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Darth Vader Watches Weight

by Redone

Note: For the Vader's medical problems challenge. Inspired by a fic and an essay by LL.
Rating: PG (violence)
Warning: lots of clichés
Disclaimer: Star Wars with its characters, locations and concepts is George Lucas's property. I make no wupiupis.
Archiving: just ask, and ye shall receive, nice html-formatted versions from me.
Thank you, Djuva, for your kind help!
And finallye, I do hope you enjoy it. J


Darth Vader Watches Weight
Drama in three acts

Dramatis personae:

DARTH VADER, Dark Lord of the Sith
Vader's personal AIDE
Vader's personal DIETICIAN
DIETICIAN HOPEFUL with a suicidal streak
Protocol DROID
Weight Watchers'® brisk meeting LEADER
An assortment of stormtroopers and other furniture



(Lord VADER's quarters on Coruscant. The room is empty, the only decoration being 2 stormtrooper sentinels at a doorway. VADER enters in long strides, the scrawny, greyish figure of his personal DIETICIAN scurrying after him with a bowl containing a pink substance. Vader's personal AIDE keeps wisely to the background.)

DIETICIAN: (in a whiney voice) "But, my Lord, you *have* to eat your prescribed portion, or you will be weakened and the Emperor will be most displeased!"

VADER: (growling) "I shall eat when I feel like eating. Right now I do not."

DIETICIAN: "I understand, my Lord, but it is the nature of your..." (His voice suddenly turns into choking gasp; he drops the bowl and falls face down in the pink substance that is now scattered all over the floor. An awful mess.)

VADER: (to his AIDE, who is suddenly somewhat jittery) "Have this mess cleaned up."

AIDE: "Yes, my Lord. At once, my Lord."

(VADER turns to leave.)

AIDE: (calling after the retreating Sith Lord) "My Lord, shall I --- shall I advertise for another---" (The door closes with a bang; AIDE, hesitantly) "---dietician?"


(Some time later. An office, AIDE is sitting behind a huge desk, examining papers; DIETICIAN HOPEFUL is sitting opposite him, fidgeting nervously; a protocol DROID standing helpfully by, turning its head from one to the other as they speak.)

AIDE: "Your qualifications are satisfactory, evaluation results good. In brief, you have been found acceptable for the position. Your duty will be to see to it that Lord Vader's nourishment is adequate, diversified and conducive to his Lordship's general state of health. Is that clear?"

DIETICIAN HOPEFUL: (gulps) "Lord Vader's?"

AIDE: "Yes. That was what the notice said, wasn't it? 'A very high ranking person in the Emperor's service.' Now how many persons do you think would qualify?"


AIDE: (snappily) "Will you take this post, or not?"

DIETICIAN HOPEFUL: (gulps again, coughs nervously) "Er... May I... May I have some time before I give you my answer?"

AIDE: (bored, rolls eyes, sighs.) "Of course." (DIETICIAN HOPEFUL exits)

AIDE: (to the protocol droid) "Delete him from the list. He won't come back."

DROID (brightly) "At once, sir. That would be the forty-fifth."


(Some time later. Vader's office. VADER sits between the maws of his open meditation chamber, a replica of the one aboard the Executor. The AIDE is giving a report.)

AIDE: "...the Kuat Shipyards have not been able to complete the construction dock for the Super class Destroyer on schedule, as the Ministry redirected 15% of the allotted funds for an exploratory mission to the Unknown Regions. The Shipyards have asked for an extension. Their application has been forwarded to the Ministry of Defence."

VADER: (nods) "Proceed."

AIDE: "The Eighth Fleet reports massive losses in the recent battles, five capital ships have been destroyed and three rendered unoperational. They have called for reinforcements--"

VADER: (interrupts him impatiently.) "Send Admiral Davos."

AIDE: "Very well, my Lord." (Scribbles furiously.) "Then there is the matter of your personal dietician. We have been unable to fill the vacancy, and the Emperor is upset. In fact, he has ordered you to... to go..." (with a small voice) "... to seek assistance from the Weight Watchers®."

VADER: (glares) "The what?"

AIDE: "Weight Watchers®, my Lord."

(VADER slowly rises to his formidable height; AIDE cowers. A long pause.)

VADER: "And that's the Emperor's orders."

AIDE: "Yes, my Lord." (Shuffles the papers he is holding, finds the introductory bulletin of the Weight Watchers® and hands it over; Vader flips it through quickly. The AIDE continues hurriedly) "I procured a list of their groups and meeting times. In fact, it seems there is a group meeting in the Imperial Palace on Tuesday afternoons."

VADER: "Indeed?"

AIDE: "Yes, my Lord. If I may say so, the location would be comfortable for you, and I've been informed the meetings are attended by some of the highest in the Imperial ranks. Sate Pestage is reportedly a frequent visitor there, and Ysanne Isard, and Lady Courteroy..."

VADER: (uneasily) "Isard?"

AIDE: "Yes, my Lord."

VADER: "Forget the Palace group. Show me the list."




(A bleak salle in a Coruscant school, scattered with chairs, a not very clean Writescreen where a smartass pupil has scribbled "Mara I luve you." A hand-written sign at the door says, "Weight Watchers® Coruscant". 20 OVERWEIGHT LADIES have queued up to be weighed, chattering among themselves about kilos, calories and eating. The brisk meeting LEADER is busy weighing, writing and calculating; a wide optimistic smile is plastered on her lips.

The double doors slam open, two stormtroopers enter to stand on both sides, and in waltzes VADER, followed by AIDE. They march straight to the LEADER; 20 OVERWEIGHT LADIES hastily make way for them, and then stand watching with huge eyes, continuing their constant hushed conversation among themselves)

20 OVERWIEGHT LADIES: "...Ooh, a gentleman! And so tall and straight too! Doesn't look like he'd need to lose a gram! Oh drool!"

LEADER: (her smile even wider than usual) "Oh, a newbie! Welcome, welcome. You've made the right choice, one that will surely change your whole life! Please fill in the datacard, then come here, we'll weigh you and you'll get your starting materials."

VADER (grunts angrily) "You'd better, Ma'am. I don't have all day." (AIDE grabs the card and begins to fill it in.)

AIDE: (stares at the card, aside) "Name, address, age... How am I supposed to fill it in? Oh dear, oh dear..." (To VADER, meekly) "Pray, my Lord, your age?"

VADER: "Leave it, it is immaterial."

AIDE: (aside) "Occupation... that would probably be Sith Lord... Company. What company? Empire? Oh dear, I'll be court-martialed for that... Height? Oh heck..." (Hands over the half finished datacard to the LEADER.)

LEADER: "You haven't filled it in completely."

AIDE: "The rest is state secret. This cannot be divulged."

(VADER is weighed without any further fuss.)

LEADER: "Hmm, let me see now... To attain the recommended weight you would have to lose at least 20 kilograms..."

VADER: "What do you mean lose? I'm here to *gain* weight!"

20 OVERWEIGHT LADIES: "Aah?! Did you hear that? He wants to *gain* weight..."

VADER: "Your programme provides for gaining weight, does it not?"

LEADER: (breaks into another brilliant smile) "Oh, certainly it does. In fact, Weight Watchers® offers more than eating healthy, it offers you a new way of life! You'll be surprised at the results you can achieve. We help you attain your goal, whatever it is. The perfectly balanced diet of Weight Watchers® weight loss... er... gain programme guarantees no later setbacks, improves mental abilities, contributes to harmonious relationships, enhances marital bliss and ensures redemption from any sin!" (Spreads her arms, as if expecting VADER to say "Wow!")

(VADER is unimpressed. LEADER shrivels slightly, then rallies herself and proceeds to explain the finesses of a perfect Weight Watching to VADER with her usual bright and happy smile. AIDE listens and memorises everything, because his life depends on VADER's success. Meanwhile:)

20 OVERWEIGHT LADIES: "... 20 kilos overweight, and he can afford to gain... Does that mean he gets to eat all the cakes and chocolates and ice creams and bacon? Then why the hell did he came here? To taunt us? And still needs *assistance* to *gain weight*? Life's just not fair! He looks kinda porky too... Not really my taste..."

(VADER grabs the merrily coloured booklets, turns and strides through the swarm of 20 OVERWEIGHT LADIES who scatter, to avoid being trampled. Just behind the door VADER thrusts the Points® calculator (you know the thing where you are supposed to mark the portions that you have eaten) into the AIDE's hand.)

AIDE: "What do you want me to do with it, my Lord?"

VADER: "Whatever, I don't care. You can mark the boxes to calculate the fleet deployments, if you wish."

AIDE: (resignedly) "As you wish, my Lord."


(A week later, same place, same persons. Evidently VADER has been successful, as his AIDE is fairly beaming when they turn to leave.)

20 OVERWEIGHT LADIES: "I visited my aunt, and I just couldn't resist... the cream cakes she makes! Of course, I regained all I had lost over the past 2 weeks... Don't fret, I gained 500 grams this week... I gained 700 grams..."

AIDE: (triumphantly) "My Lord gained *two kilograms*!"

(20 OVERWEIGHT LADIES stare daggers at them and hiss as they leave.)


(Two weeks later. Dining room in VADER's quarters. VADER pretends to eat, AIDE and protocol DROID are standing by.)

VADER: "... As soon as you get the report from Diin sector, I want it on my table."

AIDE: "Of course, my Lord."

VADER: (picks at something on his plate without much enthusiasm.) "What in the name of Coruscant moons *is* that?"

AIDE: "My Lord?"

DROID: "Nerf fillets in jelly and Shibbol onions in aubergine sauce, my Lord."

VADER: (gives an appalled look at the dull green substance on the other plate before him.) "This is disgusting! I will not eat *that*."

AIDE: "But my Lord! The programme! The Emperor wishes you to..."

VADER: "The Emperor will have to do without my services, if he proposes to feed me with *that*." (Slams the plate into the DROID's helpful hands, nearly knocking it over.) "Get it out of my sight!"

AIDE: (aside) "I don't know about marital bliss, but the relations have certainly not improved..."

DROID: "Then what would it be, my Lord?"

VADER: (tiredly) "I'm not hungry." (To the AIDE) "We've got work to do. Now, this Sullustan affair. What is the status of fleets in the sector?"

AIDE: (looks at the merrily coloured POINTS® calculator where some squares have been neatly blacked) "Third and Fifteenth are due to send squadrons for manoeuvres, Admiral Feith's A-squadron is scheduled for inspection next week...."


(Three weeks later. Weight Watchers'® meeting room. VADER stands on the scales, AIDE beside him. 20 OVERWEIGHT LADIES are beside themselves with curiosity, trying to peer over their shoulders or between their feet to see the number on the scales. The LEADER is busy with something, looking in another direction.)

AIDE: (silently) "2 kilograms gone, my Lord. This is not good."

(VADER makes a small noise that could be a curse.)

20 OVERWEIGHT LADIES: (who evidently have very sharp ears) "He lost 2 kilograms! 2 kilograms, just so! And to think what *we* have to suffer... And he just waltzes in, loses 2 kilograms and is still not content... That imperial bantha... Oh, he'll pay for that! He'll pay with his health! See how he's shaking....!"

VADER: (waves a hand over the scales, the numbers change.) "What do you mean gone? Exactly the same as last week."

LEADER: (turns her attention back to the weighing business, briskly) "So! How's this week been?"

(VADER glares at her, clenching and unclenching his fists.) "Just get it over with, Ma'am!"




(Four weeks later. VADER's quarters. Same decorations as before. VADER strides in, followed by AIDE)

AIDE: "It is time, my Lord."

VADER: "Time for what?"

AIDE: (nervously) "You know... er..."

VADER: "Ah. I forgot to mention. We are not going back there. Not today, not ever. The Emperor has a mission for me, and hopefully I'll be away from Coruscant the better part of a year."

AIDE: (checks his data unit.) "Excuse me, my Lord, but there must be a mistake! I'm sure there isn't a mission scheduled..."

VADER: (leaning toward him threateningly, pointing) "If *I say* there is a mission, then there is a mission!"

AIDE: "Very well, my Lord. If you just tell me, which sector we are heading, I'm sure I can check the local meeting times and locations for Weight Watchers®..."

VADER: "Out!!! And no, you are *not* going to do that."



DIETICIAN HOPEFUL: "...and so I decided to take the job. That is, if it is still available."

AIDE: (grinning evilly) "Oh, it is, it is, I assure you. We'd be most pleased to have you with us. Still, I feel I must warn you of the occupational risks... You know the circumstances under which ... er... the post became vacant?"

DIETICIAN HOPEFUL: (shakes his head). "No — and maybe I'd rather you'd not tell."

AIDE: (shrugs) "Suit yourself. The job's yours, and the risk's yours. Sign here, please... and here.... and here. Thank you. Report to Lord Vader's personal doctor and quartermaster, they will give you all details."

DIETICIAN HOPEFUL: "Thank you, sir." (They shake hands.)

AIDE: "Just out of curiosity — what made you reconsider?"

DIETICIAN HOPEFUL: (shrugs) "I guess I have that suicidal streak in me..."


(VADER's quarters aboard his flagship. VADER sits at the dining table, DIETICIAN HOPEFUL, now promoted to DIETICIAN, but definitely having the same suicidal streak, is standing by. AIDE stands at the background.)

VADER: (glares at the nondescript substance of nondescript colour on the plate before him) "Take it away. I won't eat that."

DIETICIAN: "Very well, my Lord." (Removes the plate and, as if by magic, produces from behind his back another plate, containing a substance of slightly different colour. "If you would try this, my Lord."

VADER: (rolls eyes) "You don't just give up, do you?"

DIETICIAN: (solemnly) "I cannot, my Lord. If I fail to take good care of you, I will face the Emperor's wrath. The Emperor is not as forgiving..."

VADER: (rolls eyes again) "I am *made* to suffer!"

DIETICIAN: "If you continue like that, my Lord, your daily intake of carbohydrates will be considerably below recommended level. How about this soufflé..." (Produces the said dessert from behind his back).

VADER: "No!" (Jumps up and strides out of the room, with his cape trailing behind him.)

DIETICIAN: (scampers after him) "But my Lord...."

(Both exit.)

AIDE: (falls into hysterics, alternately giggling and pulling his hair with desperation.)

The curtain falls.


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