Choose Life. Choose a Master. Choose a
Lightsaber. Choose a Clone Army. Choose a fucking big holo-projector,
choose sonic showers, land-speeders, and electrical R2-D2
openers. Choose good health, low midichlorians, and blaster
insurance. Choose fixed interest moisture farm repayments. Choose a
starter smuggling ship. Choose your Jedi. Choose robes and matching
sandals. Choose a three-piece body armor on hire purchase in a range
of fucking alloys. Choose sitting on that Bantha-hide chair and
watching mind-numbing, chain choaking slave girls, stuffing fucking
slimy worms into your mouth. Choose rotting away in the belly of the
Sarlack, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an
embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up aprentices you spawned to kill
all your breathren and take over the galaxy.
Choose your future.