You Fucking Drink

You down your first glass in one gulp, a staggeringly bad decision that leaves your eyes streaming and everything from your throat to your stomach burning. You aren't a lightweight, but damn. You eye the second drink warily, like it might leap out and bite you. The Dugs seem unimpressed

"Shuffah! Drink! You don't want to earn a hoggar here."

Wait, are you a shuffah? Didn't you have a shuffah? What is a hoggar, and why don't you want one? You're beginning to suspect they don't know how to play this game either. Regardless, it's too late to back down now. You don't want to upset a pack of angry, drunk Dugs. You screw up your courage, and down the second glass.

That's about the last thing you can definitively remember from that night. Everything else is a haze, and a scattered haze at that.

You vaguely to recall learning what a hoggar was, and punching out a Dug's tooth for having earned one. He seemed to find the whole thing very funny.

There might have been a card game at some point? You have an image of pushing a stack of credits into the middle if a table, but would later find you had exactly the same amount of credits after that night as you had before.

You're sure you loudly sang along with at least one Dug drinking song, but you're equally sure you don't speak a word of... Malastarian? Whatever language Rogo swears in when he's angriest.

You're a bit worried you may have spilled your job details directly to a Falleen operative, but it may also have been a potted plant. It was definately green, whatever it was.

The next clear memory is waking up under a street bench, head pounding and body aching, but otherwise apparently whole. You fumble for your communicator, and call the Convor.

"Yeez bozz?"

"Quieter, please, Rogo. Can you track my signal? Where am I?"

"No neda track. I tak to Provo. He say you ned find Suns. He tek you there."

Blearily, you peek your head out from the bench, reading the sign above the entrance gate across the street. "Dock 17". Huh.

On the communicator Rogo has launched into a tirade against Timik, and you hear what sounds an awful lot like the Convor's critical alarm signal blaring.

You flip the communicator off, and roll back over. Thats's a tomorrow Corvin problem. This bench has kept you safe so far. You drift off into a mercifully quiet sleep, determined to take your next steps after you wake up.