The ULTIMATE collection of Mayor Gunbear fanfic!
“Why am I here?!” Plox pounded his meaty fists on the interrogation room table. A lone lamp swung overhead and dust particles floated down from the ceiling.
BN6 hovered opposite the Gamorrean across the table. The island of light in the center of the room cast an eerie glow on the administration droid’s sandblasted silver body. “Once again you and your men have been dumping District 24’s garbage into the Sarlaac Pit when you should dispose of it in the environmentally-friendly manner set forth by Mayor Gunbear.”
“That’s preposterous!” Plox said banging on the table again. BN6 noted that every time the Gamorrean spoke, it sounded as if he was shaking his head with a mouthful of meat. The droid turned toward the nearest wall and projected an image. A skiff hovered over the Great Pit of Carkoon and several clearly discernible figures launched bin after bin of refuse into the pit while the Sarlaac’s tentacles swayed in the light of Tatooine’s three moons.
“That could be anyone!” Plox protested. This time when he slammed his fist one of the bulbs in the overhead lamp flickered and threatened to cast the room in complete darkness.
“Mayor Gunbear takes sanitation very seriously,” BN6 responded cooly.
“Gunbear! Hah!” Plox leaned forward across the table and jabbed a finger in the droid’s direction. “Who does he think he is to drag the Chief of Sanitation down here like this? The only time he cares about trash going into the Sarlaac Pit is during re-election. I’m not scared of him. You float on back to his office and tell Mayor Gunbear I think he’s shooting blanks and he belongs in a zoo.”
BN6 drifted back toward the door. “You just told him.”
“HRMPH!” A low, stately grunt rolled from the darkness in the back of the room. Plox’s eyes grew to the size of a Krayt Dragon’s. He felt hot breath on the back of his neck. Scent of the Dune Sea, the Mayor’s signature cologne filled his nostrils.
Mayor Gunbear circled around Plox. The Gamorrean expected rage. He expected the Mayor’s fangs to tear him to pieces. Instead, Gunbear studied him with his dark, glassy eyes.
“Mrphsh,” Mayor Gunbear snorted and Plox shut his mouth. The Mayor turned to BN6. “Graughaggargahhh?”
“Yes sir. Your speeder is ready,” the droid responded. BN6 rounded the table towards Plox. “I’m afraid I need to bind your wrists now.” The Gamorrean looked at Gunbear. This was not what he expected at all.
Plox ate a mouthful of sand when Mayor Gunbear threw him out of the speeder. He struggled to get to his knees with his hands bound behind him. His eyes watered and tried to adjust to the hot suns. The sand burned beneath him. BN6 zipped over to Plox as Gunbear climbed out of the speeder. A small bladed arm protruded from the droid’s body and he sliced the rope binding the Gamorrean’s wrists. Plox tasted moisture in the sand. It congealed in his mouth. He licked his sleeve to get the iron taste off his tongue and checked his surroundings. To his horror, six of his men lay dead around him! Their blood seeped into the sand everywhere. Each had several blaster burns. Plox choked and spat. Suddenly he heard a thud behind him. The Gamorrean turned and saw a blaster laying at his feet.
“Mayor Gunbear offers you the heavy blaster,” BN6 stated. “He wants you to have a chance.”
“Mrahhmf,” Mayor Gunbear said.
“I…I don’t want to pick it up,” Plox stammered, shuffling a step back from the blaster. “My apologies. Please!”
“Mrahhmmmmf,” Mayor Gunbear repeated in a quieter but somehow more deadly tone. On his large, furry head sat a wide-brimmed black hat in the style made famous by the bounty hunger, Cad Bane. They were all the rage at Tosche Station this season. His paw hovered a mere inch from the grip of his heavy blaster. The handle was made from the sacred Wroshyr Tree of Kashyyyk.
Plox panicked. He dove for the weapon but before he got half way to it, Mayor Gunbear’s blaster was in hand. He fired several times into the Gamorrean’s fat body and a seventh corpse collapsed on the dune.
“MRAGRHRMF!” Gunbear roared. He took off his hat and threw it in the back of the speeder.
“Yes sir, it is hot,” BN6 replied.
Mayor Gunbear crawled into the driver’s seat. He had a meeting with a representative of the banking clan after lunch, a city council meeting to attend and on top of all that now he had to find a new sanitation crew for district 24. He shook his head.
“Sir, what shall I do with the bodies?” BN6 called out.
“Grapmvh grarahhgar!” Mayor Gunbear said and hit the accelerator.
“Dump them in the Sarlaac Pit? An excellent idea!”
In a small building, down a hall, in a poorly-lit room, five sat.
Not so quietly waiting.
“‘I Ate My Mate!'” shrieked a B’omarr monk from the center of the room, with it’s shrill, mechanically synthesize voice.
“That’s rubbish! ‘The Sequential Passage of Chronological Intervals’ is much better,” argued a thin Rodian who represented the 4th Ward.
“That song is a nightmare,” a translator droid gently spoke. By the motions and chittering of her tiny Jawa owner, it was not in the intended tone.
There was a loud fumbling at the door and everyone fell silent. The B’omarr skittered to the lectern as the door clumsily opened and a large bear toppled into the room on all fours. “Please rise as the honorable Mayor Gunbear enters the room.”
All rose from their seats. A Rodian, a Jawa, a Human, and a duel-headed Troig (each head representing different Wards remarkably distant from one another).
“Rrrgrrgghhhh rrhhghrrrrrr,” muttered the Mayor as he pulled himself onto his hind legs and walked to the lectern, gesturing for the B’omarr to take its seat across the room. Everyone took their seats.
“Grruumff rrgaaargarh rrrgggrraafffg rrrgg.” The room lay silent.
“mmmgrrrgh rrrrruuhrfrgh. Rrgraaargh ergggrrrmrrg rrrgrh grrruuumffgrr,” said the Mayor, motioning around the room with his powerful paw.
Loxcian, raised his hand. The Mayor acknowledged the almost Hutt-sized human who tried to rise as he spoke but opted for a more reasonable sitting posture.
“Mayor, I appreciate your wanting to get right to business. We all have responsibilities to attend to.” He shifted to a slightly more comfortable, declined position. “If we don’t do something about the Tatooine Tree in Anchorhead soon we are going to see more and more incidents like the slaughter last week.”
“Cut it down,” interjected the Rodian. “We can’t keep paying the Conservationist Guard to gun down everyone who comes within sight of it.”
The B’omarr monk perked erect. “That’s ludicrous! That Tatooine Tree is one of the last in the Galaxy. The last outside of any Arboretum. Cutting it down would be against the historical interests of Tatooine.”
“Gggraaargmf ugrrrhumgrrg,” agreed the Mayor.
“But what are we supposed to do then? We can’t afford to protect it. It’s a pointless relic of a time that no longer exists,” Loxcian poked. “The B’omarr have no clue what is important any longer. We don’t need it. We don’t want it.”
“HOW DARE YOU!” screeched the Monk.
“The Conservationist Guard are bleeding this city dry. Why don’t we just pay them less?” suggested the translator droid on behalf of the Jawa.
“I agree,” said one head of the Triog. “If we merely lowered the credit agreement by 7% we could funnel that money down more important avenues,” added the second.
“Grrrarg Gruuugh mmmummrggh?” asked the Mayor, pointedly.
“Well..us,” answered the first head. “All of us,” finished the second.
The room sat quiet. Then murmurs of agreement began to rise.
“My constituency do like the tree but…”
“The Guard isn’t doing anything anyway.”
“It’s not THAT great of a landmark, really.”
“How much can rechargeable blasters cost anyway?”
“Honestly I’ve always thought it was ugly.”
Mayor Gunbear looked across the room, eyeing each politician. Sizing them.
“How about you Mayor? What are your thoughts?”
The Mayor stared silently for a moment longer then reached into his thick fur and pulled out a blaster.
“Now Mayor,” objected the fat Human. But he quickly went silent when the Mayor grazed his arm with a bolt.
The large bear leaped over the lectern and everyone who could scatter, scattered.
Mayor Gunbear swiftly caught the first head of the Triog and sank his sharp teeth into it’s fleshy neck, pulling it’s whole body to the ground, second head in tow. The Triog flipped over the bristled body of the Mayor. He snapped it’s neck in a single motion and the life fell from the eyes of the first head.
The room dropped to a tense quiet as Gunbear drew himself up on all fours and began lapping at the growing pool of blood on the floor. The Troig’s second head looked on in silent horror.
“Sir?” the surviving head finally whispered. “Does this mean I have to cover both wards?”
The Mayor raised a single eye to the living half of his prey.
“Yes. Of course. I am honored.”……..”And his wages? Will I-”
“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrg,” the bear growled intimidatingly.
“Of course. Of course. The Conservationist Guard will be well funded now. Very well funded.”
A young woman shook her husband awake.
“It won’t stop. He won’t stop! Why does he have to work on that damn launch pad at this hour?
“I don’t know, Honey. Call the police if it’s bothering you that much.”
“You know they won’t do anything about it. They never have.”
“Just try to drown it out. Here, rest my pillow over your head.”
He handed her his pillow.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she smiled adoringly at him. “He’s so sweet,” she thought.
As the man rustled back into a comfortable sleeping position, resting his head upon the bicep of an outstretched arm, a series of loud bangs rang out. The woman screamed and the man fell off the bed.
Galen Leivold was a retired veteran of half a dozen wars. Some thought of him more as a washed up mercenary. He didn’t care. He had stashed enough credits to live the waning-half of his life in one of the more favorable neighborhoods of Mos Eisley and he was comfortable. That’s all that mattered.
He was a pilot back in his fighting days and when he quickly grew bored of retired life he went looking for hobbies. He tried Lugjack, Sabacc, even Blob Racing but each attempt to keep his aging mind agile eventually faded. Until one Dual Noon when he saw the most beautiful space vessel he’d ever seen.
It was a Mon Calimari scout vessel. The kind he’d once seen as a child over 60 years ago. It wasn’t a new model, but a classic. He’d dreamed about owning a ship like it and fixing it up.
He wanted to buy it. He had the money but no place to put it. He would need to have a launch pad installed. He could build it. He was handy and it would be another hobby of sorts.
With the shutdown of Tatooine’s government, the Mayor’s hours had grown long. No government employee was allowed to work, but he didn’t care. This was his city. He wasn’t going to let it fall apart just because some out-of-touch politicians couldn’t agree on evaporator regulations or blaster control.
Early in the morning the phone rang.
“Grrrrrrrrgumf?” The Mayor answered.
He slammed down the phone and ran out of the building. There was a disturbance of the peace, and he wasn’t going to let it slide.
Galen was laying down some of the thermo tiles for his launch pad. These were supposed to hold up under the extreme heat from the engines of even a mid-sized spacecraft.
Part of the fencing near the front of his compound shook then slammed to the ground. A giant bear charged through the opening. Growling and roaring. Saliva falling from it’s mouth like booze being thrown in a bar fight.
As the Mayor charged, he raised a blaster rifle from his coat. Then, becoming fully erect, pulled a rocketed projectile launcher from his fur.
*BANG* *BLAM* *BANG*
All three shots hit Galen. It burned. The blaster had scorched his chest and throat, and the rocket had removed his legs from his torso.
As he lay there, he imagined he was flying in is scout ship. Cruising through the galaxy, impressing those who had told him he was worthless. Galen could feel a tickling sensation in his stomach. It must have been the sand shrimp he had for dinner.
The young man and woman looked down through the window into their neighbor’s yard. A large bear was rummaging it’s nose inside the ribcage of their obnoxious neighbor.
“I’m glad I called the Mayor” the young woman said as she rested her head upon the man’s shoulder.
“No Sir. I didn’t put that on your desk. I don’t know where it would have come from. No one has been here.” Miss Baxter peed a little bit. She was scared.
The Mayor pawed at the envelope that had appeared on his desk. Something was fishy and it wasn’t just the sushi he had for lunch.
“No one came in while you were out, I swear. Did you check your windows? Maybe they-“ BOOM!
The envelope exploded. The small explosion knocked the Mayor back against Miss Baxter and slammed her against the wall but shielded her for most of the blast.
“Grrrraaaammmmrrr!” moaned the Mayor as he pulled himself half-way up off the floor. He hurt. All of the hair on his right arm and chest were singed and blackened. His skin was exposed. The sensation of even the lightest draft of air stung like a hot iron.
“Rrowwwrrnnnn?” he called to Miss Baxter.
“I’m OK. I think I’m OK. My head hurts but I think I’m OK.”
The room was creaking and settling. There was a new “window” in the lobby of the office. Dirt and ash covered everything. Just over the smells of gunpowder and Miss Baxter’s urine the Mayor could sense something foreign, something in the hall.
The Mayor burst through the door and into the hallway just in time to see a figure scuttle into the elevator. He bound toward the stairwell on all fours, though favoring his wounded arm.
1, 2, 9 flights of stairs he leapt down, slamming into the walls at each turn. His eyes were bloodshot. With each floor he became more furious, more ravenous.
The elevator slid open in the lobby of the government building. The figure peeked out, thin and green, a Rodian assassin. No one saw him because, as the Rodian stuck his head out, the Mayor crashed through the stairwell door, leapt over the lounge area, and pounced into elevator.
He raised his powerful paw and swatted the would-be assassin across the shoulder, knocking him down and tearing away green flesh. Serrating the muscle tissue that remained. From within his coat, the Mayor pulled out an overclocked blaster. It was something he had been tinkering with and he was more than pleased to try it out.
“Grrwwwarrrrrgggrrraaaahh?!” the Mayor roared. “Grrwwwarrrrrgggrrraaaahh?!!”
“NO! I won’t tell you who. But hear this. Hear this before you tear me apart, you monster!”
The Mayor had carved claws into the tip of the blaster so blood began to drip down the face of the Rodian as he pressed the tip against his forehead.
“This city will burn, Mayor. You say you’re changing this place for the better. You say you’re going to upgrade the public works and streamline the transit system. But no one wants it!”
The Mayor twisted the blaster, carving a blood-spewing circle into the Rodian’s head.
“This city is a hive of scum and villainy and it’s better off that way. It’s better off being worse. This city will burn, Mayor…and you will burn with it.” BANG!
The Rodian slumped over and the Mayor lapped up the blood from the floor. It tasted metallic but also sweet. Rodian blood was good.
He stirred his bowl of Honey Berry Crunch as he watched the evening’s fireworks. He liked the way the colors sparkled across the city. The smell of the gunpowder made him feel strong; reminded him how powerful he was.
The intercom spoke.
<<Mr. Allen from the Transit Authority is here to see you, Mr. Mayor.>>
“Gwrraaarrrrr arrg.” He grumbled at it.
<<Of course, Sir.>>
The Mayor set his bowl down on his desk and picked up his gun. A man in the forests of Jankok gave him the gun years before. It was a normal hunting rifle but he was drawn to the sheen and glisten of the barrel. The smell of the gunpowder made him erect.
As he stumbled upright toward the door, he drug the gun across the floor. It scraped against the tile as he burst out of his office.
“Grrawwwr grawwrrr” he growled, raising the gun toward Mr. Allen.
“Please! No!” Mr. Allen shouted as he slid out of the lobby chair and onto his knees. “It wasn’t my fault!”
“GWRAGGGLR!” The Mayor roared as he took steady aim.
“I swear! The budget has been so tight. We can’t afford to increase the bus OR train activity during rush hour. It’s just not possible.”
A horrible stench of shit wafted up from Mr. Allen and the Mayor shook his head in disgust.
“It’s a logistical Nigh–”
“Grraggrr Gwaaaaargr!” The Mayor barked as he pulled the trigger and put four rounds into Mr. Allen’s belly.
The Mayor leaned down. The dying politician could feel the warm breath of the Mayor as he pressed his nose against forehead.
Mr. Allen wimpered, “please.”
In one swift motion the Mayor bit off the face of the Politian and swallowed it.
He turned toward his secretary, “Grwwrrrrr?” he asked.
“Of course, Sir. I’ll bring you your salmon, right away.”