One particularly dry evening, Momaw Nadon strolls into the Mos Eisley Cantina and stands next to the bar. “Three shots of Corellian whiskey, please,” he warbles in stereo.
Ackmena, the bartender, looks at him suspiciously. “One after another?”
“Nope,” responds Momaw, “all at once, if you could.”
Shrugging her shoulders, she takes out three shotglasses, fills them each to the brim, and places them before him. The thirsty Ithorian quickly downs the first glass, then the second, then the third.
“You know,” says the curious Ackmena, “that’s pretty strong stuff. Why not savor it and drink ‘em one at a time?”
“It’s to remind me of home,” responds Momaw. “Back on Ithor, my two brothers and I would go drinking all the time. But now, the three of us are scattered about the galaxy. So we made a pact: every night, no matter where we were, we’d each take three shots all at once, as if we were all drinking together once again.”
“Awwww, that’s sweet,” says Ackmena, “you come back here any time you want.”
And that’s exactly what Momaw Nadon did. Every night he’d return to the Cantina, where he would drink three separate shots of Corellian whiskey.
This ritual continues for months, until one evening. As usual, Momaw walks to his regular place at the bar, and Ackmena sets three full shotglasses before him. Then, slowly, Momaw pushes one of the glasses back towards her. “Not tonight, Ackmena. Just two glasses tonight, and just two from now on.”
As he slurps down both drinks, the rest of the Cantina patrons grow silent. Everyone feels the same terrible sense of loss. Finally, Ackmena summons up the courage to say something.
“Momaw,” she stammers, “I’m so sorry. Which of your brothers passed away?”
The Ithorian’s hammerhead eyes widen with surprise. “What? My brothers aren’t dead!”
“But — you wanted two glasses, instead of three?”
“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” says Momaw, “I just gave up drinking!”