Not the Droids You're Looking For

Whoops, the night got away from me.

Tuttle waved the landspeeder past. Gozar approached him uncertainly.

"What was all that about?" asked Gozar, his voice distorted by his helmet communicator. "What did that old man say to you?"

Already Tuttle couldn't remember. It wasn't important. It couldn't be important. It was just some old man, an old man in a landspeeder with a kid, and with a couple of…

…of…

"Nothing," said Tuttle irritably. "Some crazy stuff, I'm not really sure what he said exactly." He barked out a laugh. It sounded false even to him. "I didn't want to waste our time with him. I told him: you move along, old man. You should have seen his face!"

Gozar looked after the landspeeder, puzzled. "You sure that was a good idea?" he asked. "I could have sworn there were a couple of droids in the back – one was an astromech for sure, and the other…."

Tuttle's laughter reached a hysterical pitch. "You're going blind, Gozar," he said. "Who tools around in a landspeeder with droids leaking coolant all over your upholstery? And anyway, even if there were droids, they definitely weren't the ones we're looking for."

"Are you certain?" asked Gozar skeptically.

Tuttle had a headache. It had come on all of a sudden. "I've never been more sure," insisted Tuttle. "Now can we get back to checking traffic? I've got the rest of my life to get on with."

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Corporations Are People

I was walking down the street minding my own business when I was approached by an older gentleman. He wore an expensive foreign-made suit and very nice, well-shined shoes. He stalked up to me, an expression of naked lust and avarice written all over his face.

“I want you,” he declared. “I’m going to make you mine.”

“There could be violence,” I advised him, “at any moment.” He ignored me.

“I can’t wait to get my hands on you,” he purred, his voice thick. “I need parts of you inside me.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” I scolded. “Buy a brother dinner first?”

“The only thing I’m buying is you,” said the man bluntly. He pulled a thick money clip out of his pocket and began counting out Benjamins.

“How much are you?” he asked. “C’mon, fair market value. How much is this going to set me back?”

I had had just about enough. “I think you have the wrong idea, friend,” I said. “You can’t have me for any amount of money.”

“Bullshit,” drawled the old man. “Corporations are people, remember? That makes you a corporation, and that means you’re for sale.” He licked his lips. “I hope this takeover doesn’t become hostile.”

“Watch yourself,” I advised the man sharply.

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