Why would I want to do a fool thing and help the Rebels, boy?
Life in the Imperium ain't no picnic, but it's a damn sight better than it were durin' the Republic. The Re-pub-lic; that's a hoot. It weren't no true republic, let me tell you. I been schooled. I know what "republic" meant. It meant every man were allowed a say 'bout the gub'mint. It meant the local big-wig ain't allowed to come over and stomp on you whenever he please. That bein' the case, the so-called Republic were a joke. It were a republic only in the sense that all them aris-to-crats could get themselves together and bitch 'bout what they wanted to do. Which were usually somethin' 'bout grindin' the little man, namely me, down. Now I know that there were probably some o' them Princesses and Lords and what-not that were okay, but none that I ever saw. Here in Selora we had ourselves a Lord Kundran, may he burn in Tatoonie. He kept us all one credit from starvin', and not a thing we could do 'bout it 'cept tug our forelocks and thank'ee sir. Sumbitch would flounce down here, wearin' his clothes that were worth a year's honest labor and squeeze us 'til we bled. It warms my heart every time I remember that he got hisself dead fightin' the Empire.
Every time I hear one o' you boneheads talkin' 'bout them good ole days I get riled up. Them good ole days weren't so good. Take my Pappy. He died 'cause them good ole days. He were a taliso farmer. Most o' the time he were talkin' 'bout how Lord Kundran's pappy were a fine man and how it were a shame his son turned out so bad. Rest o' the time he were grubbin' and savin' for the day when he could buy a 'bot to help out on the farm. Never happened. Sixteen years ago, he just laid hisself down in the middle of a field and died. It's a modern day here in 3043, and a man dies tryin' to scrape up enough to buy hisself a robot. Somethin' wrong 'bout that, I figure.
Don't tell me 'bout no right-and-wrong, good-and-evil nonsense neither. I'll tell you what's evil. Bein' eight years old, havin' six brothers and sisters and not havin' enough to eat. That's evil. Watchin' your Pappy and Mammy work themselves to death, and havin' to decide who was gonna be fed and who was gonna go hungry at the end o' the day. Evil's just a word used by people 'bout the people they don't like. Other than that, the only other fools who prattle on 'bout it are them Jedi types. Lily-handed ponces with their fancy robes and light sabers and Force-this Force-that nonsense. Supposed to be the lifeforce of everything around, right? You try raising a taliso crop in that clay they call dirt out here, then you'll know everythin' you ever wanted about lifeforce.
Now don't get me wrong. Them imperial types aren't no cupcakes. They ain't no how're-you-doin'-Farmer-Joe, looks-like-it-might-rain kinda folk. Some o' them are right bad boys, in fact. But I done me some thinkin', and here's how I figure it. Back durin' the Republic, all them la-dee-da nobles were runnin' around tryin' to one-up each other. Like a herd o' greebles with no herd stallion. In order to show up another sumbitch, they'd have to have themselves the latest little doo-dah. The fastest starship. The newest light-sensitive taliso-extract face paint. Gotta have big-time credits for that junk. Which meant, squeezin' us. "Oh, Selena dear, the Grand Ball is in one month on Coruscant! I absolutely must have the lastest iridium-plated eye-lashes! Go and have the overseer get some more credits from the peasants, will you dear?" Ha. We got that sumbitch overseer the same day Kandran died. The Imperials never found all his body parts.
Back to what I were sayin'. So yeah, I know them Imperials ain't no buddies o' mine neither. Thing is, they got themselves a herd stallion. The Emperor ain't 'bout to let some itty-bitty Lord Dingleberry to one-up him. Chances are, Dingleberry's already dead. The Emperor ain't too good 'bout sharing power. It's him, that scary Lord Vader guy, and then the whole Imperial war machine, from their high muckety-muck generals and admirals down to their grunt Stormtroopers. They squeeze me, sure, but not as bad as 'fore, and not whenever they feel like it. The Emperor's a real stickler 'bout his rules and ain't no one dumb enough to break 'em. Also, they don't make no pretense 'bout being some republic, neither. A man can respect that.
So you can see, I ain't too interested in your little rebel pep-talk. In fact, let me tell you a bit 'bout your leaders, boy. You know they are? They're the sons and daughters of all them aristocrats that got themselves dead when the Empire took over. They're out there fighting, not for freedom and justice and all them other pretty words, but so's they can come back here and stomp on me some more. Well, the hell with them I say. And the hell with you. They won't do anything worthwhile 'cept get themselves kilt, and good riddance. So take your recruiting speech and get. Get, 'fore I forget I'm a gennelman and put three holes in your head with my skeetshooter.
