"Tell me, Mister Stalin. How does a fleet of the Corporate Sector's finest Freighters suddenly disappear carrying ten million credits worth of smuggled Tibanna Gas?"

A scronny man stepped forward into the faint light of the room. His tone was pale white, his body small and weak, with skin hanging where muscle tone was once present. His arms trembled, and his knees shook with weakness. There was virtually no question that he was starving, and ill. Sweat beaded from his dark black hair as he spoke n a faint cracking voice. "I..don't know sir. How would I know? I've been in..."

Joseph turned away from the window. "I didn't ask for an excuse, Mister Stalin. I asked for an answer." he snapped, before returning his gaze out the window. "Now, I ask you again... How does a fleet of the Corporate Sector's finest Freighters suddenly disappear?" The man's arms shook vigorously as two guards shoved him forward into the light. A tear rolled down the desperate expression on his face, for he knew that his life was at stake. "I don't know, sir."

Joseph slammed his fist down on the ledge of the window. "Pirates! That's how, you insolent @#%$." His voice boomed through the darkness of the room as Stalin shook, cringing before the man that stood before him. "I'm giving you three days, Stalin. Three days to find me another smuggler, and get me double the shipment I requested. If you don't..." he continued, pausing as he looked at the small sporting blaster resting on his desk. "Well, let's just say you'd better."

With the flick of his hand, the guards grabbed the man up by his thin elbows, and escorted him out of the room. Joseph Brooke stood at the window, overlooking the exceptional beauty of the Dragonbird Gardens. The thin glass of imported brandy swirled in his hand, the ice clattering within as he reaised it to his lips, knocking it back with ease; a faint sigh of satisfaction followed.

Life was good.