"Well, call me a Tusken's Uncle..." Koenrad breathed, trying for all the world to keep his surprise to himself.
The back end of a cantina on Coruscant was certainly not the place he'd expected to be having this conversation. Between his contact - a Zabraki man, sallow skinned and deeply inked - and his own widened eyes, right there on the table, was enough pure spice to buy an entire frigate. The individual crystals were almost three inches long apiece, and aside from the faint orange tint were nearly translucent. Sliding the shuttered-lid closed on the small box, Koenrad slid it across the table - although he did it hesitantly and it wasn't far enough from him that he couldn't grab it if things got ugly. His gaunt Zabraki associate spared a crackhead's glance down to the box, and then flicked his eyes back up to Koenrad. His entire presence screamed jittery. Based on the skeletal fingers, greasy hair and recent outbreak, Koenrad could only assume the man had been using the spice rather heavily before bringing it to be sold. No matter. This drugged up addict had brought him the biggest haul he'd gotten in weeks.
Koenrad's face was still shifting back into wary awe at the pure quality of the product before him, but his eyes had narrowed. His gaze became measured and cautious, but... hungry, in a very dangerous way. With a grin that was more reminiscent of a snarl than a smile, he asked, "How much?"
The Zabrak's shifting stare refocused on Koenrad, having snapped to several different points of interest in the background over the previous several seconds. He seemed to be having a hard time formulating words, his lips faintly moving but no sounds escaping them. Then he licked his lips, his spice-swollen larynx bobbing visibly in his throat as he swallowed, and replied, "Your ship... the escort. And, all the credits on you... and, uhm-" it was here that his gaze went to the ceiling, his demands being assembled on the fly, "-and, and I want half the cut from whoever you sell it to!"
His smile was so comically machiavellian that without context one would assume he'd just expelled a cunning scheme wherein he would be given control of the entire galaxy upon its completion. Kunz laughed, genuinely and loudly, a clear peal just audible above the din of the cantina. The Zabraki's devious expression left him, giving way to a resentful scowl. He truly looked haggard when he frowned, his prominent cheekbones creating dark pockets of his cheeks and his sunken eyes glowering in their depths. Koenrad's mirth died down, and when he'd regained his composure he said to the man in a manner similar to that of an adult condescending to a child, "No!"
What happened next happened very quickly indeed. The Zabraki opened with a line that sealed his fate, though with quite the bravado, "You're gonna give them to me, or I'll take that pretty container and sell it to someone else!" Normally, such words would mean only a ruined deal - and though this deal would soon be ruined - today, they were followed by something much worse. Koenrad's easy composure and his mirth faded, in their place the same predatory greed that had lingered behind his eyes before... only now that too was shadowed by an extremely unstable kind of simmering anger. Though his contact was beyond noticing, Koenrad - to anyone who bothered to observe - looked more a man premeditating murder than a man ready to fold to the whims of an addicted spice-slinger. His fingers shot for the box on the table, left hand already on the table top and milliseconds away. The Zabrak brought a small blaster, a peashooter really, up from below the table and began to aim at Koenrad when Koenrad himself pulled the trigger. Not on the tiny blaster pointed at his face, of course, but on the double-barrelled carbine he'd had on his lap since he'd sat down. The sound of plasma discharging ripped through the wafting hubbub of the cantina, only the thunder to the lighting of two plasma slugs punching into the Zabraki's gut from point blank range.
Hubbub turned to calamity as people tried, some succeeding and some failing, to scramble from the corner booth. Koenrad snatched the little box, ejected himself from the booth, and with a cry of "It was self defense!", dove towards the cover of the nearby liquor bar. This wasn't the first cantina shoot-out he'd been a part of, and if it were at all up to him it would certainly not be the last.
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