• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Soddy, Baster,” Salacious Crumb replied as best he could. “I thod you eed hib zoon as he—”

“Blast you, Salacious Crumb, that’s a Klatooine handblaster he’s got there! You know they give me gas!”

“I mean you no harm,” Melvosh Bloor gritted at the Hutt. “I just want to blow the head off this loathsome little cretin, then you can eat me. At least I’ll die happy.” To his captive he snarled, “Cheat me out of tenure, will you?”

“Hey hey hey! You wad denure? Baster, Baster, gib hib wad he want, adzer questions, led hib ged denure, led Zalacious Crub keeb head—”

“He said I lie like a Gran,” Jabba replied.

“Uh … thad wuz be,” Salacious Crumb confessed.

“You!”

“Wuz goblibent, goblibent! Gan’t dake a choke?”

Jabba settled deeper into his own fat to consider this. “A compliment?” he mused. “From a Kowakian … mmmperhaps.” He reared back on his throne and gave a string of commands.

Melvosh Bloor could hardly believe the complete about-face in his fortunes. Whereas moments earlier he had been on the brink of extinction, ready to take the duplicitous Salacious Crumb with him into oblivion, he now found himself comfortably seated before Jabba’s throne, on a heap of cushions which Salacious Crumb himself took special pains to arrange just so. The Hutt proved to be a surprisingly forthcoming interviewee. Before long, Melvosh Bloor’s datapad memory was stretched to the limit, which was just as well: he had run out of questions.

“I can’t thank you enough, sir,” he said, hugging the precious datapad to his bosom as he stood up in the midst of the cushions. “I must say, your reputation does not do you justice. Your kindness, your tolerance, your indulgence—” He gave Jabba his most ingratiating smile—one which, in the past, had almost fooled the late Professor P’tan, and that was saying something. “If there is ever anything I can do for you—”

“There is,” Jabba replied. His eyes closed to slits. “Make me laugh.”

Taken aback, the academic could only reply, “Uhhhh … what?”

“You heard me. I weary of Salacious Crumb’s antics. This is the second time he has attempted to use academics to amuse me. I don’t like to hear the same joke twice. Make me laugh—”

“So he said. Um, well, sir, you see, humor does not generally fall within my area of study—”

“—or I will devour you where you stand.”

“—however, I did take a course on the analysis of comedy and I would be happy to send you my notes on the subj—”

“Make … me … laugh.”

Melvosh Bloor sucked in his lower lip—no mean feat—and tried to maintain his composure. Make the Hutt laugh? He cast his eyes about the throne room, desperately seeking some clue, some inspiration that would save his skin. His roving glance lit upon the repugnant figure of Salacious Crumb. The Kowakian lizard-monkey grinned and made obnoxious faces at him. How dare he! Melvosh Bloor thought, the color rising to his cheeks. I should have blown his head off when I had the chance. If that obscene little pimple can make the Hutt laugh, then surely I, with my university education, my knowledge, my vastly superior breeding ought to be able to do the same.

And then it came to him, a joke he had heard from Professor P’tan himself at a faculty meeting. Melvosh Bloor recalled that all the junior faculty had laughed loud and long, so it must be a good one.

The academic cleared his throat, smiled amiably, and began: “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. How many Sarlaccs does it take to do in a Jedi?”

Jabba stared at him. Too late, Melvosh Bloor remembered that junior faculty will laugh at any joke a senior professor tells.

“I’ve heard it,” said Jabba. He twitched his tail over a control device he alone commanded and the floor beneath Melvosh Bloor’s feet vanished. The academic plunged into the pit beneath, cushions and all. The datapad went flying from his upflung hands to land with a clatter at Salacious Crumb’s feet. There was a horrendous, bone-chilling cacophony as Jabba’s favorite pet, the rancor, made