"Who the hell's idea was it to infiltrate this Sithforsaken planet as a carnival," hissed Tycho Celchu, shifting uncomfortably in his gold lame bikini as he awaited his turn inside what the Rogues had dubbed The Chamber of Horrors.

"Wes'," replied four equally resigned voices around the scuffed and dirty table in the 'back stage' area, and Tycho swiped a hand across his brow in irritation, dislodging the buzzing insects that crowded around, drawn by the sticky mess on the table where a bottle of a beverage the locals called 'coke' lay empty.

"Permission to kill Wes?" This came from Nawara Ven, who was bearing rather the brunt of this mission, as the main attraction in the 'freak show', something that Wedge had been privately horrified to see was still popular on a supposedly 'civilised' planet as this.

Then again, any planet whose females clamoured to see his second in command in women's swimwear...

Taking a quick, almost violent swig of the local brew -- about the only potable substance in the area, in most of the squad's opinions, although Corran seemed to have formed a strange attachment to something called 'vegemite' -- Wedge leant back in his chair, hooking an ankle around one rickety table leg, before replying,

"Granted. But only after we get what we came for."

"Which is tonight, isn't it, Wedge?" Hobbie's voice was more doleful than usual, only accented by the heavy white clown makeup he wore.

"Right. We do tonight's show, pick up the contact, and head off before sun-up."

Hobbie shifted uncomfortably again, resisting the urge to scratch at the makeup, and turned an imploring face heavenward. "Wanting 'heroes of the republic' to turn up personally," he muttered, methodically shredding an old program into progressively tinier pieces, "next time the can send holos--"

Loud cheers echoed through the tent as Wes, who?d been having the time of his life acting as 'ringmaster', announced the next act, 'The Amazing Antilles, Magician to the Stars!'

With a sigh, Wedge pushed himself up from the table, and walked out to the tent, surveying the crowd carefully for his contact, before picking out his 'volunteer' for the evening, a tall blonde man with a slightly different accent, whose toothy grin would rival even Nawara's--

"We'll be out of here soon," he muttered, before going into his practised patter, strapping the man -- if you could call him that -- into the giant Orange. And he grinned as he lent forward, picking up the matching giant Juicer, and whispered "This won't hurt a bit."

Finis

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