“The Death Star, really? Hell,” Captain Hiller said, handing each person in the ka-tet a cigar, “I’ve done crazier things. Remember now, we don’t light ‘em ‘till the fat lady sings.”

They studied him bemusedly.

“You know, the opera, fat lady, sings at the end. Forget it, let’s go.”

Iceman and Maverick were still enjoying their pissing contest, as the others boarded the Millennium Falcon, a course set for the Death Star.

“Um, Buffy did you just put a bra on?” Scott asked, his teenage voice squeaking violently.

“No, I didn…” her voice trailed off as she looked down at her chest and back up. “What the… Jesus?”

Jesus’ cheeks turned crimson, as he looked down sheepishly. “Sorry, I thought you might need a little support. And, to be honest, I thought it might make Yoda stop staring at you with his mouth open like that.”

Yoda giggled. “Jiggle, jiggle, makes me giggle.”

“Yoda, I wouldn’t have resurrected you if I’d known you were such a little horn ball,” Jesus said.

“The alcohol speaking, it is.”