Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [31]
“Er … Exalted One?” The academic faltered as he approached the throne. Jabba regarded him impassively, which he took as a good sign. He dared to move closer yet. “I am Melvosh Bloor of Beshka University and I—”
“University?” the Hutt thundered.
“Y-yes. I have come here to—to honor and immortalize you by publishing an in-depth study of the thoughts and motivations that guide you in the establishment and maintenance of your crimin—extrasocial empire.”
“Mmm.” The sound of rumination rumbled through the Hutt’s enormous body. “In other words you expect me to tell you all my secrets freely, so that you can then put them on display where any of my rivals may study them?” He leaned forward, his mouth uncomfortably close to Melvosh Bloor’s head. The academic tried to back away, but something sharp was there, in the small of his back, to make retreat a suicidal alternative. He thought he detected the grunting of a Gamorrean guard.
Jabba’s body shook. His mouth fell open. Melvosh Bloor froze, positive that his life was about to end in one gulp. And then, the unthinkable: booming mirth engulfed the throne room. Jabba was laughing, a sound duly taken up by the Hutt’s lackeys and retainers. At length the shaking and the laughter stopped. Jabba drew a deep breath. “Me tell that my secrets and I’m to consider it an honor? Now that’s funny,” he said.
“What I say, Master?” Melvosh Bloor saw his guide come dancing in between him and the Hutt’s looming bulk. “This guy a riot!”
“A … riot?” the Kalkal echoed, stunned.
“Indeed. I am surprised,” Jabba admitted. “Usually academics are too dry to be funny, or even digestible. I know: I never forget a taste.”
Melvosh Bloor’s skin went cold. “Taste?” he peeped. “You mean you—you—? Professor P’tan—?”
“That’s the name.” If Jabba had possessed the ability to snap his fingers at a memory recaptured, he would have done so. “You are the second academic to disturb my court, thanks to the insolence of my miserable servant, Salacious Crumb.” One of the Hutt’s truncated arms gestured at the madly prancing creature. “At least you were worth it.”
All that Melvosh Bloor could say was, “Sa-Sa-Sa-Salacious Crumb?” as he goggled in shock at his erstwhile trusted and beloved guide. “But I thought—I was sure—You said you were Darian Gli!”
“You said,” the lizard-monkey gloated.
“Darian Gli?” Jabba was momentarily at a loss. “Ah yes, the Markul who brought in those two pests who upset my cook.” He smacked his lips nostalgically. “Delicious.”
“You said, you said, not me!” Salacious Crumb taunted him. The Kowakian lizard-monkey was in his glory. “Hoooo! Stupid?” He waved at the shivering academic so that none of Jabba’s courtiers could mistake the insult’s target.
None did. In fact, someone from the back of the crowd shouted out, “How stupid is he?”
“How stupid? How stupid?” Malice beamed from the Kowakian’s beady eyes. “He say Jabba lies like a Gran!”
Jabba’s roar of outrage swallowed the Kalkal’s weakly uttered protests of innocence even if Jabba did not swallow the Kalkal … yet. While Melvosh Bloor sputtered “But I—but he—but we—” the Hutt bellowed for his Gamorrean guards. Somewhere in Jabba’s outpouring of indignation, Melvosh Bloor distinctly heard the word “Sarlacc.”
Desperation can work astounding transformations. Stung to the quick at being played for a fool by someone without a doctorate, insulted past bearing, trapped, bereft of hope, the normally placid academic exploded. Salacious Crumb uttered a squawk as one of Melvosh Bloor’s hands shot out to seize his neck while the other drew the borrowed sidearm and jammed the barrel halfway up the Kowakian’s nose.
“He came into my presence