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Emperor Palpatine sits in his office, feet on his desk, telling his how-I-whupped-Yoda’s-ass-in-the-Senate story (again) to a couple of cronies. The phone rings. It’s Darth Vader — calling collect. "Vader! How’s my favorite Sith?" Then, after listening for a few beats, the prune-faced politician slams a tiny plastic fist on his desk in rage. "Whaddya mean they blew up the Death Star?" He unleashes a flurry of V-chipped expletives. "That thing wasn’t even fully paid off yet! Do you (...)