Rating: PG for most, N-17 for Ned Flanders types. Warning: for
right now, language, it might get worse as we go on.
Summery: 36-year old Obi-wan has an epiphany.
Feedback: If you want to drop an enote, I'd be thankful.
Obiwan Kenobi poked at his face while he watched the
reflection in the mirror, convinced that he was slowly turning
into a large vat of macaroni and cheese. He was getting that
consistancy.
Something had been eating at his wellbeing.
He had been in a spaced funk for a creeping while. It felt like
a dream memory shadowing his mind with a melancholy of
nightmarish afterlude of remembering a childhood friend long
gone.
This morning was particularly curdy. Looking into the mirror,
he didn't know who that person was.
When did he decide on facial hair? A year ago? Two? Why? Was
this a sad attempt at individuality in a world of uniforms and
rituals? A pathetic try at trying to gain an image of
authority, like so many restaurant managers he had seen, only
inches in prestige above their employees, held apart by bearded
distinction alone? Who was he trying to be here, some
stereotypical wiseman-British actor-messiah thing? He sneered
to himself, splashing water on his face, I'm not succeeding at
any of them, I'm only succeeding in being Walking Mac and
Cheese with two pickles tossed in, for eyes.
At least people have stopped treating him as if he were as
witless and guileless as Bambi, the ridiculously childish and
loosely-moraled knight from the planet Ptooie.
He donned his tunic, and his tabbard, straightening it in the
mirror, trying to get rid of that cocktail jammies look.
He hated the loungey look of his clothes, and wondered why he
hadn't changed the look of them after all these years. The
froopy sleeves only got it the way and dated his sense of
style.
He had been sewing, cleaning and donning these clothes
literally all his life, why did they bother him now?
He remembered with a bitter grimace of having to lay out the
lengths of material to cut it as Qui-Gon looked on, giving
instructions on how his masterly garments were to be done. If
he was so damned picky, why the hell didn't he get up off the
couch and do it himself? The nag. The old man just sat on his
duff the entire time, flicking his index finger and snapping
orders.
He outfitted his belt with the standard equipment, all of it
feeling suddenly heavy for his frame, weighing down his belt.
A briefcase would be nice.
If he had his choice, he wouldn't have Half this crap hanging
off of him in the first place.
But then, he never had a choice.
That's it, he realized; he never had a choice.
That's what's wrong. He didn't have a choice, not in his
clothes, his job, his duties, his hobbies, anything.
Unlike his own student, he didn't get any say as to whether he
wanted this life or not. He felt a wash of great loss flood
over him in a hot salty wave.
By nameless 21st century all-encompassing mythology, he
thought, my whole life is a waste, I didn't get to live it.
His whole life was decided by someone else, by some great Order
whose tenents were at times vague and flux by definition.
Really, come on, The Force? This is an idea to hang your hat
on?
"I've spent my whole life believing in a cultish idea,
mindlessly obeying what could really be delusioned outcasts,"
He bemoaned. "My god, I've been locked in a monastery with
kooks."
His youth, he realized, was wasted in crusades when he could
have been out every night, getting some. "I've never had any
fun. I've spent my whole life doing what was expected of me."
When he was younger, and more naive, this would have brought a
sense of purpose to him, but right now, it was a hollow gong.
Who was to say that that the Order was right? Who could prove
that they had the market on the correct philosophy?
Really, look at 'em. Didn't they seem a little odd and
pretensious?
"What a pansytalking idiot I've been." He reflected.
It suddenly seemed strange to him, that he was, not to mince
words, kidnapped a such a young age and washed into this
thinking, with no other philosophy to counter the beliefs he
was trained to believe, and no outside influences to allow him
to make a decision on his own.
All his decisions were governed by the culture surrounding him,
and though the culture was far reaching in it's travels, he had
never gone alone, he had always ventured forth with another of
his kind.
The better to monitor his mindset and behavior!, Obi-wan
wrenched as he made his way to the gardens.
He remorsed pissing his life away like that.
He didn't feel like gardening, but he was expected to. He was
expected to do his time in the garden, expected to do laundry
every third day, expected to teach every other day, and deal
with Anakin The Wonder Boy full time.
He was positively sour by the time he had made his way to the
supply shed to get a hoe.
"Expected." He stabbed a hoe into the earth. It wasn't even
real soil. It was piped in, like the mindless meditations he
performed every morning and night.
How was he to know if his meditative thoughts were his own, or
ideas piped in by little green men?
He stood back to look at what he was doing. A farmer taken from
farmers to farm; don't that beat all?
Of course, he wasn't being one with The Force.
Big damned deal. He partly desired to be in the moment, to zen
onto hoeing the tomatoes,(he didn't even really Like tomatoes,)
but then he balked at the idea, thinking of how Qui-gon always
could live in the moment becuase he had a slave to worry about
the future for him.
"That old fart just told me to be mindful of the present so I
wouldn't think about how degrading it was to wash his
underpants." With this, he tossed the garden impliment in the
dirt, turned and prima donna'ed out of the garden.
"Fuck him. Fuck everybody."
Obi-wan slammed the gate that led to back to housing, leaving
the other jedi and their padawans to whisper amongst
themselves, "He just said 'fuck'." as they giggled at their own
insipid naughtiness at saying the word.
Kenobi turned and shouted into their twitty little giggles,
"Well, fuck you, too, maybe that's what you need." Prudish
Tightasses.
He tripped a little short padawan of an indistinguishable
whocared race as he walked down the hall towards the living
quarters.
He flung off his hated tunic at the door of his quarters,
tossed it on the couch, knocking over an planted holistic herb
on the nearby endtable, ("Let Pretty boy clean it up.") pushed
his way into his private room, slumped at his desk and looked
around him; didn't he have anything that wasn't ecru? This
sucked.
His padawan knocked at the door, asked to be allowed entry, the
answer was 'no'. The forward teen began to open the door
anyway, and with a rush and a shove, the smaller man was able
to shove the door back at him, leaving the padawan's hand
waving and flipping as it slid, defeated, back through the
door.
"No, no no no no no no! Go away! Go away and be mindlessy
pretty at someone else, I'm sick of your face!
"I am." he reiterated huffily. What's the world coming to, when
people just barge in like that? That kid always gets what he
wants, like he had the right. He lay back on the bed, with a
flump, and glared up at the ceiling, made a sour face.
"I dreamed it. I dreamed it." he mimicked, wrying up his mug.
Whenever that brat wants something, he says he dreams of it,
and poof, they all rush around to fulfill his destiny, because
they're afraid.
"Fuck him, too." Obi-wan said aloud.
He was sick of the lot of them. He closed his eyes and stewed.
Why did HE have to be here? Why not Owen? Couldn't his family
afford him? He got this vague inception of his mother and
father round the table one night, shortly after he was born.
"Well, Martha, we already go one kid, and we really don't need
that other one, and he's puny with a butt-chin... hey, let's
send him to the monks! They'll take anything."
Why couldn't they have waited til he was old enough to decide
for himself? and for that matter, why are Jedi so damned fired
up to take you away at such a young age? To hurry up and
brainwash you so they don't have to wash their own underpants,
that's why.
(The only reason he didn't pawn his unders off on Anakin was
that he didn't want the little shit to make fun of them behind
his back. There are some things you don't want other people to
parade around in public, especially with the occasional schmear
that just Happens, no matter how well you wipe. In fact, he
found himself washing Mindless Perfection's pants more than a
few times, just to forego the embarrassment of having his
padawan go commando for lack of clean underitems. That was
Never a pretty sight.
"By some fancy ornate phrase to recall some diety and yet
remain nonsecular, he's really starting to grate on my nerves."
Kenobi grumbled, as Anakin decided to play some nasty tinny
sounding noise that was his nasty tinny teen idea of music. He
stuck his fingers in his ears to block out the noise.
When Obi-wan awoke, his ears were hot and sweaty and his
forefingers felt numb. He pulled his digits from his ears with
a waxy pop, and overcame his justwaking daze.
He pushed through the now quiet livingroom into the apartment.
He noted that the potted plant mess was where he left it.
Thanks, Anakin.
He found his lemonhead apprentice on the couch, giggling over
old holocube albums.
"Master, is this you?" he pointed.
"Yeh." Obi-wan nodded aloofly and sidled on to the kitchen to
get a beer.
"You were so skinny! And bald!"
"Yep." Kenobi echoed, head in fridge.
"How did you get down the toilet?
"Musta used the force, yathink?" he growled as he realized that
all the good beer had magically disappeared, leaving him with
only the cheap stuff in a gold label with a little green goon
on it.
"Why'd you go down the toilet?"
He cracked the beertab, "I was looking for something."
"What?"
"It doesn't matter." (Yes! I dove down the john for something
to shove up my ass! Ass! ass! ass! ass! Is that what you want
to hear? I shoved something up my ass, once, and no one's
forgotten it since!)
He couldn't hear the ever youthful voice of Anakin over the
rattling of the potato chip bag he was shaking to see if there
were any left- (why put the bag back if there's only a handful
of chips left? Just fricken eat the rest and toss the bag,
don't leave me to get my hopes up.)-
"What did you say?" (You little shit.)
"Wow, what do all these letters mean?"
"What letters?" Obi-wan asked as he reentered the living room,
with a box of ill-favored saltines. That's all that was left,
apparantly.
"These letters, allover your body?"
"Don't ask."
"Master, why are you always so naked?"
"It's part of the job." He snuffled beer foam from the can. Of
course, this can was left because Someone dropped it.
"Why am I not in training for naked work?"
"It's not called Naked Work, it's called Arthouse, and that's
probably WHY you're not trained in it."
"Yaknow, you weren't as hairy back then."
"Its called testosterone. Some of us have it. That's the
amazing thing about being Unabashedly Male, when you start to
get hairy, you develop an acceptance, and yes, even a sense of
humor about it." He swipped at the beer through saltine crumbs.
"What are you doing with this guy on the rooftop, here?"
"Fuckingimme that." Obi-wan grabbed the holocube from Anakin's
rotten grasping hands, "Can't I have anything for me? Mine for
myself? Why do you think everything is for you to grab at?
"And don't gimme that wimpy lip look. What worked for me won't
work for you, mainly because you are a walking refrigerator
with a head on top, and I'm lithe and small and childlike and
endearing.
"And fucking charming with my self-depreciating humor! Let's
not forget That, you simpy bastard." Obi-wan flashed a forced
angry grin.
Anakin then added,
"And now you're just a hairy-assed bastard with an oshi-san
scent."
"You got it, baby, but I'm still-", Obi-wan retorted and looked
off and relished the word; "-the Mawstah."
"Oh, by the way, Mahw-stah," Anakin began cramming saltines in
his blandly handsome mug, smackingly chewing as he did
so,"Mumuph mph and yopa ersh ookin pruoo." He sprayed crumbs as
he spoke.
"What?" Obi-wan demanded, giving him The Glare. The kid really
was a gross imbecile.
Anakin helped himself to the can of beer, chewing and then
gulping hard, he repeated,
"Masters Yoda and Mace are looking for you. I told them you
were asleep, and you would be a bitch if I woke you, but-"
"You didn't!?" He felt his teeth clenching to breaking point.
"Yeh I did, I mean, you want me to develop a sense of honesty-"
"Oh, get over yerself, you just said that to make me look like
a lazy bum, you conniving little cunt." Obiwan stood up and
searched around for his froopy tunic that he now really hated.
Of course, he found it under Anakin.
"Get off!" He grunted as he tugged at it, "You big galoot!
You're wrinkling it!" That craphead wasn't budging on purpose,
Obi-wan noticed, as he leaned back to loose the jacket from
it's place under his apprentice's butt.
It wasn't until Obi-wan was in full-tilt, that Anakin hiked a
cheek up enough to free the tunic and send him flying into the
wall.
"You ass." Obi-wan hissed as he flapped into the dreaded ecru
monstrosity. Yes, he was really beginning to hate that kid.
Honestly.
He looked himself over, "Now I looked like a bum from the
streets. Thank you."
Anakin shrugged as he stuffed more crackers in his mouth,
enjoying the fizz of the beer as it flowed over the mushed up
crackers in his mouth.
"Pyoowee, someone smells like Mardi Gras." Mace and Yoda
exchanged raised-eyebrow knowing glances, waving their hands in
front of their noses.
"Show his tits, someone did not," Yoda smirked, "Beads, he has
none."
Obi-wan didn't know they could sense the few sips of beer he
had managed to get before Anakin drained the supply. Oh, wait,
he took a big sniff of his sleeve.
That ratbastard must've spilled some beer on the damned outfit
while he was hunkered on it.
"That's not me, some was spilled on my jacket."
"Hm. Sloppy drunk, too." Mace insinutated.
"It's not what you think." Kenobi protested.
"Oh, it never is." Mace shook his head sarcastically.
"Explains it does your potty mouth." Yoda backward crawled off
his chair in a undignified fashion, "Fuck, you said, and that
said sport everyone should partake, you shouted." The green
bastard sat there chewing on his gums, like he had something
over on everyone, the goofy ugly little troll.
This struck Obi-wan offguard. "Yaknow, lemme tell you, I get
dragged here everytime I so much as dribble when I piss, but
this little meeting here, right now, takes the cake." Obi-wan
stood askance, weight on one hip.
"I don't know what the hell the problem is, but you two, as
long as I've been young, have been riding my ass like two old
maids.
"I can accept you might have a problem with me, but this
tracking me down every five minutes for every little sillyass
problem is going to stop..
"It's become apparent that you don't want me as part of your
little group, and I've realized that I don't want to be a part
of it, either. So you can just get off my dick, because I
quit."
"Quit you cannot." Yoda's eye's popped open.
"Speak correctly you should learn. Here," he peeled off the
lousy stinking tunic that temporatily seemed stuck to his body
(wouldn't you know that when he needed to extra drama of a
sweeping motion, the damned thing would ball up on him),
"You can have this."
He tossed it at the pickled old gremlin, and made for the door,
flipping them off as he exited.
"Man, that really wasn't all I thought it would be.", Mace
frowned, "I thought he was gonna do all those colorchanging
blushes and shame-faced expressions and cowtows of humility.We
shoulda told we were just fooling him. I mean, I thought it was
obvious."
"You know, in retrospect, I feel that he was much more docile
and easy going when he was cleanshaven and more... shall we
look at the issue, honestly?, androgenous in his appearance."
Yoda mused.
"Master Yoda, you forgot to twist your words around."
"Oh." Yoda played his eyes at the ceiling, dancing his finger
like a crazed conductor to get the tempo right.
"Docile he was when he was more..., he were, and uh, less ass
pain he was-
"-oh fuck it." Yoda gave up, "It's just for the tourists,
anyway.
"To the point we get. I liked him better when he was a
fruity-talking little bottom like that babboon, Bambi. Speaking
of which, where is that Ptooien, anyway? I have seen him sashay
around here in the past few weeks."
"Hopefully, Mace replied, "not showing his blue ass, as he's
like to do."
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