Some time ago, I ran out of money and the influence of my Stormtrooper uniform became moot.
No influence = no freebies during my travels
No freebies = I actually have to pay for stuff
Pay for stuff = I need money
I need money = I need a job
Ick. So I sold out. I found this company that was willing to market me to a niche group of aliens around the galaxy known as "Collectors." They took joy in relegating us to nothing more than display items on a wall in their homes, offices, or museums.
I was sold to a guy in the Milky Way galaxy on a planet called Earth. This guy, who I will refer to as "Hairless Wampa," used to stick me on a cabinet in his office. Talk about a boring existence. He sits around on a computer all day long plunking keys. How do you take pride in that when you could run around in armor with a blaster vaporizing pitiful subcreatures with reckless abandon?
One day, one of his supposed coworkers says he should use me as a subject in these primitive digital representations of reality that they call "photographs." Hairless Wampa grabbed me from the cabinet and stuck me in a bag and now carries me everywhere subjecting me to horrific scenarios that I have no control over.
Why didn't Stormtroopers ever unionize to protect us from this humiliation?
Idiots.
Once I recover from the embarrassment, I may share some of these "photographs" with you.
*TK-421 Signing Off*
