It’s too late, Solo. I’m not going back to Jabba with another one of your stories." "But I’ve really got the money this time!" Solo protested.
"Fine. I’ll take it now, please." Solo sat down slowly. Jabba’s minions were apt to be cursed with nervous trigger fingers. The alien took the seat across from him, the muzzle of the ugly little pistol never straying from Solo’s chest.
"I haven’t got it here with me. Tell Jabba—" "It’s too late, I think. Jabba would rather have your ship." "Over my dead body," Solo said unamiably.
The alien was not impressed. "If you insist. Will you come outside with me, or must I finish it here?" "I don’t think they’d like another killing in here," Solo pointed out.
Something which might have been a laugh came from the creature’s translator.
"They’d hardly notice. Get up, Solo. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time. You’ve embarrassed me in front of Jabba with your pious excuses for the last time." "I think you’re right." Light and noise filled the little corner of the cantina, and when it had faded, all that remained of the unctuous alien was a smoking, slimy spot on the stone floor.
Solo brought his hand and the smoking weapon it held out from beneath the table, drawing bemused stares from several of the cantina’s patrons and clucking sounds from its more knowledgeable ones. They had known the creature had committed its fatal mistake in allowing Solo the chance to get his hands under cover.
"It’ll take a lot more than the likes of you to finish me off. Jabba the Hut always did skimp when it came to hiring his hands.
责任编辑：mman
