A lone figured traversed by foot across the ocean, strutting like an inebriated messiah descending from On High. He held a ferret by the scruff of its neck in his left hand, and in his right hand he held a half-full bottle of rum. One step after another, Captain Marcus Gray walked on water.
The glittering waters of Velusia illumined the delirious pirate's careless features and his mismatched eyes fixed upon the horizon. The glimmer of metal.
"There it is, Griswald!" the man barked unnecessarily loudly to the ferret he held aloft. "Am I not omniscience ITSELF?"
Upon his next step, Marcus' bootheel caught something unexpectedly hard. He fell to his knees, dropping the rum and flinging the ferret. Crunch. It was sand. It was f*cking Tatooine.
After three days of hydration and nutrients with a minor spice den binge on the side, the thing that passed for Captain Marcus' sanity had returned. And so did The Plan. He didn't remember coming to Tatooine. The last memory he had, unusual though it might have been, was on Velusia. Playing cards. In a circus tent. In the middle of the ocean. But he had won something--if he could only remember what.
Regardless, every bird must one day leave the nest and so the time came that Marcus had to leave the brothel that had generously nursed him back to health after his stint of madness in the desert. On this particular night the pirate was gracing several Mos Eisley cantinas with his presence, all known for their space pilot clientele. The captain decided to begin his cantina crawl at The Turnt Jawa, mostly for the fact that they served free shots with their drinks before midnight.
"You, tender!" Marcus trilled and slapped the counter from atop his stool, "Bestow upon me a growler of your dankest brew and accompany it, if you please, with an equitable amount of liquor."
The pirate looked sideways at a twi'lek sitting next to him. "HA!"
One thing was for sure. This was his last night on Tatooine.