Author's Notes: Well, I finished off this brutal semester and have been celebrating for a week. After enjoying not having schoolwork for a while, I had an idea at on a weeknight at about 1:00 am. I then composed this affront on the senses. It's quite idiotic. I haven't written anything for a while though, and I think that this may actually have one funny part in it. Perhaps. Anyway, I'm posting it because it's there.

Another note, there are a few Seinfeldian references in here, like my other parodies, but they really are not very prevalent.

The No True Sith Fallacy

"We gotta get the hell out of here," said the Exile.

"But we just got here," returned Atton.

"I know," came the answer, "that's why we gotta get the hell out of here."

The two men halted in the middle of the grimy alleyway and looked around. Truly this was the most dismal and depressing conglomeration of slime ever slapped together under the pretense of a planet.

"I'm beginning to think that travel agent lied to me," said the Exile.

Atton was horrified, said, "A travel agent tried to get you come to Nar Shaddaa? And you listened?!"


There was a brief pause as he considered his words.

He then said, "I'm going back to the ship."

"Wait!" called a feeble voice from behind. The voice was so feeble and pleading that it could only belong to a peasant—deliberately placed there by game developers to invoke a sense of pity within the Exile. "Please! I need five credits! Right now!"

"Sure," said the Exile, not thinking twice. "Now, let's go."

Hold on, said an irritatingly persistent voice from inside his head, you are committing a very grim and heinous deed.

"God damn it!" screamed the Exile. He was very familiar with this voice. It belonged to the witch-y, old hag stowaway that they had foolishly allowed on board their decrepit vessel. And now she insisted on speaking to him through some kind of Force Bond whenever he even thought about breathing. "How is giving that poor, starving man money an evil deed?"

Have you never stopped to consider the consequences of your actions? That no good deed will ever go unpunished? That perhaps every small good thing you do will bring about untold consequences throughout the galaxy?

The Exile was then presented with a short cutscene in which the poor man was jogging happily through the grungy streets of Nar Shaddaa, filled with hope, happiness, and life because he could eat that day. No sooner had he rounded a corner, however, than did a thug punch him in the arm and then take his money away. He then sighed deeply and went into a fetal position.

"So," began the Exile, "let me get this straight. Giving that man money was an evil act because he went skipping away gleefully and someone mugged him?"

Correct, my student.

"Shut the hell up; I'm not your student. I never asked to be. I never wanted to be. And I never will be. How do I even know giving five credits had any affect on this situation? Maybe that man owed money to the thug, or maybe the thug was always going to beat him up and I had nothing to do with it. Either way, you old witch, you speak to me telepathically again and I'm going to skin you alive and then crucify you upside down."

Dark Side Points Gained flashed the outline of sign in front of him.

"Oh hell," said the Exile to a petrified Atton (who had no idea what was going on, or why the Exile was yelling at thin air), "let's get out of here."

Atton nodded meekly and silently. The group then retreated back to the Hawk.


"We've been waiting for you, Exile," said a group of monotone, flat voices in unison as he stepped back onto the Ebon Hawk.

"Hello, cardboard cutouts," he replied.

Atton looked at them warily before asking, "I forget…but why do we have these cardboard cutouts with speakers inserted in their mouths on the ship?"

"They're game characters!" said the Exile, "I have no control over them. We have to keep them. To be honest, I prefer them to Kreia. She's a gigantic douche."

Atton walked over to the cardboard cutout that had a veil over its face. He waved in front of it and then said, "This one's broken."

He tapped it on the head and it said, "My life for yours."

"That's all it says," said Atton.

"Yep," replied the Exile. "The box said she came with up to twenty-five action phrases, but so far that's the only one she says."

He poked her in the eye.

"My life for yours."

He flicked the top of the cardboard.

"My life for yours."

"Hey Visas-board," began the Exile, "I love you."

Suddenly the cardboard cutout turned a vibrant red color and then exclaimed through the mechanical box speaker on the back of its head, "Yes! Let's go to the cargo hold! Do me like you fantasized doing Bastila Shan!"

The Exile leapt backwards several feet in shock. He gasped, "How…how did you she know about that?!"

Atton smirked with amusement and asked, "So—you fantasized about sleeping with Bastila?"

The Exile stuttered, and then defended himself, saying, "Well…yeah. Come on, man. Every Jedi has a fantasy where he nails her."

"Sure," said Atton. "I'm going to the navicomputer; see if we can't find another planet to go to."

The Exile looked over the three cardboard cutouts. Visas-board was freaking weird, he decided. The handmaiden-board was very bland and uninspiring, and the Bao-Dur-board, he got the feeling, was somehow supposed to be this boring. He sure spoke like it.

Atton and T3 were gone, so that left him alone. At least…alone until the abominable witch arrived.

"Hello there, Exile," said Kreia.

"You know," began the Exile, "I know you're a Sith Lord. It's obvious. What with all your scheming, plotting, and broken eyes."

"But there's nothing you can do about it now," she replied. "The game won't let you!"

He held up his middle finger to her, said, "That's how I feel about you and your manipulations."

"Well," she began, "you're crude today, aren't you?"

"Sorry," replied the Exile, "but it's not my fault. The writers for this game only gave me a bunch of angsty, teenager responses to choose from. I could either flip the bird or give you a hug—and, no offence, I'm not touching you."

"I don't blame you—I am, after all, rotting from within."

"Glad we're on the same page."

After that, Atton re-entered the briefing room.

"Sorry, I've got bad news," he said.

"What?" asked the Exile, "for me or for her?"

"For you."

"For who?"


"Me?" asked Kreia.

"No, him! The Exile!"

"Oh," she said, then asked, "Why do we all call you the Exile? Don't you have a name?"

"I do—it's Wilhelm Claude von Trouffenstein."

The three stared at each other for a moment before Atton began again, saying, "Exile—I have bad news."


"Come out front and I'll show you."


"I did not even think this was possible," said the Exile.

In front of them, the two men beheld an incredible spectacle—unequalled in the millennia long history of the Republic. This feat had never before been attempted, much less accomplished. They were completely awestruck—so much so that they did not even know whether to be upset or simply impressed.

Someone had double-parked them.

Right on top of the Ebon Hawk sat another ship of equal size. Right. On. Top.

"I'm not even angry," said Atton, "whoever did this is the greatest pilot the universe has ever known."

"You may not be angry," said the Exile, "but I am. Now we're stuck here until this person leaves!"

Atton just stared in admiration.

"We are stuck on freaking Nar Shaddaa now!" he kicked the ground and then cursed loudly. "I wanted to get the hell out of here!" He bit his lip, said, "This is how dictators are born. I'll bet you Nihilus double-parks all the time. If I ever become Chancellor, I'm going to impose the death penalty on anyone who double-parks!"

"I…" began Atton, "have so much to learn…"

"I'm going back inside," said the Exile, "when this person comes back—I'm killing him."

Dark Side Points Gained.

"Damn it!" he yelled, "I was a paragon before we came to this God-forsaken cesspit!"

"See ya," said Atton, "I'm going to go pick up the Hawk's new ID Signature while we're stuck here. Later dude."


"Bao-Dur-board," said the Exile, "I'm going to turn you into a Jedi."

"I have been waiting for this moment all my life," said Bao-Dur-board.

"What the hell?" asked the Exile, "now you say that? You've been listening to the Silversun Pickups too much again. I'm telling you, they've only got that one song—and it's not even that good."

"Forgive me, General."

"Now, close your eyes and feel the Force," said the Exile.

"But I have no eyes, General, I am but a mere marionette in this cruel world."

The Exile gritted his teeth, said, "Okay—then just feel the Force."

"Okay," said Bao-Dur-board, "now what?"

"Now you're a Jedi."

"I…I am?!"


Suddenly, the cardboard cutout figure of Bao-Dur-board was beginning to fill out. It twisted and fluctuated wildly, just like the T-1000 at the end of Terminator 2—one of the Exile's favorite action movies. Bao-Dur-board then sprung to life; full, fleshy, real life.

"I'm a real boy!" said Bao-Dur.

"You are, and now you can do whatever you want."

"Thank you, General."

"No problem."

"What about the others?"

The Exile turned at looked at Handmaiden-board and Visas-board. He then said, "Uh…they're fine the way they are."


"Hi," said Atton to a blind Sullistan who was working behind a desk in a shop nearby the Ebon Hawk. "I'm here to pick up the new ID Signature for my ship. My name is Rand. Atton Rand."

"Sure, sign here," said the Sullistan.

"All right." Atton then looked at the sheet he was signing, at the top, it read "NEW SIGNATURE: ASSMAN."

"Assman?" asked Atton, "oh no, these don't belong to me. I'm not the Assman. I think there's been a mistake."

The Sullistan grabbed the clipboard and then said, "Rand? No, there's no mistake. You are the Assman."

"Look, I am not the Assman!"

"Well, as far as the Republic Federation is concerned—you are."


"You stupid, stupid man," said Kreia. "I don't even know why I took you on as my student. You are an unmitigated idiot."

"Then why are you always hounding me around the galaxy?" asked the Exile.

"Because…I hate the Force."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"And…I love you."


Atton was confused. He heard the most unrestrained flow of expletives ever strung together by a single mouth blast out from the Ebon Hawk. He had to admit, even he had never heard some of those words before. He was confused, perplexed, and a little bit respectful of who could create such an unholy chain of cursing.

He simply smirked to himself and then mounted the Hawk's new plates on the back bumper. They read: ASSMAN.


The scene was the Hawk's kitchen.

"Kreia," began the Exile, "this is it. I am not going to let you treat me like such a stupid idiot anymore. I know you're evil. I know you're manipulating me—or at least trying to. And I know that you are the final boss for this game. The charade is over."

"Very well, my student."

"I am not your student!"

"Very well, student," she replied. "Allow me to tap the potential of my wondrous wellspring of words of wisdom—see if you can keep up."

"Your alliteration will not foil me!"

"You are such a ridiculously retarded representation of all righteous Randian reptiles, you can not even begin to comprehend what I am saying."

The Exile was in awe. He said, "You're right…I can't."

"Then I am victorious."

"No!" said the Exile, "I am going to get you to say something coherent!"

"Then allow me to reveal the game's final revelation to you—it is a major plot twist!"

"I thought—"

"No talking! This is an important moment."

The Exile quieted down.

"Do you know of the midichlorians?"

"Unfortunately," said the Exile, "Star Wars was seriously ruined for me once I heard that word. I mean honestly—Force cells? Way to destroy the mystique—George."

"This is true," said Kreia, "but it is not the whole story. Were you aware…that George Lucas mistakenly put the word midichlorian in the script? Liam Neeson was never supposed to say it, but George, unfortunately, is not much of a speller."

"What happened?" asked the Exile.

"I will tell you…the word midichlorian…was originally supposed to be mitochondrion."

The Exile thought about this for a moment, then said, "That makes perfect sense, actually."

"That it does. The mitochondrion is the power plant of the cell. The Force was supposed to be described as influencing the universe through it on a basic level, but also influencing us as a whole. It was external. But George misspelled it and we ended up with midichlorians—a sorry excuse for third rate sci-fi magic."

"So—if the Force is in our mitochondria, then that means…the Force is in our cells?"

"That is correct."

"Well," mused the Exile, "there's a naturalistic worldview for you."

"You are right," said Kreia, "the Force doesn't exist."

"I thought you hated it?"

"I do."

"How can you hate something that doesn't exist?"

"I get by."

"How does the Force being in our mitochondria make it nonexistent?" asked the Exile.

"Do not question me!"


Kreia just growled at him. She reveled in her victory, seemingly soaking in the sheer stupidity of the conversation that was going on.

"So," asked the Exile, "if the Force is in our cells—and therefore…doesn't exist—then how did the universe come into being? Where's the causation?"

"Causation?" asked Kreia, "where'd an idiot like you learn a big, philosophical word like that?"

"From Thomas Aquinas," answered the Exile.

"I will now come down from my high intellectual horse and enlighten you, because I am so superior. I also think it's adorable the way you are trying to argue with me."

The Exile cursed under his breath.

"The Force doesn't exist," said Kreia.

"That is stupid," said the Exile, "if the Force is within the universe, then it came into existence with the universe. If it did, then it can't have created the universe, because something cannot cause itself—that's impossible. So then something else must be responsible."

"Are you talking about God?" asked Kreia.

"Maybe," said the Exile.

"Do you believe in God?"

"I don't know," he answered, "do you?"

"No, I don't," she said.

"Then I do."

"No!" she exclaimed, "I hate him!"

"I thought you hated the Force?"

"I hate everything! Including you, you spasmodically spineless, soul-sucking serpent of Satan!"

"But I…"


"I thought you said you love me…?"


The Exile was genuinely terrified at this conversation. And to top it off, he had not arrived at any sort of game revelation aside from the fact that Kreia did not believe in God or the Force, and yet hated both of them.

"All right, Richard Dawkins," began the Exile, "you still haven't given me a concrete game revelation aside from the fact that you are batshit insane. But I knew that already. Tell me something I don't know."

"How about this," said Kreia, "Revan went off into the Unknown Regions."

"I knew that already."

"He left Bastila—the woman he loved—behind."

"Knew that too."

"He went to fight a new threat—a greater threat than any we have ever yet known."

"Okay, that is unexpected. But still, that's rather clichéd," he answered. "Who did he go to fight?"

At that moment, Atton strolled into the kitchen with his robe on. He said, "You two still going at it? Man, you've been arguing for hours."

Kreia ignored him, said, "Revan went to confront the TRUE Sith!"

Atton listened while pouring himself a glass of milk.

"The True Sith?" asked the Exile, "what kind of idiotic name is that?"

"Almost as idiotic as yours," she retorted, "but they are the True Sith. They are evil, and not like Revan's imitations…they are true!"

"That's a fallacy," Atton said simply.

Kreia spun on her heels and roared, "How dare you defy me, you demonstrably dimwitted demon from Dantooine!"

"It's a logical fallacy, that's all I'm saying," he responded. "Look—read up on it. It's the No True Scotsman Fallacy. Antony Flew. 1975. Book called Thinking About Thinking. You can't self-seal truth like that. It's a fallacy of equivocation and, on top of that, it's also question begging. I mean, if these are the true Sith, then who are the false Sith? Why are they false? Why are these true? Is it the concept of the Sith that they are straying from? See? You clearly need to brush up on your contemporary philosophers."

"But…but…but," stuttered Kreia.

Atton downed his milk and then left, saying, "See ya."

Kreia's mind broke, and her pale eyes started twitching. She stood still, saying and doing nothing. She only mumbled to herself quietly.


Outside, several hours later, Atton and the Exile were standing in front of the Ebon Hawk.

"I wanted to thank you," said the Exile.

"What for?"

"You broke Kreia. Now she'll never talk again. You don't know what that means to me."

"Just doing my job," said the pilot.

"Where did you learn this?" asked the Exile.

"Before now."

"I asked where, not when."

"Oh, school."

"Didn't you fight in the war before this?"

"Nah," said Atton. "Actually, there's a little story about that. My name is actually Jaq Rand. I went to Theological Seminary before this. I'm actually an ordained minister and author of several popular works on philosophy."

The Exile was stunned completely. He said, "Wow, I had no idea."

"That's because you are a stupid, stupid man."

"Oh God…no…"

"I'm just kidding, man, lighten up."

They continued to wait outside, hoping that whoever double-parked them would finally deign to show up and leave so that they could take off. Hours passed, and the two went back to talking. Eventually, a voice interrupted them.

"You should get a coat," it said jovially, "you'll catch a cold out here."

The Exile spun his head around dramatically to see who spoke to him. He looked up to the ship on top of theirs and saw a waving figure descending into the beast.

"Look!" he shouted, "that was Darth Nihilus!"

"What?" asked Atton.

"I'm not kidding! Darth Nihilus was the one who double parked us!"

"Are you sure?"

"Damn sure!"

"Whatever," said Atton, "I don't believe you."

He then strolled inside the Hawk as the ship that had double-parked them took off. As it rose into the stratosphere, the Exile watched in awe. He thought to himself, as it vanished, I have got to get the hell off of this planet.


My that was stupid. I honestly don't even know why I posted this. Oh well. Heh.