Every time he needed to get a job done, something or someone always fell through. At least lately it's been this way, not to mention slow in his network of merchants. Its no secret that hanging around Kuzbar's drinking Nikta isn't going to make things move. But Radda needed to meet with Karthata to gain access to the cargo bay, and Karthata doesn't believe in holo-projectors even though he owns one- and apparently punctuality too, which means Radda could be in this cantina for a whole other hour, which means he's going to drink, which means he could definitely be passed out if Karthata ever gets here. So he waits, orders another drink and swivels around on his stool sitting anxiously at the bar counting each drink on the wall for no apparent reason. 

Not too long after his eighth drink, Radda decides it best to leave now while he can still walk. He pays his tab and leaves Kuzbar's buzzed, and angry. Then he thinks of something, he goes back in and asks the bartender to relay a message to any Trandoshan named Karthata who might come in. Message reads: "Where the hell were you?! contact me as soon as you get this. Do not waste my time. -Radda."

The city surged around his boozy head with electric fury, occasionally stepping straight into puddles of sick watery mess steeped well with dirt, acids, and probably vomit. It wasn't like him to drink so much at one time. Yes he was considered an alcoholic, but he thought more of a classy alcoholic. He'd much rather stick to his flask, he'd had it since before he started bounty hunting, and it's seen double the use ever after. The thing was made of silver and gleamed smartly in the sunlight, ornate engravings could be seen in the light too. But what made this flask unique was a crater just off center, scarred with black lines all around it, which came from a blaster bolt just three years ago. It was a close scrape, and Radda would count himself lucky to have escaped with his life that day. A lucky flask indeed. It remained in his left breast pocket always unless in use. His hand, dirty and shaking reaches up absentmindedly to his flask in pocket- then his left hand grabs his right wrist and forces it down. "[i]What am I doing?![/i] he thinks in utter upset. Right foot, left foot, right foot- he staggers down the streets in disarray with his right hand resting expectantly somewhere in the middle of his chest. 

Radda soon decides he needs to eat something and rid Karthata's inept ways from his mind, then hail down a airspeeder for the rest of the way home. He comes up to the counter of a street stall stationed in one of the busier spots of town. blue and pink neon floods into the muddy streets, creating a color for the dank air you breathe all over this dreary planet. It does help to be eating the fine red noodles and drinking the broth of a fresh prepared meal. Some of Radda's anxiety fades and his head stops swimming, leaving a greater loathing for Karthata- bringing him so close to cutting him out of all future business he nearly chokes on his food at the thought of not receiving his sub-repeating blasters.  At Radda's sudden lurch into his bowel, the cook- a Quarren dressed in tattered cloth, wipes up the counter near Radda then addresses him in basic

"I hope you don't mind me saying sir, but you don't strike me as the drinking type, but then again Nar Shadda's full of drunks of all sorts so really what do I know...?" The Quarren trails off into some queer string of verbs as he goes back to wiping.

"Yeah...?!" Radda spits. "You're right, what do you know?"

"I know your food is 16 creds." The Quarren says with an open hand. "Let's have it, before you pass out would be best."

To that Radda delivers the creds and drinks down the broth complete with a loud "slurp!" then slides off the stool to compose himself before getting an airspeeder to his office. The whole day Radda had been eating himself up inside for being so foolish, drinking like he was, it showed great disregard for the many dangers a person like himself could be facing at any one time on Nar Shadda- or anywhere. His eyes should always be on the back of his head and on his trigger. Trouble had followed him throughout the outer rim, and it will follow again. How much was he going to risk? He's known as the hunter, not the hunted... but accidents do happen.

The cold durasteel walls of the office shined in the many lights coming in from the gesticulating greater metropolis through the window. Once closing the door to block the world from his special place of business, he feels a strong sense of power wash over him as he comes over and stands at his coffee machine pulling a cup from it, sipping  and sobering himself. He thinks in silence in near dark, seeing the face of Karthata, imagining a laser bolt passing between his eyes. "[i]What's the difference, Trandoshan's all look the same.[/i]"

Radda drinks down his coffee and boots up his CPU's in hopes that he can access Nar Shadda's central cargo bay database so he can find out if his shipment even made it at all.

Radda stayed at work well into the early morning...