It was her life. Despite all she wanted, despite her ambitions, despite her expectations, despite her education, despite all she had been told, nothing was "epic". Wars could be fought around her, people could come back and tell tales, and what would happen? She would stand around, hear a little story or two, and find herself back in the circulation of normality that was her average drudge.

Denise sighed as she snapped back to reality, listening to the typically boring speakings of her boss, Paldel Morick, an aging man from Coruscant who acted more like a king than a manager of an accounting firm. Perhaps he too had greater ambitions than to be stuck in a small firm acting out of Yag'Dhul, at 42 he had not done much with his life except grow an ugly, haphazard goatee and a large, juri-gut.

Rumors had already spread through the office that he wore a girdle to try to retain what little pride he had.

What was he talking about again? It was something about how sales had dropped and one of their clients were threatening with a pull back. Denise just bowed her head and sighed, scribbling on the flimsiplast in front of her as though she were taking notes. In actuality she just tossed out incoherent scribbles - hoping that would somehow detract from the absolute boredom of hearing about numbers for just one day.

She longed for the stars, to see something else, to do something with her life. At twenty-four with her entire years of schooling behind her, things were looking bleak, and bleaker by the day.

By the time the meeting had ended, she felt as though she were going to explode. Her first inclination was to simply ditch her books, ditch her notes, and head directly to a bar - that was a good idea, a bar.

Her speeder littered with notes taken from meetings, her eyelids heavy with lack of sleep, but her heart yearning for an escape, she entered the first bar she came across, looking only to escape the down-trodden boredom of every day life.

And just at that moment, another bleaker than bleak soul was meandering their way into the very same bar. This is type of coincidence is nonexistent outside of fiction. The kind of chance where two people just happen to be in the right – or wrong – place at the right – or wrong – time. In actual fact, there’s really no reason for the coming together, it’s just a random occurrence, but that’s where the fun lies. Everything had to start with a random occurrence, didn’t it? Even the universe. Two little molecules bumped into each other, things got out of hand and the next thing you know it we’ve got a galaxy on our hands.

Still, this is all veering from the point, whatever the point originally was! Ah, yes. It has come to the attention of one average Joe that there is a place on this space station that I have not yet been. Of course, there are a great many paces that I haven’t managed to somehow stumble into yet, but the majority of them do not have alcohol on tap. This one, unless it is playing some decidedly crafty trick on me, does.

But Joe, you may ask, why don’t you just stick to the one watering hole? Well, Timmy, that’s a very good question, let me answer it for you. You see when I arrived on this wonderful ship, I was as I am now – penniless. I had only the clothes on my back, and quite quickly even those were liberated from my person by an errant tailor who subsequently tried to sell them back to me at twice the price. That side, I haven’t a credit chit to my name and thus lacking the ability to turn water to wine have devised a cunning plan to keep myself fed and watered!

THE PLAN
(Note the bold text, this signifies importance.)
According to reconnaissance reports, fabricated in the early hours of one weekend morning, each and every vendor on the Astral Astoria operates independently. Though they all fall underneath the same tried and tired rules and regulations, they are by no means unified. Rather, instead, they are constantly vying for attention, clamoring like shrieking small children. Each of these pug-faced maggots runs their own payroll, and keeps their own tabs.

Watch carefully, kids! If you look closely enough, you can see the very moment when the criminal pounces! By targeting the busiest bars, on their busiest nights, it’s possible to five-finger discount your way through the evening. Whether it be thanks to happy our or generous drunks, there’s always a way, so long as there’s a will, and this crooks is a mile long. By never returning to said establishments again, it is possible to completely avoid any reprimand – and that, my friends, is the plan.

Unfortunately, the plan is not flawless. It is not, as they say, fool proof. It is certainly unable to account for any lapse in memory on the part of the crafty crook, who may inadvertently stumble back into one of the very places he has robbed. In moments like that, however, you must remain calm. Calm as the dune sea. Tip that hat down over your brow and hide your eyes behind those aviator glasses. Back to the bar, and integrate yourself into the crowd.

And what have we here? In its indigenous habitant, the common bar fly. It’s motivation ground down by many years of tiresome work, it escapes the confines of its ‘office’ and seeks sanctuary and sweet nectar of the bar. Watch now, as we wait for its reaction to the approach of another of its kind, a male of the species. It is tradition for the male, as hunter gatherer, to acquire sustenance for its chosen mate, however in this instance we see that – when under the pressure created by running from a predator – such customs are reversed.

“Turn that frown upside down.”