Thanks to the Daily Post (asking participants to continue the story from “Three people walk into a bar . . .”) I can tell you the story that links to an amazing graphic artist.
Three people walk into a bar, leaving their droids tethered outside to a cigarette disposal pole.
Two Sith warriors and one Jedi.
Patrons inside don’t mind the flowing robes of the newcomers; and no eyebrow is raised at the occasionally visible light-saber handles. London has seen it all: James Bond, the Queen, Russian zillionaires owning football clubs, Harry Potter and Voldemort (who is rumored to have set up a hedge fund office in Mayfair after he was killed last time), you name it.
The Sith take a corner table, and order two Perriers. They sit there simmering with anger at the drunken afternoon public. They dream of cutting off the hands of bank clerks seated next to them, who are carelessly splashing around the contents of their mugs in the agitated manner entry-level clerks are famous for .
“Shall I clean the stains off your robe, Master?” silently asks the younger Sith.
“Later” replies the older one, “and don’t use the Force, for Palpatine’s sake, use Tide!” he adds hastily, trying to bar expletives from his mindspeach, and failing.
The Jedi settles himself at the counter (to save on tips) and orders two vodkas, meting out pennies to the exact amount. He keeps ordering shots in the progression of 2, 4, 8, 16, and paying after each “series”, until he can calculate the amount he has to put on the counter himself. A single arithmetic error, and he stops. He knows his limit.
“A true Master”, think the Sith in unison.
“Bloody pacifists!”, thinks the Jedi.
“And what do we have here?” muses a pickpocket watching the Jedi and Sith glaring at each other. “Platinum visas, tick; loads of cash, tick; easy-to-work robes, tick!”. but the thief’s mind has already been read by the Sith Apprentice. A call to the nearest police station has been telepathied. Cutting arms with lightsabers is so much more efficient, but on Earth it is frowned upon, and even regulated in some Western countries.
And the Death Star, my favourite:
There are loads of stuff in the artist’s gallery. Sometimes, all you want is a picture to enjoy exploring in a way you used to do when you were 10.