Watto flutters up to the bar at the Mos Eisley Cantina. “Oooh, this is bad,” he says, to noone in particular.
“What’s bad?” asks the nearby bartender.
“I’m supposed to pay Jabba the Hutt 5,000 credits. But half of that is missing!”
“So? Hutts never expect the full amount. Just give him half!”
“That’s the half that’s missing,” sighs Watto.
Watto’s in trouble. He purchased a huge lot of rolo-droids — 4,000 in all — and nobody was buying.
“This will ruin me,” laments Watto to his young slave Anakin, “those little droids cost me a fortune, and they’re taking up half my junkyard! How-a am I ever supposed to turn a profit now?”
Just then, a well-dressed Twi’lek strides into the shop. “Excuse me,” he booms, “I represent Ogramit Securities, and I was told by a rival merchant that you might have some R-PK rolo-droids available.”
Watto flutters to the door. “Why-a, yes! Yes, of course I do! How-a many do you need?”
“Several thousand, at least.”
Watto stares back at Anakin, who’s equally amazed.
“I have just what you need! The boy will get them for you!”
“Wonderful,” chortles the Twi’lek businessman, “but I will not be taking them back with me. For an order this large, I must confirm it with my home office on Ryloth. Afterwards, if they approve, you can ship all the droids directly to there.”
He hands Watto a small disc. “All the information you require is on here. If there is a problem, I will send a message with a protocol droid. But if you don’t hear from me in one week’s time, assume the deal is on and send the droids!” With that, he slaps Watto’s hand and departs.
The next week is the longest of Watto’s life. Each day, he and Anakin do nothing but stare at the entrance to the shop. Day one passed, and no protocol droid showed up. Day two, no droid. Same for days three, four, five, six. By closing time on day seven, Watto is ecstatic — until a silver-white droid suddenly appears in his doorway.
“I have a priority message for the proprietor of this establishment.”
Watto slumps to the ground, waving a hand at Anakin. “You get it, boy.”
Anakin sprints to the droid and take a small envelope out of its hands. He opens it up, takes a glance — then suddenly perks up! “Watto, great news! Your sister died!”
Watto is sitting in his shop on Tatooine when, much to his surprise, an Imperial sandtrooper walks in.
“What-a can I do for you,” asks Watto, fluttering into action.
“I need a new transport,” replies the sandtrooper, “one suited to this harsh desert terrain.”
“I got-a just what you need,” says Watto, “come on-a back, let me show you.”
The sandtrooper follows Watto into his junkyard where, sitting under an awning, is the oldest dewback he’s ever seen. It breathes heavily, its scales are falling off, and several flies are buzzing around its head.
“That?” asks the sandtrooper, “That is a transport?”
“Absolutely! This is my best dewback,” exclaims Watto. “I mean, sure, maybe he no look-a so good, but he’s a good dewback!”
“Well…” says the sandtrooper, “nobody else has one for sale, so I guess I’ll take it. Bill it to the local garrison.”
“Wonderful,” says Watto, “I’ll-a do so. Enjoy your dewback!”
Warily, the sandtrooper leads the beast out of the junkyard and hops on its back. The dewback strides twenty feet before crashing right into another storefront.
The sandtrooper stumbles to his feet and walks straight back into Watto’s shop. “Hey you,” he shouts, “what kind of animal did you sell me? It ran straight into a wall! Why didn’t you tell me that dewback was blind?”
“What do ya mean, it’s just like I said,” Watto responds, “I told you — he no look-a so good, but he’s a good dewback!”
Watto, long since bankrupt, is depressed. The Boonta Eve Classic is coming to town, and he doesn’t have a ticket.
But the morning before the big race, Watto’s at the market when he spots a moisture farmer putting up a sign… a sign which reads: One Boonta Eve Ticket — Will Sell At Cost. Watto is beyond thrilled. “I will buy that ticket,” he yells, as he hurriedly flaps his way over to the farmer.
“Well, that was easy,” replies the dusty human. “How about this: just meet me at the arena tomorrow, and we’ll find our seats together.”
“You got it,” shouts Watto, and they slap their hands together to seal the deal.
The next day, Watto arrives at the Mos Espa Grand Arena — and sure enough, just as promised, the moisture farmer is there waiting. Watto hands over the cash, and they head into the stands together.
As they walk through the aisles, Watto can’t believe his eyes. Their seats are in the very first row, right at the starting grid. “Unbelievable,” Watto blurts out, “I used to own a box in this arena, and I didn’t have this kind of view! How did you get these tickets?”
“Well,” sighs the farmer, “truth is, I bought your seat for my wife. I wanted to take her to the Boonta Eve Classic for our anniversary… until, unfortunately, she got captured and killed by a party of Tusken Raiders. But I decided that life had to go on, and that I would go to the race even without her.”
Watto nods… but still doesn’t understand. “But these are amazing seats,” says the blue Toydarian, “surely you must have a friend of relative who would have gladly come with you!”
“Oh,” replies the farmer, “they’re all at the funeral.”
There once was a shopkeep named Watto
And “I’ll take that bet” was his motto
For wagers he’d crave
Even lost his fave slave
Good thing Tatooine had no lotto!