Star Wars: Tales from Jabba's Palace by Kevin J. Anderson

lizard-monkey grinned and made obnoxious faces at him.
How dare he
! Melvosh Bloor thought, the color rising to his cheeks.
I should have blown his head off when I had the chance. If that obscene little pimple can make the Hutt laugh, then surely I, with my university education, my knowledge, my vastly superior breeding ought to be able to do the same
.
    And then it came to him, a joke he had heard from Professor P’tan himself at a faculty meeting. Melvosh Bloor recalled that all the junior faculty had laughed loud and long, so it must be a good one.
    The academic cleared his throat, smiled amiably, and began: “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. How many Sarlaccs does it take to do in a Jedi?”
    Jabba stared at him. Too late, Melvosh Bloor remembered that junior faculty will laugh at any joke a senior professor tells.
    â€œI’ve heard it,” said Jabba. He twitched his tail overa control device he alone commanded and the floor beneath Melvosh Bloor’s feet vanished. The academic plunged into the pit beneath, cushions and all. The datapad went flying from his upflung hands to land with a clatter at Salacious Crumb’s feet. There was a horrendous, bone-chilling cacophony as Jabba’s favorite pet, the rancor, made the acquaintance of its newest playmate. “And I’ve heard
that
one before too,” the Hutt concluded.
    He turned a stern look on his court jester. “Well, Salacious Crumb,” Jabba remarked, “that was louder, but I don’t think it was funnier.”
    â€œEh! Academics.” The Kowakian shrugged. “Publish or perish, publish or perish,” he parroted. He stressed each word with a whack of Melvosh Bloor’s datapad against the floor.
    â€œPublish or …?” A slow, skin-prickling sound began to work its way out of the Hutt’s bulk until it broke from the Bloated One’s maw in a geyser of approving laughter. “Now
that’s
funnier!” Jabba decreed.
    Salacious Crumb screwed up his face into a look of all-encompassing contempt for his master’s idea of a punch line. He tossed the datapad into the rancor pit. The rancor, who had no need to fidget and absolutely no sense of humor, tossed it back.
    But of course the rancor already had tenure.

A Time to Mourn, a Time to Dance: Oola’s Tale
by Kathy Tyers

    O ola’s back throbbed from the roots of her lekku to the sandaled soles of her feet. She perched on the edge of Jabba’s dais, just as far from the Bloated One as her chain would allow. Foul smoke curled from his hookah. It hung acridly in the air, stinging her throat.
    She shook her head, and the chain rattled. She’d tested every link of it, hoping it had a weak spot. Itdidn’t. For two days, two endless rounds of Tatooine’s twin burning suns, she hadn’t seen daylight. And she guessed she had only thwarted the hideous Hutt’s slobbering advances because he enjoyed punishing her as much as he anticipated her eventual submission.
    They’d been careful, the Gamorreans who beat her this morning. She’d refused to dance closer to Jabba. Oola hunched down and tried to forget. Jabba’s flag-eared lizard-monkey had perched on her heel and cackled as the Gamorreans stretched her out and scientifically pummeled her. She’d hoped for bruises. They might make her repulsive to Jabba.
    Her sponsor and fellow Twi’lek, Bib Fortuna, had crouched close and wrinkled his knobby brow. He communicated with twitches and whisks of his thick, masculine lekku. “Learn quickly! You cost me a fortune. Two fortunes. You will please him—even if his only enjoyment is watching you die.”
    Oola had only two hopes left: to escape from this palace of death or, barring that, to die cleanly and well, and escape that way. Fortuna was the only person inside who spoke her language. The thought made her unbearably lonely. Master Fortuna sat at an alcove table, draping his lekku