gets no respect, it is the Dark Lord, not his cranky hostess.

I suppose I shouldn’t complain. After all, this assignment is nothing compared to some of the missions the Emperor has subjected me to. And if I think Kenya’s cranky, I suppose I should count myself lucky that at least she does not have the ability to electrocute me when she loses her temper.

And by the way, yes, I quite enjoyed the duet described in the last post. So stop laughing.

Signing off,

Lord Darth Vader

Religion, Muffins, and the Soundtrack of Life

June 3, 2005

Some people ask the deep questions in life – you know, philosophical stuff that every civilization has tossed around and dreamed up answers to, though the answer seems to come out differently every time. Questions like: “What is Man’s purpose? Why is he born? Is there really a God? Is there a Devil?”

Not me. My philosophical questions run more like this: “Why don’t they ever show the bathrooms on the starships in the movies? How does Darth Vader eat through the mask? And if life came with a musical accompaniment, what would my theme song be?”

Go on, laugh. You’ve pondered one or more of the above in your life, admit it.

But really, wouldn’t the last one be cool? Everyone knows a good soundtrack can immortalize an already great film, and that killer music can usually save a mediocre film. Why can’t it do the same for a less-than-thrilling life? And if everyone came with a theme song, you’d know right away whether you were dealing with a hero, a villain, a romantic interest, or a total goofball.

I want my theme song to be “Grew Young” by SweetHaven. Oh yeah.

Darth is less than amused by the fact that he comes with a theme already. “The Imperial March,” he argues, is not that ominous or awe-inspiring, but rather clunky and repetitive. Someone as imposing as he is deserves something better, he says. I think he’s just jealous that Darth Maul got first dibs on “Duel of the Fates.”

“What would you rather have?” I ask him on my day off as I’m mixing up a batch of muffins. “’Unwell’ by Matchbox 20? Beethoven’s Fifth? Something Metallica?”

“Anything but the ‘March,’” he replies, returning his attention to the book spread open on the kitchen table.

“You better not get anything on the pages,” I tell him as I open the flour can. “C’mon, Vader, the ‘March’ is practically synonymous with you. Get used to it.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” he replies. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t ask to be the center of attention for Mr. Lucas’ ego-trip trilogies, either.”

“DUN DUN DUN, Dun DE-dun, Dun DE-dun,” I sing just to bug him, mixing up the dry ingredients. I actually rather enjoy making things in the kitchen. It’s kind of therapeutic to actually make something with your hands once in awhile – especially when it’s edible. Now if only I could get Darth to lend a hand once in awhile. If he’s going to be staying here, it’s the least he could do…

“What are you reading, anyhow?” I ask.

“One of your religious books,” he replies. “And I am… confused.”

“By what?”

”By the apparent discrepancies in the doctrine.”

“What do you mean?” I ask warily. Lately Darth’s been getting into this annoying habit of nitpicking my faith to death, constantly trying to prove it’s wrong. Yeah, I know, great way to maintain a relationship with his Earthly host, but what can I do about it?

He flips open the Book of Mormon. “Jacob 2:24, which states – and I quote – that ‘behold, David and Solomon truly had many wives and concubines, which thing was abominable before me, saith the Lord.’”

“Okay, I believe you. It says that.” I concentrate on measuring a cup of milk for the muffins.

“Then in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 132:38, it states the exact opposite. ‘David also received many wives and concubines, and also Solomon and Moses my servants, as also many others of my servants, from the beginning of creation until this time; and in nothing did they sin save in those things which they received not of me.’” He shuts the book. “A rather glaring discrepancy. Either the Book of Jacob is wrong, or the 132nd Section of D & C is wrong.”

“Oh, crap,” I hiss. Not because he got me on that argument, but because I was too busy listening to Darth and now I’ve overflowed the measuring cup. “Can’t we put off these lovely discussions ‘til a time when I’m not busy?”

“You’re stalling for time,” he argues.

“No, I’m not.”

”Then you have an answer?”

I add the appropriate amount of milk to the dry ingredients and start mixing. I’ve been a member of the LDS church all my life, and though I take missionary work seriously, I don’t like to shove my faith down people’s throats. Even when I put Mormon characters in my fan fiction stories, I try not to make their scenes preachy or the characters goody-two-shoes. Just like the other characters, they have their flaws. And though I try to show the church in a good light, I also try to approach it in a neutral manner. This may put off some readers for whatever reason, but when something’s close to my heart, it’s bound to come out in my writing sooner or later.

So though I do want to answer Darth’s question and educate him about my faith, neither do I want to seem argumentative or eager to convert him. I’m going to have to word this carefully.

“The officers in the Imperial Army have kids, don’t they?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’ll see.”

He’s doing that tilt of his head again, the one that makes it look like he’s rolling his eyes. “Most officers are married, and yes, some have children. Why?”

“So if an officer in the Army orders his young son to not play with blasters, then he orders a stormtrooper to fire at a target, is that a discrepancy in his orders?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because the stormtrooper has had the proper training,” he counters. “Because he is more mature than the child, can understand the consequences of misusing the weapon…”

“Exactly. The stormtrooper is ready for the responsibility of a weapon. The child is not. It’s a question of preparedness. And the same applies to the two scriptures you just quoted.”

“By all means, explain.”

“The people of 500 B.C., when the Book of Jacob was written, were not yet ready for the practice of polygamy. Thus, they had the great potential to misuse it. The people of Joseph Smith’s time, when the Doctrine and Covenants were compiled, were ready. The scriptures appear to contradict each other, but they don’t. They were just two different commandments given to two different men at two different times.”

He shakes his head. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“It helps that this argument’s been waged before,” I tell him. “My seminary teacher brought this up way back when, and a lot of people have given our church flak for the polygamy issue.”

“You can argue religion, quote Star Wars movies word for word, cook, write… and what do you do in your spare time?”

I just smile and start singing my theme song. “Have you seen my front lawn / It’s a work of art / Have you heard my new song / It’s so hot it’s off the charts…”

Vader, knowing when he’s been beaten, joins in: “Lay down your arms / the war’s over, it’s time to go home…”

Yes, life is insane, and even more so when you’re making muffins and singing a duet with a Dark Lord of the Sith (who happens to have an incredible bass) just after getting into a Bible Bash argument. But when you consider the alternative, it’s not half bad.

“Will you ever answer / ever answer me please!

Shoot for the stars / ‘stead of shootin’ the breeze!

If you won’t drive / hand over the keys!”

Yeah.

*Song lyrics courtesy of Hale Yeah! Records