"Hey, pal. I was sitting there." A smelly Rodian said. The tavern smelled of vomit and alcohol, the two smells you would expect in an establishment such as this. "Move your ass before I have to move it for you."
"There's plenty other seats around here," Drake said calmly.
"I said move it!" The Rodian said. Two other Rodians appeared on both his flanks, apparently his buddies. He placed a hand on Drake's left shoulder.
"Bad idea," he said. "Get your hand off of me." He said, making his voice frosty.
"And what if I don't," the Rodian said, taking his chances. Drake took a sip, and put his ale down. Faster than a heartbeat, he shot his hand and gripped the Rodian's hand, violently bending it back until he heard a satisfying snap. Spinning around in his seat, he lashed out with his foot, catching one of the others in the gut. He pulled back his arm with the last Rodian and hit home, leaving a quarter-sized dent in his skull.
"Sorry for the mess," he told the barkeep, flipping him a large denominational coin. He stepped over the bodies and walked outside into the cool night air.
((OOC: Han Solo reference. If you don't get it, you suck.))
"They are minor criminals! Marginal outlaws! You are inept!" ~ Darth Vader