Random Thoughts of a Sleep-Deprived Fanfic Author

Don’t expect a coherent point to this entry, because I’m operating on about four hours of sleep about now and am a little groggy, but have no desire to go to bed yet. I’m just going to fire out some random thoughts, check my e-mail, read a little out of my latest issue of Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, chase the peace summit out of the kitchen, and THEN maybe I’ll go to bed.

First, for all of you concerned, Cocoa is perfectly fine. Despite being stranded for a few hours on a Rebel blockade runner, he suffered no ill effects and is actually doing quite well. So hold off all calls to the ASPCA, please.

It’s Mothma who got the brunt of the ordeal. She looked a fright that morning when Luke Skywalker finally talked her into coming out of her quarters. The next time I saw her, she gave me a look that could have made Darth Maul whimper. But it’s given me an advantage over her – if she’s annoying me or starting to get all high-and-mighty, all I have to do is bleat like a goat and she gets her act together in a hurry. (Sorry folks, forgot the camera.)

Second, after-Thanksgiving shopping is way overrated. This morning, I dragged myself out of bed and headed to Wal-Mart for my first ever attempt at joining the after-holiday throng – most years I get babysitting duty, but Mom and Brandon were out of town, and she called asking me to get a few things. They were completely sold out of half the things on my list (and had been since ten minutes after the sale started), and I could hardly turn around without running into a loaded cart or a screaming child or a couple who’s decided the world will end if they don’t drop anchor and examine their shopping list in miniscule detail.

I wish Vader could have come. Having someone around to mind-trick someone into turning over their loot or just Force-shove some carts/kids/slowpokes out of my way would have made the trip halfway interesting. But alas, shopping’s not his thing either, and besides, I couldn’t get the lazy cyborg to wake up, not even by dropping the cat on his head. Oh well. Maybe next year.

Third, ever tried singing the song “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” but every time the word “Grinch” pops up, substituting the word “Sith?” It’s hilarious!

“You’re a mean one, Mr. Sith!

You really are a heel!

You’re as cuddly as a cactus

You’re as charming as an eel, Mr. Sith!

You’re a bad banana with a greasy black peel!”

(WARNING: I don’t think I need to remind most people of this factoid, but it’s generally not a good idea to sing this when an actual Sith is present. The author claims no responsibility for anyone injured due to singing this song…)

While we’re on the subject of Christmas, has anyone seen the Star Wars holiday special? I haven’t. I hear it’s bad as all get out, but I’m the type of person who likes to check something out for myself before I decide if it’s bad or not. My mom found it on e-Bay for a good price, but I don’t know if she bought it or not. Hmm, maybe I need to write my own Christmas special…

Fourth (or fifth… ah, who’s counting), Vader and I just saw the movie “The Day the Earth Stood Still” tonight. The Dark Lord laughed hysterically throughout, thinking the cheesy special effects and the technology of the time period a riot (DtESS was released in 1951, for those who don’t know). I thought it was a beautiful story, and it is my distinct hope that Hollywood never gets its paws on this film and attempts to remake it.

Why, you ask? Several reasons. First, though DtESS is in black and white and has somewhat laughable special effects compared to, say, “Star Wars,” it had a real honesty to it that today’s CGI has a really tough time achieving. Colorizing it and redoing everything with computer-generated spaceships and lasers would cheapen the story. Second, the filmmakers would most likely cast some poster boy like Leonardo DeCaprio or Orlando Bloom or Matt Damon in the role of the alien. No offense to those actors (though personally I hate DeCrapio), but I really don’t think they could portray the alien as convincingly as the original – who, granted, somehow reminded me of a young Grand Moff Tarkin, but still portrayed a convincing alien. And finally, today’s directors would most likely turn the friendship that is forged between the alien and the pretty Mrs. Benson in the movie into a full-blown romance in a remake. Excuse me, but what law is on the books that maintains that any two beings of the opposite sex that share more than five minutes of screen time and aren’t related have to be romantically involved?

So there’s my beef. (If you can’t tell, I have a problem with movie remakes…)

And finally, my last thought for the night concerns what might be a touchy subject for some – Darth Vader adult fan fiction.

I understand that some people who read this blog might read and/or write adult fanfic and enjoy it, and there are some people who don’t even want to discuss the issue, so I’m giving you the option to avoid the rest of this. If you don’t want to hear my comments regarding the subject, feel free to stop reading now…

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Okay, that’s enough “warning space.”

Yes, I’ve read a couple of adult fanfic stories (a grand total of two). Yes, they were both centered around Vader. No, I don’t remember titles or authors. And no, I didn’t enjoy them.

My issue with adult fanfic that involves Vader *cough* getting involved *cough* with someone, be they male or female, is threefold. First of all, I am somewhat squeamish when it comes to sex in stories. I don’t read steamy romances, I don’t watch movies with sex scenes, etc. It’s just not something I consider a “spectator sport.” (My mom jokes that, when I finally get a husband, I’m going to make him sleep on the couch the entire time we’re married. C’mon, I’m not THAT bad, Mom…)

Second, we don’t know a whole lot about Vader’s anatomy under the armor, do we? So how do we know he is even… well… equipped (for lack of a better word) for such… activity (again, for lack of a better word)? All I know is that he’s not forthcoming with the information, and I’m not about to ask.

And finally, throughout the “Star Wars” saga and in the time I’ve spent around him, I’ve never gotten the impression that Vader is the type of man who would engage in casual sex, rape, incest, slash, or the like. He has always struck me as a man who has honor, even if he is a Sith. As for a romantic relationship… okay, it could happen, but after his tragic romance with Padme, I kind of doubt it. (Yes, I hooked Vader up with someone else in my “Reborn” trilogy, sue me.)

Okay, enough with my rant. Time to post this and inform those brawling… um, negotiating in the next room that it’s time to draw things to a close.

Good night all. The next post will have more of a point, I swear.

Thanksgiving Surprise for a Lady

NOTE FROM DARTH VADER: This post was a cooperative effort between Kenya and myself to ensure the events of today are told in their entirety. The viewpoint will switch between us as needed, with my comments in italics and hers in plain text.

I dislike driving at night. I also hate driving in thick fog. Once familiar routes become strangely alien under both circumstances, and I’m always paranoid that I’m going to hit some idiot who can’t be bothered to turn on his headlights. If you’re ever passing through Deadend, Idaho at night or in a heavy fog and find yourself stuck behind a red Taurus that refuses to go over 35 mph, it’s most likely me. Go ahead and honk or flash your high-beams as much as you want – I’d rather have you ticked at me than find myself upside down in a ditch.

Tonight, on my way home from work, I had the worst of both worlds – night AND fog. In other words, zero visibility the entire way home.

I sigh and turn on the radio as I pull out of the parking lot. I’ll be late getting home again.

***

My master has summoned me, and he has demanded that Boba Fett accompany me. This is a surprise in more ways than one. The Emperor has never requested the bounty hunter’s presence before. And what could be so important that he would call on me so unexpectedly? Could there be a new development? An Alliance plot? A rogue Jedi hiding upon this planet?

I kneel before the Emperor, keeping my head low. Fett affords the monarch only a nod of the head, not even bending at the waist. Normally such audaciousness deserves no less than a painful death, but evidently my master’s desire holds precedence over formalities.

“What is thy bidding, my master?”

The Emperor does not look at us, only gazes out the window at the swirling blue-white globe of Earth. When the negotiations are over for the day, the Emperor retires to his Stardestroyer that currently orbits the planet. I am secretly relieved by this – Kenya would be driven insane if she were forced to share the household with two Sith. Besides, I was there first…

“It would seem,” he intones, interrupting my thoughts, “that our fair Lady Mothma has grown rather arrogant.”

So he has been reading the blog. That is surprising as well.

“She recently came before me demanding that we relocate the peace talks,” he continues. “She strongly dislikes this planet, it would seem, though I sense this is only half the problem.”

“I sense it as well, my master.” One would have to be as blind, deaf, and brainless as a stone to miss this. She would rather obliterate the Empire entirely than make any sort of truce with it…

“I think it is time someone brought her Ladyship down a few pegs.” He gives a black-toothed grin. “That is your assignment, Vader and Fett. I don’t care how you do it, so long as she suffers no lasting damage. Enlist the fans if you must.”

“As you wish,” I reply, secretly delighted at being given permission to retaliate.

“Deal,” Fett replies. He did not ask for extra credits, which means he is as eager to participate as I. “Any ideas, Lord Vader?”

***

It’s a lonely drive home. No cars in front of me, no cars behind me. Before, behind, and to each side is a hazy wall of gray-black vapor. The edge of the world, I think. It’s as if the only objects in existence are my Taurus and the fifty-foot patch of road it occupies at the moment. The radio is my only tenuous link to the world beyond this patch of country road.

Rather than put me at ease, the lack of other vehicles on the road only heightens my anxiety. For one thing, I’m alone this Thanksgiving – Mom and Brandon are spending the holiday with my grandma out of state, a celebration I can’t attend because I have to work. Only Vader is at the house with me, and he’s occupied with the peace conference. If anything were to happen to me and I couldn’t reach my cell for some reason, would I be found in time for someone to help me? Would Vader sense something was amiss and come looking? At times like this the dark imaginations of the mind suddenly become very real.

I grit my teeth and clutch the steering wheel. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering…

***

The black, hazy night hides our actions as we move among the tents and recreational vehicles of the fans, seeking any who are willing to aid us. It does not take us long at all to acquire three accomplices – a young Asian-American woman in a heavy fleece jacket with a “Bantha Tracks” patch on each sleeve, an older gentleman in the armor of a snowtrooper, and a gangly young man dressed only in X-wing boxer shorts and a shirt portraying my mask over the strange remark “Who’s Your Daddy?” The boy is too excited to be cold, it would seem.

“What’s the plan?” asks the snowtrooper. “Force-choke?”

“He said no permanent damage, remember?” the woman reminds him, lightly slapping the top of his helmet.

“We must act quickly,” I tell the others. “This must be over with before Kenya gets home. We do not wish to risk her wrath. Follow me.”

I lead my associates to a large pen, formed from what Kenya refers to as “ranch panels” and with a heavy gate formed from welding pipes together in a sort of barred door. There is no lock, but the weight of the door is sufficient to keep the contained beast from pushing it open.

“Fett, give the woman the harness,” I inform him, opening the gate. “You, into the barn for some feed,” I order the boy in the T-shirt.

“Yes, sir!” he barks, saluting, and runs off.

“And me, sir?” asks the snowtrooper.

“You and Fett will go in,” I reply. “Flush the beast out. We will need it.”

Fett catches on immediately and laughs. The snowtrooper gives him an odd look.

***

CAR!

I swerve to the right in time to miss the oncoming vehicle. The other driver lays on his horn as he barrels past, and the gesture is definitely NOT to tell me he thinks I’m #1. Why the heck is he honking, anyhow? He was the one going over the center line, not me!

Okay, calm down, girl. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Back on the road, back home. Breathe in, breathe out…

My nerves are about fried about now anyhow, so this isn’t helping me. I can handle Vader and his little rat pack of friends. I could probably handle peace talks. Stars, I could even handle the freaks camping out in the pasture. But the arrogance of some of the Alliance higher-uppers is driving me bonkers. It’s as if they see themselves as superior beings, incapable of doing wrong, simply because they’re fighting for a good cause.

Big whoop. People can fight for the right cause, but for the wrong reasons. How many people are pulling Han Solo’s act from ANH and are simply in it for some kind of payoff? How many people are fighting against the Empire simply for revenge? And more importantly, how many are serving the Empire, fighting for the wrong cause, but for the right reasons? Granted, the Empire has its share of blowhard stuffed-shirts, but aren’t there idealists among their ranks too? Admiral Piett has always struck me as the type who wants to fight for a good cause, and I know Vader’s intentions are good… or started out that way, at least…

I must agree with my blog readers that something has to be done about Mothma, and soon. Some fans claim they’ve set up a Mon Mothma dart board in their camper, but I’d rather strike back at the real thing. Nothing big, mind, just a stunt to remind her who’s in charge on this farm.

Okay, time to stop telling myself to breathe. I’m driving, not in labor.

***

The creature Kenya refers to as Cocoa is willing enough to exit his enclosure, but upon passing through the gate, he gives me a blank look before bending down to lip at a patch of dried grass.

“C’mon, dumb goat,” the snowtrooper growls, pushing at his rump. “Move it along!”

“I wouldn’t push it from there,” the girl advises, fastening the last strap on the harness. “You know what comes out of there.”

The young man emerges from the barn, carrying a square of hay. “Here, boy,” he urges, holding the food a few feet before the goat’s muzzle as a lure. “Come and get it!”

Cocoa eyes him shrewdly, then suddenly rears up on his hind legs. The boy cries out and drops the hay, which the goat claims at once.

“Nice one,” the girl says sarcastically.

“Think you can do better?” the young man snaps back.

The snowtrooper has not given up pushing, it seems, though now he is attempting to shove the beast from the side. Cocoa steps to the side but manages to keep his head in one place, still devouring the hay. The snowtrooper only succeeds in pushing the goat in a complete circle.

“C’mon boy,” the girl croons, pulling gently at the leash. “Let’s go see the pretty lady…”

Cocoa snorts and continues eating.

“C’mon, stupid cottonpickin’…” She hauls on the rope as the snowtrooper and Fett both push from either side. The goat digs his legs in, somehow staying in place despite all the efforts to budge him. I shake my head in exasperation. This is getting us nowhere. I order the others aside and stride forward, fully prepared to lift the goat and carry it to the docked ship that Mothma and High Command use as sleeping quarters…

Cocoa bleats once and rears, placing both forehooves on my chest, and he thrusts his muzzle directly into the air-intake vent of my mask. The foul odor of his breath nearly chokes me, and I use the Force to blast the beast away from me. He lands several feet away, climbs to his feet, shakes himself, and goes back to eating as if nothing has happened.

“Stupid goat!” snarls Fett.

“Uh-oh,” the young man says worriedly. “Here comes trouble.”

Headlights up the lane. Kenya is home.

***

Finally, I’m home, alive and well. But something strange is going on.

I came home fully prepared to unload my stress on Vader, but instead I listen patiently as he, Fett, and three geeks whose names I never found out explain what they planned to do. Cocoa listens in, though I doubt he understands a word of it aside from “food.”

I should be angry – first because they’re tormenting the goat, second because they got the idea before I did – but I can’t be. Instead, I run into the house and come out with a plastic bowl.

“Use this,” I tell them. “Shake it, and he’ll follow you like a puppy. But be sure to give it to him when you’re done, or he’ll think you cheated him.”

”Goat chow?” asks the snowtrooper.

“No, cheap dog kibble,” I reply. “Goats love it.”

“Isn’t it bad for them?” asks the girl.

“We talked to a vet,” I reply. “He says the cheap stuff is so full of grain and other fillers that it’s probably better for the goat than it is for the dog.”

Vader laughs a little. “Please, Kenya, do us the honors.”

Cocoa perks up upon hearing the rattle of dry dog chow, and it’s an easy matter to lead him to the waiting ship. A mind trick on Vader’s part to bypass the guards, a distraction on the geeks’ part to divert attention away from us, Fett’s expertise in hacking into Mothma’s sleeping quarters…

We shut the door and book it, but before we can get out of earshot, we’re well rewarded by the sound of Mothma’s screams as she becomes acquainted with the overly friendly goat.

“Your boss is going to kill us,” I giggle as we run for the house.

“On the contrary, he ordered it,” Vader replies.

“Well, he finally did something right, then.”

Vader starts to protest, but thinks better of it. After all, he doesn’t have a valid defense, does he?

Pride and Prejudice

Warning – crabby fanfic writer online. Only got four hours of sleep last night, thanks to nobody in particular! Legs hurt. Been on my feet all day. Negotiations well into the second week with no end in sight. Christmas rapidly approaching and my shopping list is lengthy. Bookstore’s insane now that the holidays are almost upon us. The most wonderful time of the year? Ha. Bite me.

Vader has been a little out of the loop regarding my life lately, what with the peace talks and all, so he’s rather shocked to hear that I gave the bookstore owner my two weeks’ notice on Tuesday.

“I thought you loved your job,” he protests.

I do love it at the bookstore. I’ll really miss it. But I’m pretty friendly with Abby*, the head of the local public library, and she called Monday with the exciting news that a job opening had come up and she wanted to know if I could start immediately. The job promises more hours, higher pay, and paid holidays, as well as unlimited access to free books, so of course I’m taking the job.

“But I’m going to need your help,” I tell him. “Until my two weeks at the book store are up I’ll be working two jobs, so I can’t play ringmaster to your little ‘aggressive negotiations’ here. I want you to keep things at least slightly under control until I have a handle on my new job.”

He nods. “I will see to it.”

“Thanks.” I head to my room to hide a few bags. I figure that, as long as I’m still employed at the bookstore, I might as well take advantage of my employee discount and do as much Christmas shopping as I can. And seeing as neither my mom nor Brandon are willing to enter my room without a biohazard suit, it’s a simple matter to conceal my purchases from prying eyes.

When I get back upstairs, there’s an argument going on. No big news. This time it’s Leia and some stuffed-shirt general doing the sparring. I catch something about racial equality on my way to the computer to check my e-mail.

Mon Mothma’s already there, however, and she’s scowling over something she’s found.

“Mothma, please ask before you use the computer from now on,” I tell her.

“Ms. Starflight, do you know why we selected Earth as the location of our peace talks?” she inquires, ignoring my request.

I shrug. “I’m not psychic, Mothma.”

“Because we assumed the planet was neutral. They believe our galaxy to be fictional; thus, theoretically, they can’t take sides in the issue.” Her scowl intensifies. “But it seems to me that your world is disturbingly sympathetic toward the Empire.”

“Say what?”

She opens a document where she’s been recording URLs. “The Fighting 501st. Vader’s Mask. Bast Castle. Darth Maul’s Homepage. Your own blog. The alarming amount of villain-centered fan fiction on Fanfiction.net and on your own hard drive. I could go on all night.”

“And your point is?”

“That I am not sure a fair and balanced agreement can be reached as long as the talks take place on this planet. I’m sorry, but your bias and the bias of your world in general…”

“Hey, what about all the Rebel pages out there?” I counter. “The Rebel Legion, the Jedi Council Forums, the Luke Skywalker Estrogen Brigade, the Royal Handmaiden Society…”

She opens a webpage. “This proves my point. In a survey of over ten thousand Earth natives, an overwhelming seventy percent selected an Imperial or Imperial sympathizer as their favorite character – Vader, Maul, the Fetts, General Grievous, the stormtroopers, Aurra Sing, Zam Wessel…”

“Look, I can’t account for the tastes of people in general. So we sympathize a little with the villains. So I feel sorry for Vader after watching the prequels. So thousands of fans think the bad guys get the short end of the stick too many times. Doesn’t make us Nazis or Communists.”

“All the same, I would feel more comfortable if these discussions were held on another world.” She stands and leaves the computer. “I shall discuss this matter with the Emperor.”

I’m a little peeved by her attitude. Not that I WANT them in my hair any longer, but to hear that she wants off our stinking planet because she thinks we’re all Imperial sympathizers is a low blow. I mean, come on! Just because I write Darth Vader fanfic doesn’t mean I want the Empire to take over the planet!

Vader enters the room, dripping wet. I give him a puzzled look. It’s not raining…

“Water fight between the fans and the stormtroopers,” Vader explains. “A way to blow off steam, I suppose. They will all be freezing tonight.”

I tell him about Mothma’s complaint. He listens amusedly.

“Mothma has never liked your planet,” he explains. “As much as she professes to champion the oppressed, she has always been a privileged woman, accustomed to higher-class mannerisms and entertainments. And much of your world is, I’m sorry to say, not in her class. To be blunt, she considers Earth people to be socially backward and crude.”

So in other words, Mothma too sophisticated and proud to handle a society that glorifies such things as belching contests, blue jeans, Adam Sandler movies, and “Saturday Night Live.” In short, in her eyes, we’re the rednecks of the galaxy.

“So will the negotiations be moved someplace else?”

“On the contrary – Palpatine will have them nowhere else. Despite Mothma’s accusation, your planet IS the closest thing to neutral territory in the galaxy.”

A loud, possibly drunken voice exclaiming “Hey everyone, watch this!” interrupts our conversation, and a loud crash and wild cheering follow.

“I don’t want to know what’s going on out there, do you?” I ask.

“No,” Vader replies. “Let’s go check.”

One Flew Over the Gundark's Nest

It’s finally happened. Mom’s discovered the goings-on on her property (then again, with the rat-pack outside, who wouldn’t?). Plus, she’s read my blog and all the comments left by readers. And she has only two things to say: “Glad I can’t see them, leave me out of it,” and “Not on my property are they having a paintball fight!” Oh well. At least she’s agreed to give me advice on how to handle the “aggressive negotiations” in exchange for half the proceeds from the geeks’ tent fees – hey, it’s her property they’re parked on, she’s entitled to it.

By some twisted stroke of fate, I have today off, and Brandon’s ill and can’t go to school, so I’m stuck home with the weirdos. I consider locking myself in my room for the day and making one of the peace-talkers keep him supplied with chicken soup, but I decide against putting my little brother’s welfare in their hands. Besides, I have housework to do and goats to feed.

I head outside to throw some hay to the goats, on the way passing a trio of girls who’ve pitched a tent right next to the barn and hung a sign declaring “Admiral Piett Fan Club.” At the moment they’re listening to a voice-mail message from the rather exasperated-sounding object of their collective affection:

“This message is for ScreamingFangirl28. Glad to know you think I’m attractive, but sorry, I’m married. Please stop sending me your slash fics. I have a blaster.”

The girls go wild. I pass them without blinking and retrieve a load of hay for Cocoa. To each their own, I suppose.

“Hey, nice goat!” a guy in a “The Force is my co-pilot” T-shirt says with a grin. “Is he friendly?”

“Oh sure he is,” I reply sweetly. “Just climb in the pen and see.”

A couple fans have the brains to read between the lines of my suggestion and the sadistic sense of humor to say nothing as Mr. Force-is-my-co-pilot scales the fence and confronts the goat. Cocoa, ecstatic to have a visitor, greets him in the usual manner (see the “Pathetic Life Forms” post). Everyone gets a laugh, the geek gets what he wanted, and I feel somewhat vindicated.

Hay to Frosty, pause to inform two stormtroopers that the barn cats and chickens are not to be used for target practice, and it’s back to the house. It’s a cold, rainy morning, and thankfully many of the geeks are seeking refuge in their various tents, campers, and whatnot. But some choose to tough the elements out and party despite the weather. A few brave souls are practicing their lightsaber craft in the driveway, a girl wearing a “My boyfriend took me to Celebration III and all I got was this crappy T-shirt” shirt is teaching Han Solo and Chewbacca how to play Texas Hold-Em, and some weirdo is sitting atop his VW bus and waving a sodden cardboard sign that reads “Kenya, Update ‘Star City, USA’ PLEASE!”

Boba Fett, who is sitting on the back deck cleaning a blaster, surveys the madness surrounding him and mutters “I postponed a million-credit hunt for THIS?” I know the feeling.

“Yo, Kenya.” A halfway-normal-looking guy stops me on the deck. “Can I ask your opinion?”

“I guess,” I reply. “What?”

He rolls back his sleeve. “Do you think this tattoo is a passable likeness of Darth Kain from your ‘Reborn’ trilogy?”

I tell him good enough and hurry inside. Normalcy is only skin-deep, I suppose, and sometimes not even that…

“Kenya, I’d like a word with you,” Mon Mothma tells me the minute I shut the door.

“I don’t have time for this,” I tell her. I never really liked Mothma, don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s her holier-than-thou attitude, or maybe I just have a deep-rooted dislike of authority. I hate the Emperor as well, but I know the reason there – he’s a sadistic manipulative bastard. (If you read this, your Highness, well, I don’t really give. It shouldn’t be news to you.)

“There have been a few issues that I would like you to address,” she continues, ignoring me. “First of all, the feline that roams this household is causing some issues with our High Command. Apparently Tiger follows Admiral Ackbar around constantly, sniffing him and licking his lips.”

“Is it Tiger’s fault that Ackbar smells like a fish?” I ask. “Or here’s a thought – maybe it’s because Ackbar IS a fish.”

“It’s making Ackbar nervous,” she retorts. “I would appreciate it if you kept the beast under control.”

“He’s a cat. You don’t tell a cat what to do, Lady Mothma. It does about as much good as teaching a Hutt to dance.”

“Second matter,” she continues. “We have had several instances of fanatics infiltrating our meetings disguised as stormtroopers, guards, and Rebel soldiers. We would like you to do something about this…”

“Look, I didn’t invite the freaks!” I shoot back. “If you don’t like it, get tighter security or put a force field around the property or something!”

“Leave Kenya alone, Lady Mothma,” Vader pipes up, entering the kitchen at that moment and coming to my defense. “She did not ask for any of this. Besides, I actually enjoyed the infiltration of the meeting. It was a welcome respite, and it is amazing that these people could so closely duplicate the uniforms…”

“How many did you choke?” I ask.

“Three, none fatally.”

Well, at least I won’t have to make good on the threat I gave Vader Stalker #45 yesterday – Don’t mess with Vader, because if he doesn’t get you, I will. And wipe the smirk off your face – I have a cast-iron skillet, a shovel, and five acres. Do not trifle with me.

I finish the housework a bit early and have some time to update my fanfic. Deciding to complete another chapter of “Heir to the Ring,” I sit down in front of the computer, turn on the stereo, and get to typing.

“Excuse me, whatever happened to basic freedoms?” comes Leia’s angry comment. “We agreed yesterday that the Empire would restore those…”

“Spray-painting a swastika on the bow of my personal shuttle is NOT a basic freedom,” the Emperor retorts. “And your men will have to answer for it…”

“It wasn’t our men, it was those freaks from the so-called Rebel Legion!” Madine shouts.

“Untrue,” Vader replies. “The Rebel Legion was toilet-papering the Falcon at the time. It had to be the Rebellion.”

“I’m sure some fan put them up to it,” muttered Ackbar.

I turn up the stereo in an attempt to drown out the argument. A little Matchbox 20 should do the trick…

“Cut her some slack, she can’t help it that every fan for miles has camped out on her doorstep,” Luke says. Good old Luke.

“If she hadn’t mentioned it on her blog…” complains Madine.

“Isn’t it her ‘basic freedom’ to say what she wishes in her writing?” Jerjerrod replies.

Crank the stereo up a little more…

“Don’t use our own words against us!” orders Ackbar. Evidently the deal with the cat is driving him a little bonkers. “I’m warning you…”

“Are you threatening us?” demands Veers.

“I’ll do more than threaten, you…”

“No weapons! No weapons!” shouts Leia.

I break into song as fighting breaks out in the kitchen:

“I’m not crazy – I’m just a little unwell,

I know right now you can’t tell,

But stay awhile and, baby, then you’ll see,

A different side of me!

I’m not crazy – I’m just a little impaired,

I know right now you don’t care,

But soon enough you’re gonna think of me

And how I used to be…”

When I go into the kitchen later, I’m surprised to see it’s been tidied up. I’m equally surprised to find a half-pound Hershey bar sitting at my place at the table with a note attached:

“Kenya, I apologize for not seeking your permission before suggesting your home as the location of the peace summit. I had no idea the negotiations would get this messy. The Emperor has promised to make this worth your while. I cannot speak for the Rebellion, but if they wish to remain in your good graces, I hope they promise the same. Your guest, Vader.”

Hmm, I guess this is as close as Vader gets to admitting he’s found a friend.

Kenya Starflight, Matron of the Unofficial Star Wars Mental Institution

Chaos has descended upon Armpit, Idaho, and aside from an ever-growing mob of fans, I’m apparently the only one who gives a rip.

Perhaps it’s a mercy that my mom, who merely has a live-and-let-live opinion of the saga, cannot see the characters. She has enough stress in her life; she doesn’t need to add to it the sight of umpteen shuttles, fighters, and starships landing and taking off outside, jockeying for position and parking space in our five-acre pasture. I have yet to think up a plausible explanation for the fanatics camped out on the property, however.

Oh, did I mention that Vader finally revealed the plan? Yes indeed, it’s a Galactic Peace Summit. Believe it or not, the Galactic Empire and the Rebel Alliance are going to utilize a term I had long thought absent from their vocabulary – negotiation.

“It is clear that the war can only end in a bloody stalemate,” the Emperor told me upon his arrival. “Our only option is hoping to talk our way out of that situation.”

Yeah, sure, whatever you say, you old prune.

I had the dubious pleasure a few days ago of meeting the heads of both organizations, an experience somewhat less enjoyable than doing my taxes. Call me cranky, but I’ve already met most of my favorites in earlier encounters (those that survive, anyway). And I’ve never been a big fan of huge crowds, so the rabble outside are only getting on my nerves.

“It is a distinct pleasure to meet you, Miss Starflight,” the Emperor tells me. “Lord Vader speaks most highly of you. I must thank you for playing hostess to him.”

“No problem, your Highness,” I reply, bowing – I’ll save the retching motions for the privacy of my own house. “Besides, sometimes he’s almost worth having around the place.”

“Please, don’t gush,” Vader remarks sarcastically. “It is embarrassing.”

The Emperor glances quickly over my shoulder. “It would seem our arrival has been anticipated.”

“Yeah, well, I made the mistake of mentioning you’d be here in my blog.”

“Ah.”

The country road bordering the edge of our property has never been so clogged with traffic as it is now. Fans hang out of the windows of their vehicles to gawk at incoming space traffic, tents are being pitched and campers hooked up all over the property (to the chagrin of incoming pilots who must now dodge the squatters) and in the neighboring fields (luckily vacant, seeing as planting season is months away), and geeks and freaks of every caliber pester Rebel and Imperial alike for autographs. Word must have spread quickly – either the readers of my blog have big mouths (no offense intended), or other fans have been communicating with people from the galaxy far, far away. Either way, it now means that our quiet neighborhood has just gone completely to the gundarks.

Taking a suggestion from Boba Fett (why he’s present, I still don’t know), I make my rounds among those who have dropped anchor here and inform them that the fee for camping in this neighborhood will be twenty bucks a night, fifty if they want unlimited autograph privileges. Fett thinks it’ll drive away at least some of the geeks.

Not a soul is deterred, but I do make a cool twenty grand.

And where, you may ask, are the heads of the Rebellion and the Alliance having their lovely little peace talks? Where else? In the living room. By the by, whoever coined the term “peace talk?” There’s nothing peaceful about it. Tempers and accusations fly with reckless abandon, and we even have a “Dr. Strangelove” moment when General Madine pounces on a startled Jerjerrod and starts kicking the stuffing out of the guy (hey, he deserved it). I’m half-tempted to shout “You can’t fight in here, this is the war room!” but decide it wouldn’t be prudent.

So for the next few weeks, in addition to my regular duties with the farm, bookstore, upcoming holidays, and various writing projects, it seems I’ll be serving as a mediator, landlady, referee, janitor, cook, and general go-fer for this madhouse. (And bring peace to the Middle East and obliterate avian flu while I’m at it?) My only hope is that it ends quickly and cleanly, but at this point, I figure it’ll end one of several ways:

A) Someone loses it, slits the Emperor’s throat, everyone grabs for power over the Empire in his absence, and total galactic anarchy ensues,
B) Someone loses it, blows Mothma’s head off, everyone grabs for power over the Rebellion in her absence, and total galactic anarchy ensues,
C) Everyone loses it, the peace talks become a free-for-all, and total anarchy ensues,
D) The fans outside lose it, storm the house, mob the characters, and total anarchy ensues, or
E) Starflight loses it, comes into the living room swinging the cast-iron skillet, the characters flee for their lives, and total anarchy ensues.

This isn’t going to end prettily, folks. Trust me.

P.S. If you haven’t watched “Dr. Strangelove” (directed by Stanley Kubrick, starring Peter Sellers, Slim Pickins, and a young James Earl Jones), do so now. It may be your last chance to watch something sharp, satirical, and blackly funny before the planet self-destructs.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

There’s a saying about Idaho weather – if you don’t like it, then just wait 15 minutes and it’ll change. By late October, the weather here was still nice and sunny, as if summer hadn’t quite gotten the hint that his fifteen minutes of fame were over. Now, though, things have gotten chilly and rainy and just plain icky.

And wouldn’t you know it, just when my driver’s side window gets stuck in the down position.

After a few minutes of wrenching at the window in an attempt to get it rolled back up, I give up. Let Vader handle it. I have things to do tonight.

As I head for the house, looking forward to an evening of relaxation after a hard day at work, I notice a black-cowled form standing on the deck. Oh please… not now… not the Emperor… I’m not in the mood to handle Vader’s boss tonight…

The black hood tilts up, and a pair of yellow eyes regards me.

Hey, wait a minute. Isn’t this guy supposed to be dead? Then again, Grievous is around, I could be mistaken…

“Hey cool, Darth Maul!” Brandon shouts.

The fearsome tattooed face watches our every move as the two of us mount the stairs to the deck. I just stare back. What does he want here? He’s not here to kill Vader, is he? There is the “always two” rule, after all…

“Can I help you?”

No answer.

“What are you doing here?”

Silence.

“Would you like to come in? It’s pretty cold out here.”

He doesn’t answer, but he does follow me in when I unlock and open the door, so the answer must be yes.

Friday nights are Movie Night at our house, and we take turns choosing. I suspect it’s Mom’s turn to choose, but she has to work late tonight, so I let Brandon do the selecting. While he mulls over our extensive movie collection, I go about preparing something for dinner. Maul, meanwhile, takes off his cloak, throws it over the back of a chair, takes a seat on the couch, pulls out his lightsaber, and starts fiddling around with it.

“Don’t light that in the house,” I tell him. “Mom’ll kill me if she finds char marks in the carpet.”

He gives me a weird look, then puts the weapon away.

“You aren’t allergic to anything, are you?” That’s all I need, a trip to the emergency room with someone who looks like Satan dying of anaphylactic shock in the back of my car. Luckily, Maul shakes his head no, and I focus on dinner.

“I can’t decide between ‘Empire Strikes Back’ and ‘Return of the Jedi!’” Brandon says in frustration.

“Flip a coin or something,” I reply.

“I know, I’ll let Darth Maul choose.” He hands the movies to Maul.

“Wait a minute…” I protest.

Maul examines the covers of both films, looking perplexed and amused at the same time. Then he hands “Return of the Jedi” back to Brandon. Brandon whoops and goes to pop the movie in.

While I finish dinner preparations, I watch Maul as he takes off his shirt and sets it aside. His entire torso is patterned with red and black designs, crisscrossed here and there with scars. Must I add that he’s got a nice set of abs too? Don’t misconstrue that last statement with infatuation, guys with tattoos turn me off…

But the strangest thing about him is the band of metal around his waist, like a steel belt. It’s as if someone sliced him in two and reattached the two halves with some kind of cybernetic coupler. Which, I remind myself, is probably precisely what happened. He makes an adjustment to a few controls on his stomach, then pulls his shirt back on.

“All right, boys, dinner’s on,” I tell the two of them. “Careful eating in the living room.”

We’re all into the movie, watching the Ewoks kick some stormie tush (what good does that armor do anyhow, though I must admit it looks good), when Vader walks in from whatever it is he was doing. He doesn’t even give Maul a second glance, just walks past the living room and gives a gesture with one hand that shuts off the TV.

“Aw man!” Brandon groans. “Just at the good part too!”

At last Darth Maul deigns to speak. “If that is the fate of the Empire, I pity you, Lord Vader.”

“Don’t waste your pity, Maul,” Vader replies sharply, walking into the living room with a can of Pepsi in one hand. “The Empire will not suffer that fate. Forewarned is forearmed.”

“You mean to say that the Emperor watched ‘Return of the Jedi?’” I ask, stunned.

Vader nods. “And he is… altering our plans.” He nods at Maul. “We are currently gathering volunteers for the new plan.”

Oh Sith. I should never have let Vader get his paws on the original trilogy. I dread to think what the new plan might be.

“Can we count on your support, Maul?” Vader asks.

“Certainly,” Maul replies, smiling. A smiling Maul is just creepy, trust me.

“All right, Vader, what’s going on?” I demand, panic edging into my voice.

“It is not your world’s concern,” Vader replies. “Your world will not be affected by it. At least, not too greatly.”

“Anakin Skywalker otherwise known as Darth Vader!” I scream. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on right now, I’ll… I’ll lock you in the goat pen for the night!”

Maul arches an eyebrow – well, he has no eyebrows, but the skin where an eyebrow would be arcs up. “What’s a goat?”

“Those beings you term as ‘Star Wars characters’ are gathering,” Vader replies. “There is to be a great assembly on your world.”

“For what purpose?”

“You will find out.” He motions for Maul to follow him outside.

Brandon and I exchange a startled look. This sounds extremely ominous…

As soon as I wring more information from Vader, I’ll let the readers of my blog know what’s going on. From there, you can plan your next move – flee the planet, lock the doors, plan a road trip to Idaho to meet the character of your choice, whatever. Stay tuned.