It takes a long time for a lightsaber to feel heavy in your hand.  So long that you cannot even be sure if you have been training nonstop for a matter of hours or a matter of weeks.  Either could have been the case for our young Padawan, under the tutelage of a master the likes of Treystokes Pupettis.

The small boy listened closely.  He knew that to do otherwise was to invite misery, and that path was simply not an option.

"You have been told too many times that your saber is an extension of yourself.  Bullshit.  It's just a sword.  You are the weapon.  Remember that.  Now try to kill me this time."

It sounded like Sith rhetoric, but his master was no Sith.  The padawan knew that the man before him had fought hundreds of Sith and walked away without so much as a mechanical pinky finger to show for it.  No, Treystokes' wisdom was merely correct.  Morality had nothing to do with it.

The diminutive figure struck out, allowing the Force to guide his attack.  It was a good attack- a feint to the knees, a guided toss of the saber into his off hand spun into a backhanded slice to his master's belly.  Pupettis watched it come, taking a perfectly timed, perfectly timed breath to pull his entrails out from the way of the burning green blade, then swung his own saber down to knock his student's weapon more forcefully along its followthrough.  The padawan stumbled off his low center of gravity.

"You're holding your saber too tightly.  Don't do that.  That's your first lesson."

The Padawan immediately adjusted his grip, used his momentum to roll past the taller man's legs, and swung viciously at the tendons behind his ankle.  He wasn't quick enough.  Next thing he knew, his saber was skidding across the floor.

"Don't hold it like a fairy either."

"No, Master.  I'll remem-"

He could not finish.  Treystokes was launching an attack, his blade flashing out like a many-tentacled creature as his small student did his best to avoid certain death.

"You are the weapon!  Defend yourself.  You don't need a lightsaber in your hand to be murdered!  You don't need one to end a fight, either!  Lesson three!"

The small Padawan was barely in control of himself.  He put his faith in the Force, and flew, flipped, rolled, and spun until he was nearly a blur, knowing that a moment's hesitation could cost him more than a flesh wound.  Through pained lungs he managed to speak while maintaining his defenses.

"I am not afraid."

Barely considering his movements as he attacked, a small smile crossed the wise master's face.  "You should be.  You cannot dodge me forever.  Find a way."

Spying his saber, the Padawan mustered all he had and yanked it across the room towards himself.  Futility!  It was shorn in half before it was ever in arms reach.  Desperation took hold.  He could not keep flying much longer.  But he was the weapon.  He knew that the end to the fight lay dormant inside of him.

And then it came.

Treystokes eyes burned under the pressure.  The Padawan was using the Force to squeeze them from the inside!  Anguish rang through every moment of his shout of pain.  The smaller one summoned his will and in his moment's advantage, pulled the very blade from his master's palm, immediately swinging it to bear on his throat.

Pupettis froze, his eyes leaking tears but still locked on his student.

"Well done.  You used the second and third lessons to your advantage."

"Thank you, master.  Am I ready?"

"Not quite.  There is one more thing to know."

With that, Treystokes' fist flew out and struck his student a mighty blow betwixt the eyes, flinging him across the room.  He caught his saber as it fell, and strode over to stand over his charge.

"The bad guys know those lessons too."

The padawan looked up at the towering figure.  Everything was fuzzy.  "Your advice, forever remember it I shall."

As the young, green skinned student entered his ship to go maintain order in the galaxy on his own, Trey watched, muttering under his breath.

"I think I knocked that little fucker retarded..."

One day in his youth, Trey decided to become a space pirate. He created modern aeronautics over a sandwich and a cigarette, and filled his craft with books and weapons.

Nine hours later he accidentally created a government instead.

Is the idea that the RMN on that handwritten note is Richard Milhouse Nixon, Jeffrey?

Well, I did miss it the first time around. Probably would've caught it sooner if the note read something like, "...and it scares the hell outta me...because I'm pretty sure the Jews and hippies are behind it."

Do I get extra points for guessing that the "John" he's talking to is John McNamara?