Welcome to the best bar and tavern in a galaxy far, far away. There’s a band of bald-headed creatures playing in the background, while in the left corner an ugly blue alien is holding a gun on what appears to be a good-looking man, and his hairy best friend.
You walk up to the bar to order a drink and walrus with elbows for a chin starts yelling at you. As he yells, the one-eyed man with frizzy hair sitting next to him starts interpreting for him.
“He doesn’t like you.” He says.
“I don’t like you.” He says.
You apologize again. The cyclops then says,
“He says your seven friends are out of order. They need to get in line if they want to make it out of Mos Eisley alive.”
You look at the people who came in the bar with you, and for some reason can’t remember all of their names. The cyclops pulls out a blaster, lowers his one eye, and says: