[General Woundwort]

The courier drone, lately seen at the Won Ton Take-out Hut, returns to the bar at the FCB&G, and spits out a printout. Woundwort tears it from the droid's "mouth", reads it, and scowls.

"Well, Mr. Huxtable has returned to his 'establishment', and promptly ignored both our messages."

"I can only say I tried to be reasonable."

"SANCHO!!!!"

Sancho trots out of the kitchen, where he has been quite busy making mounds of Italian food to keep the "hired help" satisfied.

"Yessir?"

"Spread the word. The balloon's goin' up. This is now officially an all-out turf war."

Sancho hesitates.

"Your audio receptors not working? Send out the mobilization codes! NOW!"

"Yessir!"

Sancho puts an old-fashioned whistle to his mouth and blows a three-note pattern. From every corner and booth, pinstripe-suited thugs appear from nowhere, armed for bear. From the storage area of the Grill, a phalanx of Pinwheel combat droids (bought on remainder from Lucasfilm, and heavily refurbished) roll up and flex their weapon pods.

"RD, quit poking holes in the ceiling with your slugthrower, and suit up. We're going to war!"