Imperial Recreation

“Medic 9, respond for the overdose. Caller reports the patient is in the garage.”

We arrive first at a commercial occupancy late at night. From the looks of it, there shouldn’t be anyone here. The windowless steel building is dark and desolate, sitting on the edge of a scrapyard. We circle the building once, looking for signs of life and finding none. On our second pass a man emerges from a side door and waves to us. “He’s in here,” he shouts and then disappears back inside. We follow him through the door into another world.

A giant RV sits in a slightly-too-small garage. Dark and hulking, backlit by security lights and twinkling with tiny ornamental LEDs, it’s easily worth more than my house. If Darth Vader decided to go camping, this is what he would use. Our escort stands in the open doorway, beckoning us up the steps. “He’s in here!”

Inside we are greeted not by a Sith Lord but a Jedi. Old Ben Kenobi paces about in the center of the bus, in a space somehow larger than it should be. More ornamental LEDs twinkle in the ceiling, shining their star-glow down on the four of us. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ben fires off at us. “She threw me out. I’m living here. She’s going to get it all.”

He completes another circuit, then pauses to look at us. “I died on a race track once. You guys revived me. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” and he resumes pacing.

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