I Am an Imperial Stormtrooper

Fiction

by Michael G. Cornelius

IT'S ALL MY MOTHER'S FAULT.
 
From the day I was born she was
riding
my
ass—
 
"Randall—"
she'd screech—
"you never play with that ASP droid we got you for Christmas"
or
"why don't you try out for the banthaball team"
or
"why don't you get a part-time job after school I hear those Jawas two ridges over are looking for some help you're never going to get anywhere in life if you just lie around the dirt farm all day!"
But her
favorite
tune was always
“why don't you at least try using the Force I hear that Skywalker boy next door is flowing with it!” As if anyone cool gives a shit about the Force. (Besides if Luke Skywalker could really use the force do you think he'd have let Shelley Dirtreader dump him the day before the prom?)
 
It didn't stop after I graduated; she just changed tunes. She started in about joining up. "It's respectable work!" "They get good benefits!" "401 K!" "Dental!" "You could see the universe!" I became so desperate to see anything but my mother's wailing tonsils, I finally did it. I signed up. Just to shut her sarlacc-hole.
 
I became a whitesuit.
 
Now you know I'm no chickenshit or nothing, but with this whole rebellion thing going on, I wasn't too keen on seeing action. But my recruiter assured me I'd get some cushy desk job on Ando or some other ocean planet. Sun, surf, and three-titted babes all day long. Sounded good to me.
 
Of course, it was a lie. When you're a whitesuit, you don't get a choice where you go.
 
So that's how I ended up here, working prison duty on a floating piece of metal somewhere in space.
 
And it sucks:
 
The uniforms don't breath at all and I've got this perpetual case of jock itch and my boss is this psycho who wears nothing but black and keeps going on about being people's fathers and the only girl on the entire station is some prisoner with cinnamon buns on the side of her head and though she was hot she escaped and the entire night crew got pitched into the garbage chute over it.
 
And to top it all off my mother's proud as a peacock. Tells everyone her son works for the Emperor (as if I ever met the old fart.) And she keeps telling me to have my boss over for dinner. "That's how you get noticed, Gerald!" I tell her that I don't think the guy eats and she says nonsense everybody eats and I say no I don't think he can actually take his mask off and she tells me to grow a pair and ask him and I tell her screw you you Twe'lekian whore.
 
Some shit never changes.
 
So I've got four more years of this hitch. Four more years of wearing a white suit that sets my crotch on fire and leaves me smelling like a Dagobah swamp. Four more years of trying to avoid my psycho boss while working as a prison guard on an all-male space station (and I don't care what anyone says about those Bothan guys, it is not the same thing.) Four more years of being an Imperial fucking Stormtrooper. My mother's beaming and I'm just trying to not get the Force choked out of me. But what the hell. At least I'm safe. I mean, this station is built like the business end of a Hutt digestive system. We already took out an entire planet. Just for kicks. Now we're going to pick off the Rebel Alliance once and for all. Should be fun. It's not like I'll see any action; but at least it'll give me something to
write
my mother
about.

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