NationStates Jolt Archive

"I DO NOT BELIEVE SO. IN WHICH GALAXY WOULD THAT BE?"

Stew raised an eyebrow, "Well... actually it's a book, called "The Wizard of Oz"... there's this Tin Woodsman that wants a heart, a Scarecrow that wants a brain, and a Lion that wants courage. I'd be more than willing to lend you my copy of the book."

Smiling at Yukiko, Stew asks, "May I call you Yukiko?"

Yukiko smiled and replied "off course you can" as her fresh beer arrived over.

She had seen rather strange things since starting her UN career and nowadays wasn't phased by anything.

"i can recommend the pizza" she also added helpfully "if you want something quick"

"The chicken ceasar wraps are good too." Stew took another sip of his Grog, "I'm finding that the UN is an... interesting place to be. Hehehe... I keep looking around for those little robotic bunnies."

"I haven't seen those yet but i'm sure they're round here somewhere" Yukiko replied after drinking some beer and beckoning Violet over asking for a vegeburger with mayo since she was feeling hungry.

"So whats your nation like?" she asked Stew

Smiles broadly at Yukiko, "Well, for starters, Steweystan is pretty green. Lots of forests (even more than 20 trees in them!), and fields. There are mostly villages, and small towns- with a few cities closer to the Capital. We have eight Provinces. The central Province- Cestus is pretty much entirely encircled by the Dendarii Mountains. They're quite beautiful to fly over, or travel through by train." Stew smiles at fond memories before continuing, "The Nadia Province is known for producing wines, while the Zarnath Province is known for it's agriculture and exotic flower production."

There's a light grumble as Stew's stomach speaks up. He looks sheepish and smiles, "Hehehe... Guess I should order something. Neville, could I have chicken ceasar wrap, please? Thank you." Turning back to Yukiko, he takes another sip of his Grog, "Is there anything in particular you're interested in knowing?"

"not particuarly but a nations environment also tells you a lot about its people" Yukiko replied.

"the Empire of Kirisubo is also a green nation with many mountains, valleys and forests. We have many cities but even they have forest parks in them so all our people can enjoy the gifts the land brings.

We also have good skiiing country in the far north as well as well as sun kissed beaches in the south during the summer time"

"That sounds quite lovely. We should talk sometime and arrange a mutual tour of countries."

Al-Satal stifled a gasp and dropped his pencil.

"Sulbein Keraiman... Forger of Souls..." he muttered to himself.

(snip)

The desert leader dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground in front of the Kriovalian golem, his glass of orange juice spilling onto the floor.

"Another true believer," Jevo said neutrally. "You should talk with Lord Serph about the Colossus, if you already know about him, that is."

Colossus, for all his experience, had not yet seen such a religious demonstration directed toward him, and his eyes flickered as he attempted to process events. It took almost seven entire seconds before he responded. "SULBEIN KERAIMAN...THOSE ARE NOT WORDS FROM THE ANCIENT LANGUAGE. BUT SOME ARE VERY SIMILAR. WOULD YOU LIKE TO DISCUSS THIS FURTHER? I COULD CREATE FOR YOU MORE ORANGE LIQUID."

Meanwhile, Jevo had turned toward Stew and Yukiko in a desperate attempt to avoid a discussion on comparative theology. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help overhear your conversation. Er...what was the subject again?"

Vladimir finally decided to order the pizza after finding out from Neville it had a large amount of bread to it...which he would need to soak up the vodka enough so he could hopefully walk. He knew that he wouldn't get sick. He had a very high tolerance as far as alcohol went.

When the pizza finally arrived he ate it, not necessarily impressed but much more sober and ordered a strong black coffee.

"Demitri's wife is probably having the baby, or something like that. Normally he would be here to drag my dead drunk corpse out by now." He said to nobody in particular.

Suddenly his mobile phone rang. He pulled it from his interior coat pocket.

*on phone*

"Говорить Кюернынко." Vladimir said in Elleltian.

...*translation to English "Khernynko speaking"

"Мальчик! То чудесно!"

...*translation "a boy! That is wonderful!"

"Так камрад вы назвать его?"

...*translation "So what will you name your son?"

"Я удостоин вам назвал бы вашего сынка после меня."

...translation "you have named him for me, I am honored."

Khernynko hung up his mobile phone.

"This is a great night indeed. Comrade Petrovich has had a son born and has named him Vladimir. So now you lot have to put up with two of us." Khernynko said grinning.

“I thought all you guys were named Vladimir,” Ambassador Jackson quips. Then, turning to Neville, he says: “Another Jack – and a plate o' nachos with con queso, for everyone.” Looking at Vladimir, the Ambassador adds. “Cheese. Didn't anybody teach you that cheese is the best way to hold back the booze? Fats slow the rate o' alcohol absorption into the body, so it doesn't hit you all at once. Ain't that somethin'?”

“As for green, our whole nation is undeveloped wilderness. Prettiest tropical paradise you ever saw.”

OOC: I'm serious about the cheese...

"No not all of us are named Vladimir. Indeed I am the only Vladimir on the Central Committee of the Party and that has over 200 members. Although it is a common name, none the less. Other popular names in Ellelt are Igor, Ivan, Alexander (especially after the revolution...Comrade Serpov's first name is Alexander), Andre, Demitri, Boris, Peortor, Nikita, Sergei for boys. As for girls Alexandra (feminine form of Alexander), Alexis, Irina, Ivana (which is the feminine Ivan) and Ykatrina are the most popular. I should know, Comrade Olga has been trying to come up with a name for months that wasnt so common but it seems Demitri won the argument and she didn't.

"As for the cheese thing...Im not sure it will work, the alcohol is already been absorbed."

“Oh,” says Jackson. “Well, then, you're screwed.”

"I know, Demitri will probably want to sleep on the couch in the office until his son stops waking at night wanting to be fed. That will definately cramp my style. I know, I will send her Back to Ellelt. Kill two birds with one stone. I can still sleep on my couch, and I wont have to listen to Olga bitch at me for drinking so much." Vladimir said with a smirk as he could see his plan working perfectly.:D

"Another true believer," Jevo said neutrally. "You should talk with Lord Serph about the Colossus, if you already know about him, that is."

Colossus, for all his experience, had not yet seen such a religious demonstration directed toward him, and his eyes flickered as he attempted to process events. It took almost seven entire seconds before he responded. "SULBEIN KERAIMAN...THOSE ARE NOT WORDS FROM THE ANCIENT LANGUAGE. BUT SOME ARE VERY SIMILAR. WOULD YOU LIKE TO DISCUSS THIS FURTHER? I COULD CREATE FOR YOU MORE ORANGE LIQUID."

Meanwhile, Jevo had turned toward Stew and Yukiko in a desperate attempt to avoid a discussion on comparative theology. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help overhear your conversation. Er...what was the subject again?"

As Al-Satal was busy prostrating before Colossus, Rang Erman entered the bar, and his eyes were immediatly drawn to the metal man and the kowtowing Economic Advisory. Sighing, he walked over, grabbed Al-Satal by the hem of his robe, and hoisted him up.

"Amin, if I've told you once, I'll tell you again, if they won't put out, there's no use in begging!" He laughed uproariously.

Turning to Lord Telovar, he smiled.

"Oh, don't worry about him. I'm sure this thing..." he gestured to Colossus... "has nothing to do with his religion, just a nappy coincidence. Let 'em talk it out. In the meantime, care for a drink?"

"we should and some winter sports in Kirisubo sounds like a good start to me" Yukiko replied with a smile on her face.

Turning to Jevo she replied "we were talking about what our nations were like".

"Amin, if I've told you once, I'll tell you again, if they won't put out, there's no use in begging!" He laughed uproariously.

Turning to Lord Telovar, he smiled.

"Oh, don't worry about him. I'm sure this thing..." he gestured to Colossus... "has nothing to do with his religion, just a nappy coincidence. Let 'em talk it out. In the meantime, care for a drink?"

"Gods above, yes. Do you have any recommendations?"

The Colossus looked unperturbed by the intruder's comments, though he defined 'inscrutable'. "IF YOU WOULD PREFER TO HAVE A CONVERSATION LATER, I HAVE ALL THE TIME IN THE UNIVERSE," he said almost inaudibly. Stepping cautiously, so as to not create an earthquake, the Colossus made his way through the bar to the Kawaiian Otaku Shrine in the corner. Holding his arms outstretched on either side, he watched with apparent satisfaction as the figurines slowly came to life.

Turning to Jevo she replied "we were talking about what our nations were like".

"An excellent topic. If one's nation is a reflection of its ambassadors, yours must be quite serene," Jevo said cheerily. "Though I must admit that Krioval is most similar to metalhead over there. But please, tell me more about where all of you are from."

Yukiko replied "I represent the Empire of Kirisubo with its many mountains, valleys and forests. We also have good areas for winter sports and in the south of the Empire you'll find sun kissed beaches when its the summer season.

We have hot summers and cold winters and we are a people in harmony with each other and nature"

Cami couldn't help but grin at him for a minute before answering. Men, always thinking about food! Well, no that's not really true, now is it...there are other things...

"Edward," she said teasingly, "are you hungry now? It's almost midnight, and I'm still fine with what I had at the party."

She took a sip of her brandy, her eyes filled with merriment as she looked at him.

"We do need to discuss a day, place and time for our dinner date, but if there is something you want right now, go ahead and get it!"

For the first time in a long time, Camryn Langdon was sitting in a secluded spot, openly flirting with an intelligent, very handsome man. And, she was enjoying it.

"For some reason I'm often hungry at this hour. And then I have to work off the extra food in the morning hours, but I don't mind that. But the midnight snack can wait." He grinned like a schoolboy with a new toy.

"My idea for our dinner date has to do with an old and rarely-frequented restaurant in Rodder City. It's called Heaven's Grill, and it has a very laid-back atmosphere, excellent service, exquisite food, and a series of private dining rooms rather than a common dining room. We can even take off our shoes and lean back in the comfy chairs while we enjoy the meal, if we want." He quirked an eyebrow.

"How does that sound?"

Originally posted by Texan Hotrodders
"For some reason I'm often hungry at this hour. And then I have to work off the extra food in the morning hours, but I don't mind that. But the midnight snack can wait." He grinned like a schoolboy with a new toy.


Cami had a momentary mental image of Edward working out, and again noticed his physique. He was obviously in very good shape, and the way his clothes fit him, it showed.


Originally posted by Texan Hotrodders
"My idea for our dinner date has to do with an old and rarely-frequented restaurant in Rodder City. It's called Heaven's Grill, and it has a very laid-back atmosphere, excellent service, exquisite food, and a series of private dining rooms rather than a common dining room. We can even take off our shoes and lean back in the comfy chairs while we enjoy the meal, if we want." He quirked an eyebrow.

"How does that sound?"


"Actually, Edward, it sounds as if the place is aptly named. It sounds wonderful to me!" It really did sound enticing, and Cami couldn't help but smile, already anticipating the experience.

"So," she said simply, "when?"

Ambassador Jackson loots at the long line of delegates straggling in¹ and calls out to Neville, “Free drinks on Altanar, eh? Neville, I'll take another Jack.”

“Oh, and get Vlad here,” he says, looking at the drunken Elleltian slumped over the bar², “A plate o' nachos all for himself. A big plate o' nachos, with lots o' queso, and double jalapeños, too. Get him a big dish o' salsa and some sour to go with, O.K. my man? Thanks!”

¹Ignoreing the fact, that, thanks to the usual NS RP time-warp effect, he is also in the middle of that throng as well.

²As is the Ambassador fro Ellelt.³

³I haven't used footnotes in a while, so I have to meet my monthly quota.

It's been so quite here in the Bar that the Wabbits have been able to take over several adjacent tables, where they've set up nets and started a table-tennis tournament. Judging by the level of conversation, and the drinks being ordered, they have a considerable (invisible) audience.

blip.
blap.
blip.
blap.
blip.
blap.

Flash Blonde (http://pic40.picturetrail.com/VOL291/1756382/5512569/184201213.jpg) enters the bar along with his secretary Red Hot Blonde (http://pic40.picturetrail.com/VOL291/1756382/5512569/211087492.jpg) and three Adelie Penguins. A couple of gnomes look strangely at the penguins and murmer something to themselves, which causes the penguins to start sqarking in response. This apparently sends the gnomes away in a huff, and the five proceed to the bar. Red Hot helps up the penguins to the bar stools, while the penguins are still chating away.

"They said what?" Red Hot Blonde asked one of the penguins. "Must have shocked them to learn you know gnome. Still he is about your height if not your species, and you do look cute. I'm sure he meant 'hot' in the sense of it being warm." Turning towards the bartender she continued, "Three 'Dewars' and water for my co-workers, and make sure that you use those stirrer straws, and a large hot saki with two cups for me and Flash."

"Is it me or are there invisible rabbits playing table tennis?" Flash asked as a table tennis ball hit him on the side.

"Yes," Red Hot replied.

Sebastien hung up his phone angrily. End of the goddamn world. The shipment would never make it in time. He was furious that the people in the plant couldn't resolve the strike on time. But, things could wait. Another year of waiting wouldn't be so bad. He could take a nice vacation, stop getting so worried about everything. He could go to a nice hotel, mints on the pillows, and enjoy a nice warm cup of coffee.

Meanwhile, Josef Sayle was enjoying yet another shot of vodka and brushing up at darts. Being a little tipsy only adds to the challenge, he thought, as he noticed he sunk his dart into the double eighteen.

"Hmm, where's that scorepad? Ahh," he said as he snatched it from atop a table next to him. "Now let's see here, that's a double... eighteen... minus the... two-hundred and... what's that thing? I can't quite make it out. Ah well, I'm here for fun."

He was quite pleased at how the UN was voting recently. A big pro-drug bill was about to be passed, which he found quite nice. Maybe he would be able to import pot for cheap, thanks to the free market. He hit the triple nineteen and ordered another shot.

"Is it me or are there invisible rabbits playing table tennis?" Flash asked as a table tennis ball hit him on the side.
"Sorry, pal," says a voice from (unless he can actually see the Wabbits somehow) out of thin air. "The next round of drinks for you and your companions is on me, Harvey McWabbit, chief of the Invisible Wabbits' observation mission, okay?"

Invisible Wabbits;12125201']"Sorry, pal," says a voice from (unless he can actually see the Wabbits somehow) out of thin air. "The next round of drinks for you and your companions is on me, Harvey McWabbit, chief of the Invisible Wabbits' observation mission, okay?"

OOC: Flash doesn't have any innate ability to "see" invisible things but his years playing rugby has allowed him to know people and things around him that are not in his line of sight.

"Thanks Harvey," Flash replies, "Flash Blonde, representative of the Tourist Eating Land of Retired Werepenguins, along with my secretary Red Hot Blonde ... no direct relation except our common first generation ancestor Prima Blonde. And the three lady Adelle Penguins are ... well Adelle Penguin doesn't translate well to the common tongue."

The three penguins squawk for a moment, and Flash smiles, "Yes I suppose so, you can call them anything as long as you call them when its time for lunch."

Noting the ping-pong game going on, Ambassador Jackson pulls out a rather odd-looking “cigarette” and lights it, It gives off a peculiar and yet quite familiar aroma, somewhat similar to that of burning sage or sweet-grass.

After a minute or two, he smiles, begins laughing, and waves to some invisible person. Turning to Flash Blonde, he says: “You should try a drag of this shit, man. A few good pulls, and you'll be able to see those rabbits just fine.”

Capital idea, old chap! I say, do I smell Montecristos?
Ahh...yes...superb!
(blows out a puff of smoke)

Yukiko was content with the drink she had and knowing she had to get back to work soon was going to make that her last.

Cami had a momentary mental image of Edward working out, and again noticed his physique. He was obviously in very good shape, and the way his clothes fit him, it showed.

"Actually, Edward, it sounds as if the place is aptly named. It sounds wonderful to me!" It really did sound enticing, and Cami couldn't help but smile, already anticipating the experience.

"So," she said simply, "when?"

"That depends on when you are available. I'll be free in three day's time. If you can get a flight to the Federation by then, 5:00 in the evening would be a good time to head to the restaurant. That's prior to the dinner hour rush, so we're likely to get a dining room very quickly."

Appearing at a side door, Sammy beheld the veritable Ghost Town that was the Strangers' Bar over the Holidays. With most the regulars in absentia, no doubt extending their indulgence over pagan revelries, he realized the semi-Incognito look he was going for -- black hooded sweatshirt securely pulled over his head, but without the obligatory dark sunglasses -- had been unnecessary. Not even the terrifying Dicey Reilly could be seen, but perhaps that was only because she was canoodling once more with an Invisible Wabbit?

The ambassador had had to duck out of the debate for Repeal "Fair Sentencing Act"; he figured he deserved a break from the nonsensical arguments, mystifying tirades about "judicial rape" and the like, and insufferable gloating from certain members over the current vote tally. He also had to decline Cmdr. Chiang's kind offer to torture the Yeldan foreign minister. No sense in ticking off delegate nations when the proposal he'd authored was still creeping toward quorum and he needed every vote he could get.

There was but one small matter for the Kennyite to clear before he was free to return to Paradise City for New Years' Eve celebrations, and once he spotted the barmaid behind the counter he felt a sense of relief that it was already partly done. He approached the bar in as non-threatening a way as he could muster and rested his arms on the wooden countertop.

"Er, Violet, do you take messages for other delegations?" he asked nervously, well aware that what he was doing constituted a brazen act of defiance against a direct admonishment (http://z11.invisionfree.com/Antarctic_Oasis/index.php?showtopic=307) from the Destructor. Hearing a murmur in the affirmative, he pulled a single candy cane from his sweatshirt pocket with a small note tied to it.

"Then would you mind if I left this for Avaya Thibaudet?" came his next query, his mangling of the last name bringing him one step closer to certain doom. He handed her the Candy Gram, careful not to bend the pipecleaner antlers. It was a simple-enough gesture, certain not to conjure any wrong ideas, and the affixed note conveying an appropriate amount of purely seasonal affection: "Dear Avaya, Hope this past year has been good for you, and that the next is even better. I just wanted to wish you Happy Holidays before I take off for a quick trip back to Paradise City. Pet Bast for me. God bless."

The kid had tactfully avoided implementing Ace and Rico's suggestion that he sign the card "I wanna sex you up, Your Willing Slave Boy", in favor of the less alienating, if a tad boring, endorsement: "Your friend, Sammy." Avaya's friend had also made sure to erase the postscripted plea to avenge his death should he not return from Paradise City next week. It was a little much, he agreed to himself.

"Oh, and could I have a heated eggnog in a Styrofoam cup to go, please?" It was the least he could do for Violet's trouble, Sammy thought -- awarding her with some coveted business during the apparent holiday slump -- and as he took the drink and left a tip on the counter, he decided that maybe a quick cameo on the General Assembly floor before he bailed on everyone mightn't be such a bad idea after all? ...

Vladimir Khernynko came into the bar after putting in a long day on the debating floor. Indeed the "repeal the FSA" debate was arduous, and he was looking forward to it being over regardless the out come. If it were repealed, Ellelt would just put forward a replacement.

Vladimir took his usual seat and being frustrated did something he didn't do all that often. He pulled out from a small case containing a black tar like substance and his aide followed shortly with a water-pipe with two ends for smoking.

"Demitri, I am glad you have chosen to join me, today." Khernynko said to his aide.

"The pleasure is mine comrade." He said setting up the water-pipe on the table.

Khernynko broke a small square of the tar-like substance and placed into a bowl and lit it with a long wooden match inhaling the smoke there of.

"Nothing like Urak Hash is there Demitri?" He said exhaling the aromatic smoke.

"Indeed comrade, there isn't." The Elleltian secretary said, coughing slightly after exhaling his lung full of smoke.

Olga Petrolovich, wife of Demitri Petrolovich rushed into the bar caring their infant son Vladimir Demitrovich.

"Comrade Khernynko, Demitri! The Repeal of the FSA is Defeated!" She screams happily.

Khernynko rises in his seat, obviously high from smoking his hash. He clears his throat.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, and Comrades: For all of those who have voted against the Repeal of the FSA, and aided the peoples of the world maintain their freedom...The Elleltian Delegation offers to buy you all a round of Drinks. Without our Comrades from many lands the preservation of national sovereignty would be impossible."

Looking exhausted, the Altanari delegation walked into the bar. At the announcement of free drinks on Ellelt, very big grins broke out on their faces. "We'll be happy to take you up on that," the Altanari ambassador replied. His deputy and security chief had already gotten their drinks, and raised them in a toast.

Flash's eyes light up at the words of "buy you all a round of Drinks." He turns to the bar tender, a Belvedere vodka (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belvedere_%28vodka%29) for me, Red Hot, and my three Adelie penguin co-workers.

One of the penguins squawks something. "You don't say," Flash replied. "Belvedere is Polish not Russian? Well it's close enough I suppose."

Chris entered the Stranger's Bar, taking a look around before making his way to get a drink. He had been urgently called back to Islenska to see to some business, and was unable to return until now. Sitting on a stool, he asked the bartender for a cup of tea and, when it was given to him, he went about drinking it. Leaning forwards, he tried to keep from glancing towards the door, hoping to see his beloved Ariddian ambassador again.

Dahlia sat waiting for her husband. She was getting more and more nervous at the minutes passed. She ordered her third cup of tea. To try and calm her nerves, she decided to go over the latest resolution to get dropped on her desk. "This is not helping me." She looked at her watch. "Accelerus, where are you." It hadn't really been that long since she asked him to meet her here, but it felt like forever. She didn't even know why she felt so nervous. "All I have to do is tell him the gist of the queens plans and what I want to do. He'll accept my decision."

Dahlia sat waiting for her husband. She was getting more and more nervous at the minutes passed. She ordered her third cup of tea. To try and calm her nerves, she decided to go over the latest resolution to get dropped on her desk. "This is not helping me." She looked at her watch. "Accelerus, where are you." It hadn't really been that long since she asked him to meet her here, but it felt like forever. She didn't even know why she felt so nervous. "All I have to do is tell him the gist of the queens plans and what I want to do. He'll accept my decision."

As he walked over to the Stranger's Bar, Accelerus checked his daily to-do list.

1. Avoid Meritania.
2. Make some sort of unfunny smart-ass comment in the UN resolution debate.
3. Meet Dahlia in Bar.


He crossed out number 2, and looked for number 3 while he entered the bar area. When he saw her, he decided she was a 10. Yeah, number 3 just didn't cover it.

He walked over to Dahlia and kissed her on the forehead. "How are you today, pretty lady?"

As he walked over to the Stranger's Bar, Accelerus checked his daily to-do list.

1. Avoid Meritania.
2. Make some sort of unfunny smart-ass comment in the UN resolution debate.
3. Meet Dahlia in Bar.


He crossed out number 2, and looked for number 3 while he entered the bar area. When he saw her, he decided she was a 10. Yeah, number 3 just didn't cover it.

He walked over to Dahlia and kissed her on the forehead. "How are you today, pretty lady?"

Dahlia smiled as Acclereus kissed her. "I'm okay, I suppose. I got some news from Adrienne today. She's come up with some crazy plan, but I can't talk about it here. Too many people just waiting for any sort of gossip." She began to bite her nails, which she tended to do when she was nervous or upset. "What I wanted to talk to you about involves me moving to HotRodia and getting citizenship there. This is actually part of what Adrienne told me. I have no idea why she's trying to get me to move. Maybe she thinks that it would be better for our marriage. What do you think, darling?"

Neville was on autopilot and the plane was spinning out. He was still dealing with the essentials, of course -- the Ellelt delegation's "free drinks" offer, though they'd never know it, had solved several of the more forgetful patrons' impending bar tab crises -- but mentally he was away with the milk dragons. And the High Court. And everything else that was Randomea.

Randomea, home of his soulmate, his elusive beloved, the eminently practical, divinely endowed Hodgelett! Randomea, officially listed "Ceased To Exist"! Of course, it was a mildly magical nation, and you could never tell, it might just have moved itself into a parallel dimension --

"Mr Chamberlain? Mr Chamberlain? Excuse me, Mr Chamberlain!"

He knew what he was going to see: an animated bundle of white washing. Nobody in the known or unknown world would call him "Mr Chamberlain" except that nutty veil-swathed kid Dicey had been dragging round, her "intern" (and, it seemed, Sammy Faisano's target du jour).

She was looking worriedly over her shoulder. "Don't worry, Dicey's busy with the Invisible Wabbits," Neville said paternally, pointing to where Dicey was apparently playing doubles table-tennis partnered by a fake-fur hat suspended in mid-air, opposing a team consisting of a single purple knitted fingerless mitten accompanied by a pair of impossibly long orange lace-ups. "She's too busy to notice what you're up to. What are you up to?"

"Mr Chamberlain, could you give this to Mr Faisano if he comes in?"

The girl shoved a squishy-soft of package at him, its huge "Happy Hogmany Mr Faisano" card almost dwarfing the gift.

"It's a Jayne Cobb Cunning Hat (http://www.wearwithstyle.com/hat5.html), like in Firefly," the girl said proudly. "I knitted it all through the Fair Sentencing repeal debate. It got a bit exciting, so there's a few skipped stitches, but I don't think it shows much," she added hopefully.

"Well, well, well," said Neville, playing for time as an image of Sammy Faisano's face under a red, yellow and orange bobble-hat fought for his attention.

"You don't think it's too, well, personal?" the girl demanded. "I mean, he ... I ... we ..."

"Of course it's not," gushed Violet, arriving with elbow busy as she tried to jog Neville into something approaching coherence. "I just had to come over when I saw you here, petal, because he left a gift for you, too. Now don't worry," she advised, as Avaya scrabbled at Sammy's parcel. "Knitting jumpers for men too early in the relationship frightens them off, but scarves and hats are fine from Day One."

Neville came out of his losing-Hodgelett fog again to ponder on this strange piece of female knowledge. So there was a hierarchy of knitting, was there? And some things were considered intimate and some not? Dicey, as he recalled, had once made a Dr Who scarf for the Secretary-General; mmm-hmmm. Was Avaya the sort of girl who would start making mittens after the first date, or would she wait until the third? At what stage was a vest appropriate? Did afghans count?

"Ooooh, look!" said Avaya, holding aloft the slightly-bedraggled Candygram beastie. "Isn't that lovely? And he told me to pet Bast for him! As if I'd dare! Oh, he's so funny! Neville, could I please have my package back for just a minute? And could I borrow a pen, please?"

He couldn't see, but Neville could swear the girl was blushing. She almost snatched the "Happy Hogmanay" card and slashed through the "Mr Faisano" inscription, altering it to "Dear Sammy" with the air of one taking off her clothes in public.

"There!" she said defiantly. Decisively she gave the parcel back into Neville's keeping and, ducking her head so Dicey wouldn't see her, scuttled away through the crowd.

"Poor Sammy, he's toast," said Violet happily. The way she said it, Neville thought it was a compliment, but knittery diplomacy was beyond his ken.

Christelle did not usually drink much alcohol, but right now she felt she needed something to boost her spirits. The debate over the UN military proposal was thoroughly depressing, and her little run-in (http://z6.invisionfree.com/UN_Old_Guard/index.php?showtopic=1427) with a reporter recently hadn't helped either.

She walked up to the bar, then smiled, her worries seeming for a moment to fade away, as she caught sight of her beloved Christopher. She moved up to him, slipped her arms round him, and gazed into his eyes with a loving smile, before kissing his lips softly.

"Hello, love," she whispered, still looking into his eyes. "You don't know how happy it makes me to see you! How's your day been?"

Christopher had just finished his tea when something made the hairs on his neck rise. He didn't even have to look behind him to know, that familiar perfume was more than enough to to provide him with the proof. Turning so that he could wrap his arms around Christelle, her returned her kiss and smiled with absolutely contentment.

"Hello again, my love," He reached up with one hand, very lightly running the tips of his fingers through her hair, "It has been relatively uneventful until now. I'm sorry I had to leave, but something important came up," He gently pressed a kiss to her forehead, "How have you been?"

"I've been all right," she told him gratefully, and caressed his cheek softly with her fingers. "I'm much better now that I'm here with you." She smiled, and kissed him lightly... content just to be near him, to feel his loving touch. "The delegates in the GA are going to make me insane."

Yukiko Uehara entered the bar with Raiko her secretary both in kimono's.

Both women who made up the staff of the Kirisuban UN Mission took their places by the bar and ordered a beer each as they took a break from the current debate.

It looked like the most recent debate to stop the NSUN having its own armed forces would go with the nays if the voting paterns continued the way they were going.

Still somedays you got the fox and sometimes it got the better of you.

"Yeah, they seem to have a habit of doing that," He smiled and pressed his forehead to Christelle's, nuzzling against her and breathing in that fragrant perfume. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled himself away, afraid he might drift off to sleep if he allowed himself to indulge in that perfect contentment. Blinking for a moment, he then asked the bartender for another cup of tea.

"So, how have things been in Ariddia?"

"Quiet," she told him, and smiled. "I still need to take you there one day." She snuggled closer to him, resting her head contentedly on his shoulder, and kissing his neck lightly. She trailed her fingers softly over his arm. In his presence she felt happy, peaceful, safe... without a care in the world. "How have things been in Islenska... and when are you taking me there?" she asked him with a hint of mischievousness.

"Things in Islenska have been good, of course," He smiled, continuing to run his fingers through Christelle's hair, "There isn't a lot of conflict there, really."

Looking down at her, he arched a brow, smiling, "Well, if you want to go, I could take you whenever you'd like to go. I am sure the King would be more than happy to meet you."

"Today?" Christelle suggested, and grinned. She loved Christopher's smile. "Tomorrow? How should I dress to meet the King?"

She looked up at him, content as she rested against him, enjoying the feel of his hand in her hair, and continued to stroke his arm playfully.

"Well, I don't entirely know about today. I just got back, and I would prefer spending my time with you rather than with the King," Sliding his hand from that hair, he rested the palm over her cheek, stroking it. That grin of her's was wonderful, always capable of making him grin back like a love sick teen.

"As for what to wear, well, you can wear anything you like. I've said before that we Islenskans aren't big on 'formal' clothing. The King often wears his pajamas until the afternoon."

"Does he?" Christelle laughed, then shook her head, amused. "Your country really does sound special." She kissed him on the cheek. "But you're really unique..." she whispered to him softly.

With everything going as is, a new person for the bar entered. Dr. Sizofren opened the doors and came in depressed. He was deeply saddened by the way the voting was going on, and his arms were tired from all the defenestrations he promised to do to those who voted against. He did keep away from a few sensible people though.

Dr. Sizofren walks forward and goes to the barkeep. He hands him a small gold plastic card. He says, "My first time in here. Do you have anything non-alcoholic?"

The barkeep replies, "Yes, we have tea. Do you like tea?"

"Yes, I do like tea. Please get me some, oh, and free drinks for the rest of the day."

With that, Dr. Sizofren leaves the card with the barkeep, goes, and sits down at an empty table deeply depressed because of the wide marginal vote. He sips his tea, and altogether seems sad.

Cmdr. Chiang examined her tumbler and its contents before stealing a satisfying sip from it. She abhored being bothered during her lunchtime Jameson, but even as she noticed an approaching violator wandering dangerously beyond her comfort zone, she elected to hold her tongue about the unspoken rule, especially considering that he outranked her.

"Good afternoon, Commander," said the boy.

"The same to you, Ambassador," she answered, making further inquiry into the knitted eyesore of which Violet had just transferred custody.

"I'm ... not sure," Sammy said truthfully as he gave the purported gift another baffled once-over. "Something Avaya left for me. Why, what do you think of it?"

"I think it's revolting," the commander sighed.

"C'mon, it doesn't look that bad," said the ambassador as he defiantly hugged his scalp with it. "Besides, it's practical. She obviously made it for me 'cause she knows I'm from Antarctica and she doesn't want my head to get cold."

"If your scalp's as thick as you're letting on right now, I don't think you'll need it."

"What do you mean, Commander?"

"I mean I don't think 'practicality' was the girl's intention, Ambassador."

"Huh?"

Oh, for God's sake, stop being so fucking clueless!" Chiang ordered her superior with a pointed slap to the back of the head. "I mean, think about it for one moment, if she spent so much time and effort into making you that horrid present, it's obvious she has feelings for you that extend beyond cranial comfort."

"You ... think she really likes me? She's really coy whenever I'm around, and she always cuts out early."

"You think she's coy because she hides all her excitement beneath that veil, when in reality she's likely very young, very naive, and harboring a hopeless schoolgirl crush for the sweet young guy who doesn't realize what a cute little number he is. So, first things first, Lover Boy, don't dick her around. Don't lead her on. And if you promise me you won't do anything to hurt the poor thing, then I won't effect another violation of UNR #41 (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=7029871&postcount=42) on your sorry ass."

"Gotcha."

"And I won't tell the Destructor you're seeing the intern behind his back if you promise me you two don't end up like those nauseating losers over there," Chiang added with a wave toward the commie MILF and her boytoy.

"Deal."

Chiang rolled her eyes at her boss's new headgear. "You look like Ethan Hawke (http://us.movies1.yimg.com/movies.yahoo.com/images/hv/photo/movie_pix/miramax_films/hamlet/_group_photos/diane_venora3.jpg) from that terrible cinematic adaptation of Hamlet," she observed.

"Speaking of Hamlet, what of your plans to sabotage the Quodites' dangerous new ban on extraordinary rendition?" asked Sammy.

"The wheels are on motion, Ambassador. And while we're on the subject of puppetwank, I managed a bit of oversight while you were away on New Year's."

"What do you mean?"

"Your neglection to send a parting gift to the Gruenbergers. But don't worry: I sent Rono that glue bottle you bought for Miss Avaya's Candy Gram, and signed your name."

Dahlia smiled as Acclereus kissed her. "I'm okay, I suppose. I got some news from Adrienne today. She's come up with some crazy plan, but I can't talk about it here. Too many people just waiting for any sort of gossip." She began to bite her nails, which she tended to do when she was nervous or upset. "What I wanted to talk to you about involves me moving to HotRodia and getting citizenship there. This is actually part of what Adrienne told me. I have no idea why she's trying to get me to move. Maybe she thinks that it would be better for our marriage. What do you think, darling?"

"I think..." Accelerus paused, nodding sagely. "That I'm going to need to buy a house or something so we can have several solid layers of concrete and steel over our heads and a decent bed to...uh...sleep in.

He grinned. "And that I would love to show you around my hometown."

Luc peered through George's door. They hadn't been assigned an official office yet, so he sat on his bed, with his bedside cabinet spilling files.

"Some of us are going to check out the Strangers' Bar. Do you want to come along?"

"Uh," muttered George, not looking up from the report in his lap, "I'll probably pass. Who's going?"

"A couple of the lawyers, Tony, Joanna, Samantha..."

George squared his shoulders abruptly, then tried to assume a casual air. "Oh, ok then. Maybe I'll head down in a moment."

"Sure, see you there."

Once Luc had left, George stared up blankly for a while, then shook himself. Lighting a cigarette - he hadn't checked on the building's smoking policy yet - he shoved the sheets haphazardly back into a overstretched buff folder, and slid off the bed.

The Bar was reasonably busy when he arrived. Pausing at the door for a moment while tossing his used butt into an empty plant pot, he surveyed the busy scene: serious conversations, light-hearted banter, pretentious appraisals of the quality of the drinks, a couple of people going at it in the corner. The Quodites were huddled away, glancing towards anyone that passed the table with a mixture of desperate invitation and crippling fear.

George leaned on the bar, and glanced back again, picking out Samantha's black hair bobbing with laughter, and winced slightly. Turning back, he fumbled for change. "I'll take a pint of...er...that thing," he mumbled, prodding towards a speciality ale whose name he couldn't make out. There was a stool nearby: he decided to sit and have a drink before joining his colleagues.

The barkeep refuses your money, and says, "You won't need to spend a dime tonight. Everything is on him."

The barkeep points at Dr. Sizofren

Then, Dr. Sizofren finishing his tea, gets up out of his seat, and with less of a frown than before he sat down, he goes up to a barstool next to George.

"Hello there. How are you doing with your draft proposal? Quite good I hope. Do you remember me? I came into your meeting a couple of times and made a mistake of not reading it fully."

Dr. Sizofren than gives a faint smile, but it is obvious the looker that he was still sad.

"I think..." Accelerus paused, nodding sagely. "That I'm going to need to buy a house or something so we can have several solid layers of concrete and steel over our heads and a decent bed to...uh...sleep in.

He grinned. "And that I would love to show you around my hometown."

"I'd love to see your hometown, Accelerus. As for buying a house, shouldn't we do that together? We could look around and find something perfect for us. Not too big, but not too small. Maybe something with an extra bedroom or two, just in case we have...." Dahlia trailed off. She stared down at her tea.

"Hello there. How are you doing with your draft proposal? Quite good I hope. Do you remember me? I came into your meeting a couple of times and made a mistake of not reading it fully."
"Yes, Dr. Sizofren, hello." George extend his hand. "George Madison. No worries about the misunderstanding earlier."

"I'm not sure about the proposal. It's not fully my work - there's this committee, see, that wrote it initially. A regular little murder they are. And so I'm not sure. The definition doesn't really satisfy me, but most - most - other people seem content with it. To be honest, I'm glad a few objections have actually been raised: it's better that way. But I don't know how ready we are, or what'll happen if we get it to the floor. That's a way off yet, though."

Snapping nervously on the lid of his lighter, he asked, "Do you mind if I smoke?"

Roderick Spear walked into the bar for the first time, which was surprising as he was a regular at many bars in Gurakos and Libertia.

He walked up to the counter.
"I'd like a beer. Got anything suitably Paradican?"

"I do not. I don't know about everyone else though, as this is my first time here in the UN bar. There doesn't seem to be as much going on right now, and things in the UN has died down again, has it not?

Do you know anybody here? You have nobody accompanying you."

"Hey barkeep, get me another glass of tea will you, and add a lemon."

Dr. Sizofren

"I do not. I don't know about everyone else though, as this is my first time here in the UN bar. There doesn't seem to be as much going on right now, and things in the UN has died down again, has it not?

Do you know anybody here? You have nobody accompanying you."
"There does seem to be something of a lull, though that's by word of mouth: I haven't really been here long enough to observe standard business. It's been holiday season, and there's no extensive queue of proposals, so it's not so surprising anyway. Let's hope things pick up a bit over the next few weeks."

George picked up his glass. "Anyway, I'm here alone, but I came to meet some of the others from our delegation. They're over there. I can introduce you if you'd like - though I should warn you, I don't know all of them so well. Everyone's still getting to know one another."

Rod left the bar, muttering something about a party.

The door to the Stranger's bar opened, and a man of medium build, thinning hair, and jovial attitude walked into the bar. He was wearing a tweed jacket with a red flower in the lapel, and was holding a leather folder, looking rather determined.

Walking to the bar, he knocked on the counter and looked around.

"Ah- Neville? Neville Chamberlain?"

Spotting the Barlord, he walked over.

"Mr. Chamberlain, I'm John Hoogelhande, with the Allech-Atreus UN Delegation. I've got some paperwork here for you to look over... we'd like to subcontract out your kitchen, if it's not too much trouble. We'd get a food license, but that would require the blood of virgins, waiting for the summer solstice, and actually talking to the gnomes."

He sets several legal sheets on the bar.

"Just let me know what you can do."

The usually dour face of Colonel Marco Ignatius, delegate of the People's Republic of Leninia-Trotskya, softened a little as he surveyed the bar's cosy, cosmopolitan atmosphere. He had just recently arrived, and was still getting used to the UN's "no uniforms" policy. He felt distinctly un-proletarian in his evening wear, but he wasn't going to let that spoil his evning. As he walked to the bar, he spied several delegates he recognized from the day before. Taking his glass, he ambled over to their table, eager to get to know the delegates outside their sometimes frightening official capacities.

Christopher grinned, absolutely entranced by Christelle's loveliness and the sound of her gorgeous voice when she laughed, "Mmhmm. And yes, it is a very special and beautiful place."

"As are you, my love. You're the most wonderful, enchanting, and incredible woman I've ever met" Smiling, he nudged against her, "Lets talk. Tell me about yourself, your family, what Ariddia is like."

the UN's "no uniforms" policy.

OOC: Where?

To Quod's Character George Madison

"Well, even if you don't know them that well, we can get to know them together at least."

Dr. Sizofren finishes his tea, and asks that the dish be cleaned.

"So, show me your friends.

OOC: Where?

The jacuzzi. Uniforms in the jacuzzi are definitely frowned upon.

She's notdead notdead notdead notdead ...

A UN page had just hand-dlivered a note from Hodgelett -- Hodgelett, believed MIA -- Hodgelett, light of his life -- grinning insanely, Neville pushed towards the boy the exotic cocktail he had created for the impatient Paradican delegate, who had walked out before it was finished, and turned merrily towards the man in the tweed jacket.

... "Mr. Chamberlain, I'm John Hoogelhande, with the Allech-Atreus UN Delegation. I've got some paperwork here for you to look over... we'd like to subcontract out your kitchen, if it's not too much trouble. We'd get a food license, but that would require the blood of virgins, waiting for the summer solstice, and actually talking to the gnomes."

He sets several legal sheets on the bar.

"Just let me know what you can do."

"I can dance, I can sing ..."

But legal papers had their usual effect on Neville. The more he read, the further his face fell.

"I've only just wrung permission from the UN Building Management for the dining room ... and now this lot wants me to get into sub-contracting ... why am I going to set up competition for the dining-room, tell me that .... going to have to take this to the UN Lawyers for a look-over ... OMG, lawyers, with their sharp white teeth and their terrible anonymous steel-framed glasses ... Next it'll be accountants ... I should have listened to mother ..."

As he mentally spiralled from panic to despair, Violet sashayed up to read the papers over his shoulder.

"Well, look at that," she commented, manicured nail pointing unerringly to the dollar signs. "Dazza can have a sous-chef if we go in for this."

Eyes met eyes in wild surmise. Dazza, the Australian fusion cuisine chef, with a sous-chef. Chefs loved sous-chefs. Sure, they could scream abuse at dishwashers, reduce waitresses to tears, but to have an underling who knew what you were on about -- who understood just how nasty you were being when you complained that the beans hadn't been kept at a rolling boil, or the creme brulee was too brulee and not enough creme -- Dazza would be ecstatic.

Of course, the sous-chef would be in Hell, but that's what sous-chefs were for.

"You talk to the Building Management, Vi," Neville urged. "And wear the red dress."

Ardchoilleans;12173554']"I can dance, I can sing ..."

But legal papers had their usual effect on Neville. The more he read, the further his face fell.

"I've only just wrung permission from the UN Building Management for the dining room ... and now this lot wants me to get into sub-contracting ... why am I going to set up competition for the dining-room, tell me that .... going to have to take this to the UN Lawyers for a look-over ... OMG, lawyers, with their sharp white teeth and their terrible anonymous steel-framed glasses ... Next it'll be accountants ... I should have listened to mother ..."

As he mentally spiralled from panic to despair, Violet sashayed up to read the papers over his shoulder.

"Well, look at that," she commented, manicured nail pointing unerringly to the dollar signs. "Dazza can have a sous-chef if we go in for this."

Eyes met eyes in wild surmise. Dazza, the Australian fusion cuisine chef, with a sous-chef. Chefs loved sous-chefs. Sure, they could scream abuse at dishwashers, reduce waitresses to tears, but to have an underling who knew what you were on about -- who understood just how nasty you were being when you complained that the beans hadn't been kept at a rolling boil, or the creme brulee was too brulee and not enough creme -- Dazza would be ecstatic.

Of course, the sous-chef would be in Hell, but that's what sous-chefs were for.

"You talk to the Building Management, Vi," Neville urged. "And wear the red dress."

The slightly portly Hoogelhande smiled widely.

"Oh, brilliant. I've just had absolutely nothing to do since I got here, you see, so I decided to remodel our delegate's offices. Well, actually I decided to explore the ductwork in the building- that wasn't much fun, let me tell you. I'm not sure what DemonLordEnigma did up in those offices, but the smells and sounds from the air vents gave me nightmares for a week. I'm just glad I didn't get stuck."

He laughed the laugh of a fat man who doesn't care that people are snickering behind his back. He then turned about the bar, looking for someone to talk to. His eyes caught Dr. Sizofren and the new Quodite chap. He quickly ordered a gin and tonic and walked over to them.

"Oh, excuse me. I saw some new faces and thought I'd meet some new folks. Dr. Sizofren I've seen on the floor, but I'm afraid I've not got out of the office much to meet anyone else. John vor dan Hoogelhande, Allech-Atreus. I'm the new office manager, but in truth I haven't had much to do. Pleased to meet you."

Ardchoilleans;12173406']The jacuzzi. Uniforms in the jacuzzi are definitely frowned upon.

Why yes, a must for every new delegate is to try out the complementary jacuzzi! You are wise, my friend, in the ways of the UN.

Why yes, a must for every new delegate is to try out the complementary jacuzzi! You are wise, my friend, in the ways of the UN.

"Wise, I am? Thanking you, I am. A free drink buying you, I will be."

Michael Grandison, once GrandAlf of the Kennyite hippies and now Ardchoillean Ambassador to Ausserland, dragged the disguising hood of his monk's habit across his face and ordered refills, head turned away and appalling accent assumed so no-one would recognise him.

He did himself too much credit. UN delegates, being somewhat impressed by themselves, seldom noticed anyone who didn't appear in the GA. Besides, Michael, despite his impressive title, was basically just a mature-age first-year student of magic at Unseen University. Hidden in Ausserland by Dicey Reilly to protect him from the taxation office of his vengeful former countrymen, he had taken risky advantage of the holiday break to come see the woman who had awakened his magical powers. Among other things.

But Dicey wasn't in evidence*, Bast wasn't around and even that creepy little intern in the veils was off somewhere. Nor could he see any of the Kennyites, which was a relief. Lacking other means of diversion, perhaps he should just stay here in this nice bar and knock back this nice liquor until Dicey turned up. After all, it was a bar, she'd be bound to come here eventually.

"So, been here long, you have?" he asked his new companion. He leaned forward to peer at the other's photo ID. "Leninia-Trotskyia, it is? Of a leftist persuasion, that would be? Myself, Fabian socialist would I consider."

Goddess, these mangled sentences made even the simplest conversation almost as difficult as talking to Manuelo Fernanda (the Destructor from Del Fuego, Mexico), President of Omigodtheykilledkenny. Except that this nice young delegate wasn't trying to grope him at all.

He wondered briefly if he was using the wrong aftershave.

* still curled up asleep, or possibly passed out, at the foot of the rostrum in the GA. But don't disturb her. Better she sleep than wake to a world in which the Gruenbergers have left the UN.

Christopher grinned, absolutely entranced by Christelle's loveliness and the sound of her gorgeous voice when she laughed, "Mmhmm. And yes, it is a very special and beautiful place."

"As are you, my love. You're the most wonderful, enchanting, and incredible woman I've ever met" Smiling, he nudged against her, "Lets talk. Tell me about yourself, your family, what Ariddia is like."

Christelle blushed, and smiled happily.

"What would you like to know, my love? I could show you Ariddia, if you like. As for my family... Well, my son Colin would be interested in meeting you, I think," she said with a quick grin, and caressed his face playfully, her fingers trailing teasingly over his lips.

The ancient Baronet Reudenhaus, UN Ambassador from Ethorelia, enters the bar and slowly crosses the room.

"Could someone help me find my office, please? I cannot seem to remember where it is located."

Heads turn throughout the room to see what manner of person Ethorelia deemed to send to the UN. He appears to be about a hundred years old with just a thin crown of white hair left. His wrinkles have wrinkles, and his enormous, bushy white eyebrows dominate his confused face. Without his cane, the Ambassador would most likely fall over. Even his clothes were old-at least five decades out of style, perhaps more.

"And would someone please tell me where I am?" he added.

"I'd love to see your hometown, Accelerus. As for buying a house, shouldn't we do that together? We could look around and find something perfect for us. Not too big, but not too small. Maybe something with an extra bedroom or two, just in case we have...." Dahlia trailed off. She stared down at her tea.

"Guests?" Accelerus shrugged. "I suppose that'd be alright. I need an inconspicuous place to store all my weaponry anyway, and a false wall in a guest bedroom would be just the right kind of place."

He pondered for a moment. "Will you have time to go with me to Showroomtown after the debate on the Sexual Privacy Act?"

Bari Devæno, UN attaché of the Yeldan Ministry of Culture, enters the bar. He is wearing a black silk suit and a violet shirt with no tie, unbuttoned to the third button. He smiles as he watches himself walking past in a mirror.

"Another day, another bar. Back in the game Bari", he says to himself as he reaches the bar. He orders a vodka and tonic, then turns to survey the scene.

"So, show me your friends.
"Very well." Picking up his newly freshened glass, Madison led Sizofren over to the table.

"...that's what she said! - oh, hey George."

George pulled up a couple of chairs, and sat down. Extending his hand, he said, "I don't know everyone, excuse me, but this is Dr. Luc Montsettier, Chair of our Red Cross organization; Samantha Benton, she works with Congress on foreign policy; Elspeth and Anne are both with the Council on Rights?...of some sort, basically they're lawyers so watch your wallet."

Smiling uncomfortably at the mild laughter, he turned to Dr. Sizofren. "And this is Dr. Sizofren, of Havvy: he was discussing our resolution earlier, and joined me for a drink."

Sen Sulla walked up to the bar,and said to the bartender,
"Wild Turkey Rare Breed, Jimmy, and keep them coming."
He sat down on one of the stools and reached for a handful of peanuts while he waited for the drink to arrive.

"Could someone help me find my office, please? I cannot seem to remember where it is located." ...

"And would someone please tell me where I am?" he added.Cmdr. Chiang momentarily whirls around in her barstool at the sound of the elderly voice. At this, she notes the elusive Kennyite criminal fugitive (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12174712&postcount=5320), who had somehow found his way to UNHQ, presumably to be at his new lover's side. She realizes he apparently doesn't recognize her, nor her superior (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12163863&postcount=5301), who had just left for a floor vote. But she recognizes him, which gives her the advantage. ...

She has to snicker at the old man's inquiry as to his whereabouts. Obviously senile, she thinks happily. "My dear boy, you're at Disneyland!" she says excitedly as she jumps down from her stool to approach him. "See all the rides and the people--" (she designates the tables and chairs and the other bar patrons occupying them) "--and the concession stand over there?" She points at Violet. "And look, there are the Teacups!" she squeals, waving toward the rotating barstools. "And Space Mountain's right over there!" she adds, pointing at a stairwell. "I can take you for a ride, if you're not too scared!" she teases. "But if you really want some office space, that's why we have UN Building Mgmt (www.nationstates.net/un_building_mgmt); you should contact them."

She triumphantly returns to her spot at the counter, not at all bothered that her extended lunch whiskey had turned into a stakeout of an international tax-cheat. She turns to watch George, the Quodite, and wonders whether he had noticed when she unscrewed his saltshaker whilst his back was turned ...

The door to the bar opens and in steps a man in fice dress and prompty announces "Ladies and gentelmen, all distinguished deligates, I present to you The People's Voice of Kuhanten, Jerensia Draven.". A tall pale man with black hair steps in dressed inblack atire with red trims. "I appologize for this intro if you will....he takes his job a little too seriously." Jerensia walks up to the bar orders an oatmeal stout and sits at the bar drinking.

I'm a sort-of new delgate from the great region of Liberalia.

Whiskey shots on me, boys.

"Guests?" Accelerus shrugged. "I suppose that'd be alright. I need an inconspicuous place to store all my weaponry anyway, and a false wall in a guest bedroom would be just the right kind of place."

He pondered for a moment. "Will you have time to go with me to Showroomtown after the debate on the Sexual Privacy Act?"

Dahlia stared at Accelerus. "Guests? No, Accelerus. I wasn't talking about guests or a place to store your weaponry. I was talking about if we ever have..." She trailed off again and sighed. "I was talking about having children." She took a deep breath to calm herself. "I suppose we could go to Showroomtown after the debate. That is, if we're still talking to each other after it's all done and over with."

Dahlia stared at Accelerus. "Guests? No, Accelerus. I wasn't talking about guests or a place to store your weaponry. I was talking about if we ever have..." She trailed off again and sighed. "I was talking about having children." She took a deep breath to calm herself. "I suppose we could go to Showroomtown after the debate. That is, if we're still talking to each other after it's all done and over with."

"I'm not going to stop talking to you just because we're not always in agreement on politics. I figure it ain't a good idea to take myself that seriously." He grinned and winked.

"As far as kids go, we'll have to work out the practical details when we're settled into a home, but you can have as many rooms as you want in it so things are ready when we do. Does that sound fair?"

"I'm not going to stop talking to you just because we're not always in agreement on politics. I figure it ain't a good idea to take myself that seriously." He grinned and winked.

"As far as kids go, we'll have to work out the practical details when we're settled into a home, but you can have as many rooms as you want in it so things are ready when we do. Does that sound fair?"

She smiled at him and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. "You're right, darling. Besides, we knew from the beginning that we have different political views. As for the rest, we'll go looking around for the perfect house and yes, once we're settled, then we'll consider having as many guests and children that we can sanely handle." She smiled again. "I suppose we should get to the debate, then. I love you, Accelerus." She kissed him again and stood to leave. "Wish me luck, darling!"

"And Space Mountain's right over there!" she adds "But if you really want some office space, that's why we have UN Building Mgmt (www.nationstates.net/un_building_mgmt); you should contact them."

"We already have offices, thank you," said a middle-aged man entering the bar. "But thank you for keeping an eye on the Ambassador. I hadn't realized he wandered off again," the man said to Cmdr. Chiang. "I'm Walter Hessen, Charge d'Affairs for the Ethorelian Mission. This is Ambassador Sir Errol Reudenhaus, who, unfortunately, has been appointed to the UN despite his senility."

Walter grabs the Ambassador by the arm to guide him out of the bar, but turns back to add, "Hopefully I'll be able to keep him out of here until he is recalled, but I'm sure I'll be back." He smiles as he heads toward the door with the elderly Ambassador in tow.

"Very well." Picking up his newly freshened glass, Madison led Sizofren over to the table.

"...that's what she said! - oh, hey George."

George pulled up a couple of chairs, and sat down. Extending his hand, he said, "I don't know everyone, excuse me, but this is Dr. Luc Montsettier, Chair of our Red Cross organization; Samantha Benton, she works with Congress on foreign policy; Elspeth and Anne are both with the Council on Rights?...of some sort, basically they're lawyers so watch your wallet."

Smiling uncomfortably at the mild laughter, he turned to Dr. Sizofren. "And this is Dr. Sizofren, of Havvy: he was discussing our resolution earlier, and joined me for a drink."

"Hello, as George said, my name is Dr. Sizofren, but don't be afraid of calling me Ryan. That is my first name, and is more informal for a place like this bar."

"Dr. Luc Montsettier" "That is a long name. Do you mind if I just call you Dr. Luc? Hello Sam. It's nice to meet you."

With that, Dr. Sizofren extends his hand for a handshake....

"Dr. Luc Montsettier" "That is a long name. Do you mind if I just call you Dr. Luc? Hello Sam. It's nice to meet you."

With that, Dr. Sizofren extends his hand for a handshake....
Luc shook his hand. "Just Luc is fine." Luc glanced a little uncertainly as George poured a streaming mountain of salt over his meal. George looked up, muttering, and headed back to the bar.

"Tell me," he continued, "What are your nation's politics within the UN? We're only really getting to know people."

Bari takes his drink and strolls over to the QUOD delegation's table.

"I couldn't help overhearing you mention that you were new here. It's my first week here as well. I'm Bari Devæno, Cultural Attaché."

"I couldn't help overhearing you mention that you were new here. It's my first week here as well. I'm Bari Devæno, Cultural Attaché."
"Bari, nice to meet you. I'm Luc Montsettier - Luc - with the Quod Red Cross. This is Elspeth, Anna, and Samantha." Each nodded in turn, smiling at the new arrival. "And over at the bar is George. he's sort of in charge, but he wouldn't like to admit it."

"I'm pretty sure our delegation doesn't have a cultural attache. A few CDs and a print-out of The Scream is about it," joined in Samantha.

"Bari, nice to meet you. I'm Luc Montsettier - Luc - with the Quod Red Cross. This is Elspeth, Anna, and Samantha." Each nodded in turn, smiling at the new arrival. "And over at the bar is George. he's sort of in charge, but he wouldn't like to admit it."

"I'm pretty sure our delegation doesn't have a cultural attache. A few CDs and a print-out of The Scream is about it," joined in Samantha.
"Luc, Elspeth, Anna, Samantha, I'm charmed to meet all of you.'

"Samantha, I'm certain that your delegation will be adding a cultural section eventually. These things take some time. Meanwhile, I can offer the services and resources of my office to your delegation. They are at your disposal. Do you mind if I sit?"

"Samantha, I'm certain that your delegation will be adding a cultural section eventually. These things take some time. Meanwhile, I can offer the services and resources of my office to your delegation. They are at your disposal. Do you mind if I sit?"
"No, by all means sit. Though I really doubt we'll be getting any more staff at all."

"Oh, don't start..." began George as he returned, nodding curtly to Bari and passing over a vacant chair.

"See, the wonders of Quodite democracy have gifted us with a Congress that supports the UN, and a State Department that doesn't."

"I don't really think he'll be that interested in our political messes, Sam," said George. "No offence."

She shrugged. "Just sayin'. We might need to borrow some of his CDs."

"No, by all means sit. Though I really doubt we'll be getting any more staff at all."

"Oh, don't start..." began George as he returned, nodding curtly to Bari and passing over a vacant chair.

"See, the wonders of Quodite democracy have gifted us with a Congress that supports the UN, and a State Department that doesn't."

"I don't really think he'll be that interested in our political messes, Sam," said George. "No offence."

She shrugged. "Just sayin'. We might need to borrow some of his CDs."
Bari takes a seat and sips from his vodka and tonic. He then adjusts his Fine Yeldan Wristwatch™, and says "well you certainly have an interesting form of government in QUOD it seems. I try to stay out of Yeldan inter-governmental squabbles myself."

He turns to Samantha.

"Of course you can borrow from our musical collection. If you like, we can go and sample some of it later. There's a wide range of Yeldan music that you may not be familiar with."

Jerensia sat at the bar finished off the oatmeal stout and ordered a different drink this time he got an IPA. "Wow this place is nice...pretty well built. Wonder if I am the only one from The AC region here?"

"Leninia-Trotskyia, it is? Of a leftist persuasion, that would be? Myself, Fabian socialist would I consider."[/B][/SIZE][/I]

Ignatius quaffed the strange liquid his hooded companion had ordered him, remembering a quote from Johann Gabikovos, one of Leninia-Troskya's foremost diplomatic minds, "Alliances begin with drinking and end with spitting."
"Why yes," replied Marco, "I just arrived here a few days ago, comrade. How glad I am, among all these iron-fist consumerists, to find a fellow Socialist!"
He glanced apprehensively around the room, as if to indicate the great number of immorally bourgeois nations represented.
"I myself am more of a Leninist. Does your nation's government share your ideology? If so, perhaps you would consider advising your leaders to join the Communist International?"
He supped his second glass of that likeable stuff he had just discovered. It bore a passing similarity to the whiskey of his homeland.
"Of course, Democratic Socialists, Social Democrats and many other liberal ideologies are welcome also. But enough talk of factions and politics! Tell me about yourself, and your..." he took another sip, "most intoxicating homeland."

"Well, where did you grow up in Ariddia? What were your parents like? Who was your first crush?" His eyes widened at this new information, and his smile grew. He had had no idea that Christelle had a son, though it wasn't a complete shock.

Taking her hand, he gave each of those fingers a kiss, "A son? I would love to meet him. Have you told him about us yet?

John felt a little snubbed by Dr. Sizofren, but he didn't feel bad that the Quodite had ignored him. By virtue of his girth, he was required by international law to be jovial and smiling. The new gentleman had probably just not heard him, and had gone back to his table. John took a sip of his drink, adjusted his tie, and walked over to the table.

There was a Yeldan who had joined them- he could tell because of the watch he was wearing. Even in the Empire, Fine Yeldan Products™ were recognized for their quality.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I saw some new faces. I'm a bit new around here myself. The name's John Hoogelhande. May I join you?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I saw some new faces. I'm a bit new around here myself. The name's John Hoogelhande. May I join you?"
"Please, please. Pull up a chair. I'm Bari Devæno, cultural attaché, you can call me Bari.'

Bari reaches across and extends his hand.

"Please, please. Pull up a chair. I'm Bari Devæno, cultural attaché, you can call me Bari.'

Bari reaches across and extends his hand.

John smiles and shakes his hand. "A pleasure to meet you. Whereabouts in Yelda are you from? I'm an amateur planetographer, always love hearing about new places."

John smiles and shakes his hand. "A pleasure to meet you. Whereabouts in Yelda are you from? I'm an amateur planetographer, always love hearing about new places."
"I was born and raised in Bigiök. It's considered our 'second city', after Yelda of course. It's a port city on the seacoast about 100 miles down the river Slekyva from Yelda. In ancient times it served as Yelda's seaport and thus was always a rather international city. People from Bigiök tend to look down their noses at people from Yelda as uncultured. People from Yelda tend to look that way at us...and everyone else." he chuckles.

*Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, Marlon Brando, Eleanor Roosevelt and Baron Manfred von Richthofen walk past*

Bari lowers his voice and leans toward John. "You know, I still find it disturbing that my government "re-animates" these people. They were dead! Should have left them alone."

"I should probably explain further about Yelda, in case you haven't read any of our publications (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Yelda). The name "Yelda" refers not only to the nation, but the capitol city as well. Centuries ago, before we were the People's Democratic Republic, we were the Yeldan Empire. "Yelda" is also a specific geographic region on our home planet, Trid, and people can be Yeldan citizens and speak the Yeldan language without thinking of themselves as "Yeldan", in a cultural sense."

"I was born and raised in Bigiök. It's considered our 'second city', after Yelda of course. It's a port city on the seacoast about 100 miles down the river Slekyva from Yelda. In ancient times it served as Yelda's seaport and thus was always a rather international city. People from Bigiök tend to look down their noses at people from Yelda as uncultured. People from Yelda tend to look that way at us...and everyone else." he chuckles.

*Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, Marlon Brando, Eleanor Roosevelt and Baron Manfred von Richthofen walk past*

Bari lowers his voice and leans toward John. "You know, I still find it disturbing that my government "re-animates" these people. They were dead! Should have left them alone."

"I should probably explain further about Yelda, in case you haven't read any of our publications (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Yelda). The name "Yelda" refers not only to the nation, but the capitol city as well. Centuries ago, before we were the People's Democratic Republic, we were the Yeldan Empire. "Yelda" is also a specific geographic region on our home planet, Trid, and people can be Yeldan citizens and speak the Yeldan language without thinking of themselves as "Yeldan", in a cultural sense."

"Oh, very interesting, very interesting! Inquisitor Serim was going over some security dossiers in the office and I read up on some nations. It's much better to hear it from a firsthand source, though."

He smiled. "Of course, I'm sure Serim is taping our conversation anyway. Have you seen our Surveillance & Intelligence Command Center? (http://i11.photobucket.com/albums/a188/kuroutesshin/e4star53.jpg) I'm very proud of it, I headed the remodeling."

He smiled and took a drink.

Have you seen our Surveillance & Intelligence Command Center? (http://i11.photobucket.com/albums/a188/kuroutesshin/e4star53.jpg) I'm very proud of it, I headed the remodeling."

He smiled and took a drink.
"Impressive. Tell me about the The Great Star Empire. I assume there are many varied cultures there, as there are in the People's Democratic Republic. Does your government have a policy on maintaining and preserving local cultures?"

"Impressive. Tell me about the The Great Star Empire. I assume there are many varied cultures there, as there are in the People's Democratic Republic. Does your government have a policy on maintaining and preserving local cultures?"

John loosened his tie.

"Oh good lord, there are thousands of cultures. Sometimes it confuses the average citizen to talk about it. Every person that comes from Allech-Atreus isn't an Allech-Atrean, there's no such country. We call ourselves Imperials, because that defines our nation. Cultural attachments come from regions, planets, and local societies. For hundreds of years after the Great Event, there was no contact between the disparate communities on planets across the Empire, and individual societies developed. For example, I was born on the planet Pecktal, which is in the League of Intermediary Systems. I speak Gaddam and Vepazan-da, the two national languages of the Empire, but I also speak Peckshowarram, the language of Pecktal. I'm therefore an Imperial, but I'm also a member of the Peck cultural group."

"There's a common phrase in the Empire, something along the lines of 'the habits of mankind are as myriad as the stars,' or something like that. It's the strong, unifying force of the central Imperial government that unifies our nation. We don't have a national policy of preserving cultures, but the Imperial University scientists keep detailed records of all cultures. In fact, what we call "Imperial High Culture" is really just the culture of the Imperial Core Worlds."

John stopped talking, blinked. "If you'd like to know more, I'm sure I could arrange for some reference materails to be sent over from the Imperial University."

John loosened his tie.

"Oh good lord, there are thousands of cultures. Sometimes it confuses the average citizen to talk about it. Every person that comes from Allech-Atreus isn't an Allech-Atrean, there's no such country. We call ourselves Imperials, because that defines our nation. Cultural attachments come from regions, planets, and local societies. For hundreds of years after the Great Event, there was no contact between the disparate communities on planets across the Empire, and individual societies developed. For example, I was born on the planet Pecktal, which is in the League of Intermediary Systems. I speak Gaddam and Vepazan-da, the two national languages of the Empire, but I also speak Peckshowarram, the language of Pecktal. I'm therefore an Imperial, but I'm also a member of the Peck cultural group."

"There's a common phrase in the Empire, something along the lines of 'the habits of mankind are as myriad as the stars,' or something like that. It's the strong, unifying force of the central Imperial government that unifies our nation. We don't have a national policy of preserving cultures, but the Imperial University scientists keep detailed records of all cultures. In fact, what we call "Imperial High Culture" is really just the culture of the Imperial Core Worlds."

John stopped talking, blinked. "If you'd like to know more, I'm sure I could arrange for some reference materails to be sent over from the Imperial University."

"Well that is very interesting and I'm sad to say that I didn't know any of it. Have someone from your office contact my office and we'll arrange an exchange of information."

"Well, where did you grow up in Ariddia? What were your parents like? Who was your first crush?" His eyes widened at this new information, and his smile grew. He had had no idea that Christelle had a son, though it wasn't a complete shock.

Taking her hand, he gave each of those fingers a kiss, "A son? I would love to meet him. Have you told him about us yet?

Christelle giggled lightly, flexing her fingers.
"Of course I've told him. He's rather curious about you." She smiled. "I grew up in Cité-Belle (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Cit%C3%A9-Belle) and had a very happy childhood. As for my first crush..." She paused, teasingly, and looked at him. "Are you really sure you want to know?" she asked, smiling. She had never seen him jealous yet, and a part of her rather wanted to see what it might be like.

"...arranged to leave tomorrow. I'm sure you'd like to get back soon." The voice of Kagan Ulfar was heard as he entered with a tall, young fellow with untidy brown hair, and a characteristic lab coat.
"Much thanks to that. Messy situation, back there...Who would've thought the surpassion of power would be so...sticky...Take out one dictator, and the next thing you know you're under a UN investigation."
"Well, at least it's over. Hentainova is ou...yours, now..."
"That it is. Go get some drinks." Doctor James Scraps nodded towards the bar as he himself wandered towards a booth, eyeing each occupant within behind dark glasses. Kagan nodded and wandered off, while Scraps plopped himself into his seat, steeping his hands in front of him, pondering what goings on were being instigated here tonight.
"The Playground of the Gods..."

Trent stepped nervously up to the door, adjusting the top of his navy-blue and black dress uniform. As the new UN delegate of the Alistossii people, and the Magistration of Alistoss, he had been worried about the near week and a half travel through Hyperspace just to get to the Transpatial Warpgate closest to the Alissii system. When his ship "unfolded" the hyperspatial warp-tunnel, he was finally comforted when, moments later, his delegate vessel traveled effortlessly through one side of the gate, and ended up in orbit over the bar.

Now, he was about to step into the bar itself, and he was nervous again. He didn't know what to expect: he was told to expect races and cultures both wildly different, less/more advanced, and stranger to him than anything he could possibly know. Taking one final breath, he stepped through.

He found the bar itself quicker than he though he would. Though everything was alien, he felt strangely comfortable. Nodding a bit towards the bartender, he asked him, "Mr. 'Tender, if you would, get me some Alissii Blue-Leaf Vodka, please. If you have any, I may add." As he (hopefully) waited for his drink, he surveyed the room carefully, hoping to learn something about his fellow UN delegates.

Trent stepped nervously up to the door, adjusting the top of his navy-blue and black dress uniform. As the new UN delegate of the Alistossii people, and the Magistration of Alistoss, he had been worried about the near week and a half travel through Hyperspace just to get to the Transpatial Warpgate closest to the Alissii system. When his ship "unfolded" the hyperspatial warp-tunnel, he was finally comforted when, moments later, his delegate vessel traveled effortlessly through one side of the gate, and ended up in orbit over the bar.

Now, he was about to step into the bar itself, and he was nervous again. He didn't know what to expect: he was told to expect races and cultures both wildly different, less/more advanced, and stranger to him than anything he could possibly know. Taking one final breath, he stepped through.

He found the bar itself quicker than he though he would. Though everything was alien, he felt strangely comfortable. Nodding a bit towards the bartender, he asked him, "Mr. 'Tender, if you would, get me some Alissii Blue-Leaf Vodka, please. If you have any, I may add." As he (hopefully) waited for his drink, he surveyed the room carefully, hoping to learn something about his fellow UN delegates.

A second later, a fellow to his left accidentally nudged him, while the contents of a glass became rather intimate with Trents uniform. The young man let out a "Gah! Oh, god, I am so sorry..." He grabbed a handful of napkins. "Really, I am...I didn't see you there, is all..."

James Scraps nearly bit his tongue off as he witnessed Kagan's little 'oopsie'.
I can't even take him out for a drink...
He hopped out of the booth and made his way over.
"I apologize for my associate, he was born with butter for fingers..." He gave Kagan a shriveling look while Kagan merely cowered back and went to order another drink.
"Yours is on me..." He nodded to the barkeep. "James Scraps, yours?"

A second later, a fellow to his left accidentally nudged him, while the contents of a glass became rather intimate with Trents uniform. The young man let out a "Gah! Oh, god, I am so sorry..." He grabbed a handful of napkins. "Really, I am...I didn't see you there, is all..."

James Scraps nearly bit his tongue off as he witnessed Kagan's little 'oopsie'.
I can't even take him out for a drink...
He hopped out of the booth and made his way over.
"I apologize for my associate, he was born with butter for fingers..." He gave Kagan a shriveling look while Kagan merely cowered back and went to order another drink.
"Yours is on me..." He nodded to the barkeep. "James Scraps, yours?"

Looking down again at the stain on his uniform, he simply stated, "Trent Viseraugh, delegate for the Alissii people." He looked up at James, smirking. "I'm glad drink-spilling isn't an Alistoss-only trademark for bars. I was beginning to wonder..." He chuckled lightly, letting himself get more comfortable with his surroundings. "Don't worry about the stain - it's an old uniform, anyway. I was supposed to get a newer one, but I was unable to get it before my departure of the Alissii Solar System. Now," he sighed, "I'm going to have to wait until it gets shipped here. Which will take anywhere from a week and a half, to longer."

Looking down again at the stain on his uniform, he simply stated, "Trent Viseraugh, delegate for the Alissii people." He looked up at James, smirking. "I'm glad drink-spilling isn't an Alistoss-only trademark for bars. I was beginning to wonder..." He chuckled lightly, letting himself get more comfortable with his surroundings. "Don't worry about the stain - it's an old uniform, anyway. I was supposed to get a newer one, but I was unable to get it before my departure of the Alissii Solar System. Now," he sighed, "I'm going to have to wait until it gets shipped here. Which will take anywhere from a week and a half, to longer."


"Especially if it has to go through any form of customs." James smirked.
Kagan returned with their drinks. "Here you are, Governor."
"Thank you, Kagan..." James took his. He handed Trents to him. "So what brings you to the Arena? Certainly not sightseeing..."

"Especially if it has to go through any form of customs." James smirked.
Kagan returned with their drinks. "Here you are, Governor."
"Thank you, Kagan..." James took his. He handed Trents to him. "So what brings you to the Arena? Certainly not sightseeing..."

Trent stared at him for a moment, eyes wide. "Damnit! I forgot about customs! That means it'll probably take 3-4 weeks...damn, and I really wanted that thing..." Trent shook his head, and proceeded to answer the question. "No, I'm not here for sightseeing, or for this 'Arena', whatever it is. I was merely elected to be the UN delegate of my nation, the Magistration of Alistoss. We've got most of our solar system under our banner, but I doubt we'll be crossing into other solar systems for quite some time. It still takes up to a full week to cross half our solar system, even though we use hyperspatial warp-tunneling drives. Hell, took me a week and a half just to reach the closest Transpatial Warpgate that led to here, and I left from Port Nauris, the closest port possible." He shook his head. Port Nauris orbited Alissii Seven, which by sheer virtue of it's orbit had been closer to the Warpgate than any of the other 9 Alissii System's planets.

Taking a sip of his vodka, he was hit by a smash of flavor. "By the Gods, what year is this vodka, bartender? It surely can't be A.L. 13..."

Trent stared at him for a moment, eyes wide. "Damnit! I forgot about customs! That means it'll probably take 3-4 weeks...damn, and I really wanted that thing..." Trent shook his head, and proceeded to answer the question. "No, I'm not here for sightseeing, or for this 'Arena', whatever it is. I was merely elected to be the UN delegate of my nation, the Magistration of Alistoss. We've got most of our solar system under our banner, but I doubt we'll be crossing into other solar systems for quite some time. It still takes up to a full week to cross half our solar system, even though we use hyperspatial warp-tunneling drives. Hell, took me a week and a half just to reach the closest Transpatial Warpgate that led to here, and I left from Port Nauris, the closest port possible." He shook his head. Port Nauris orbited Alissii Seven, which by sheer virtue of it's orbit had been closer to the Warpgate than any of the other 9 Alissii System's planets.

Taking a sip of his vodka, he was hit by a smash of flavor. "By the Gods, what year is this vodka, bartender? It surely can't be A.L. 13..."

"Well, this is certainly refreshing...in the last month alone, I've dealt with evil warlords, dragons, cat people, tentacled beasts, and musclebound supermen, but this is certainly the first time i've met anyone outside the solar system..." He raised his glass to Trent.
"Oh...my manners...James Scraps, High Governor of Hentainova...The dunderhead is Kagan, my eye's, ears and mouth in the UN. I'm merely in town to finalize what's mine, and what's theirs. As is the way of things when one leaders bites off more than he can chew and winds up losing his nation. Then again, you probably aren't concerned about one mere nation, rather whole planets."

"Well, this is certainly refreshing...in the last month alone, I've dealt with evil warlords, dragons, cat people, tentacled beasts, and musclebound supermen, but this is certainly the first time i've met anyone outside the solar system..." He raised his glass to Trent.
"Oh...my manners...James Scraps, High Governor of Hentainova...The dunderhead is Kagan, my eye's, ears and mouth in the UN. I'm merely in town to finalize what's mine, and what's theirs. As is the way of things when one leaders bites off more than he can chew and winds up losing his nation. Then again, you probably aren't concerned about one mere nation, rather whole planets."

Trent raised his eyebrows at the list of things James had dealt with. "Yeesh, I think they should have ordered Capt. Reiner of the Poseidon to be the delegate, especially if I'm going to have to deal with this kinda stuff." Shaking his head, he sighed. "As for dealing with whole planets, I agree. In order to balance out our political domain, we've pretty much made the planet's into states, and the "countries" into counties. Therefore, every county has a representative in their states legislature, and every state has a representative in the Upper Legislation. Unfortunately, things get much more heated between planet-states than they do around the counties." Taking another sip of the vodka, he was once again smashed by the strong flavor. It has to be A.L. 13 vintage...

John was chatting away with the Yeldan, enjoying his drink, when several unfamiliar people walked unsuredly into the bar.

They stood, huddled in a small group near the entrance, dressed in business suits and official robes, looking like they felt out of place. Finally, one youngish mang with short brown hair and blue eyes spotted John and started walking. Like a group of ducks, the others followed him.

"Ah, excuse me? John vor dan Hoogelhande? Chief of Office Affairs?"

John looked up, his smile quizzical. "That's me."

"I'm Brynn Seet, from Balaban. I'm one of the new Consuls Director Pendankr sent, and these-" he gestured- "Are the others. A man with a long beard sent us down here to find you."

John laughed heartily. "Oh, right, right. You're here to coordinate our new dimensional hub. Well, you've found me. Now, I want you all to go find Selvia Mannuschrat, she has your orientation dossiers."

The gaggle of young diplomats nodded and bowed in a chaotic little terpsichore, then turned around and left en masse. John turned back and smiled at the Quodites at the table, who so far had been sitting patiently and listening to him babble about the Empire.

Trent raised his eyebrows at the list of things James had dealt with. "Yeesh, I think they should have ordered Capt. Reiner of the Poseidon to be the delegate, especially if I'm going to have to deal with this kinda stuff." Shaking his head, he sighed. "As for dealing with whole planets, I agree. In order to balance out our political domain, we've pretty much made the planet's into states, and the "countries" into counties. Therefore, every county has a representative in their states legislature, and every state has a representative in the Upper Legislation. Unfortunately, things get much more heated between planet-states than they do around the counties." Taking another sip of the vodka, he was once again smashed by the strong flavor. It has to be A.L. 13 vintage...


"Fascinating...Planetary domination without the fuss." He took a hit from his own drink. "However, you have little to fear of Hentainova...it is a very...unique...Nation...The bastard child of some overly obsessed scientific mind...Reality truly twisted, you should visit sometime."
"Er, sir...I don't wish to interupt, but, should you really be talking about our...situation right now?" Kagan interjected.
"I am perfectly capable of handeling things, Kagan." Scraps side and shook his head at Trent. "See what I have to deal with? So, in essence, this planet is already a 'state' of your 'Galactic nation', whereas a nation such as mine is the equivolent of a 'county' or 'township'. Fascinating. And you are going about this with absolutely no opponents?"

"Fascinating...Planetary domination without the fuss." He took a hit from his own drink. "However, you have little to fear of Hentainova...it is a very...unique...Nation...The bastard child of some overly obsessed scientific mind...Reality truly twisted, you should visit sometime."
"Er, sir...I don't wish to interupt, but, should you really be talking about our...situation right now?" Kagan interjected.
"I am perfectly capable of handeling things, Kagan." Scraps side and shook his head at Trent. "See what I have to deal with? So, in essence, this planet is already a 'state' of your 'Galactic nation', whereas a nation such as mine is the equivolent of a 'county' or 'township'. Fascinating. And you are going about this with absolutely no opponents?"

Trent laughed lightly. "I'm sorry, I should have made it more clearer. So far, only Alissii Prime, our Homeworld, is the only world in the Alissii Solar System that held life. All of the other planets have been terraformed, save Alissii 15 & 16, which are very small dustballs. But essentially, yes - your country would equal a county in our system. It's that way to avoid confusion, and simplify matters." Trent took another sip. He was probably begging to rant - that or lecture, he wasn't sure which. "So, essentially, we have no opponents, save runners and pirates. Although it is quite a trifle to hold down 14 planet-states under one rule, we've allowed for enough freedoms to keep those planet-side from grumbling too much. Hell, each planet-state has a 1 light-year buffer zone that they're allowed to protect via a statewide militia system. That way, the Magistration has it's Starforce, and the planet-states have their own defenses. The Starforce is obligated to defend any planet-state that requests aid, but are otherwise forced to remain outside these light-year buffer zones."

Downing yet another light sip, he continued. "Like any nation, there are always those who want more freedom, the abolishment of the Starforce, et. cetera. Unfortunately, the Alissii people have expanded too far out into the Solar System. Though we have 14 planet-sates in the Alissii body, they're nowhere near full population capacity. The Starforce is stretched somewhat thin from having to patrol every sector of space that doesn't fall into the planet-state's buffer zone." Trent looked down. "It's even more embarrassing to have to acknowledge the fact that there are probably even more advanced societies than we are. It takes us a week to travel halfway through our own solar system - imagine if we were to try to travel intergalacticlly? It would take months!"

"Hmmm..." Scraps nodded some as he drank. "It is not too different from the period here on Earth, where Sailing between continents was so vital to economic stability. All of a nations wealth on a wooden and metal vessel, out to see for maybe months on end to reach it's destination."
Scraps glanced at his watch. He would be needing to leave within the hour if he was going to make that appointment...
"Look at it this way, Trent...You're people then are essentially in the same boat we were in the 15th-18th century, just on a more technological level. The Age of expansion, exploration, discovery...the very things we on this planet have been trying to accomplish since the 1960's. Don't complain too much when it takes you a week to get from one planet to another, when it takes us four days just to reach our moon!" He laughed.

A red Kimonoed woman pushed the doors of the bar open before entering with a double baby buggy.

Midori Kasigi-Nero was back with her twins Suki and Riyku (now 14 months old) and the baby boy and girl were sleeping contently.

Waving over to Yukiko and Raiko she joined them at the bar settling for her usual drink.

A cup of green tea and a chat with her friends was what she needed right now.

"Hmmm..." Scraps nodded some as he drank. "It is not too different from the period here on Earth, where Sailing between continents was so vital to economic stability. All of a nations wealth on a wooden and metal vessel, out to see for maybe months on end to reach it's destination."
Scraps glanced at his watch. He would be needing to leave within the hour if he was going to make that appointment...
"Look at it this way, Trent...You're people then are essentially in the same boat we were in the 15th-18th century, just on a more technological level. The Age of expansion, exploration, discovery...the very things we on this planet have been trying to accomplish since the 1960's. Don't complain too much when it takes you a week to get from one planet to another, when it takes us four days just to reach our moon!" He laughed.

Trent nodded. "Yes, it does seem that we're in the same...er...boat, metaphorically speaking. You rely on your naval vessels, and rely on our starships. Still, I'm glad we joined the UN." He took yet another, final swig. The drinks flavor had been dimming, but only because his tongue was lightly throbbing. "It provides us a small measure of protection from those who may be both aggressive against us and stronger than us. Sure, given some time, the whole Alissii Starforce could assemble proper to defend against any threat. But if a nation could send their starships across the galaxy in days, hours, or even minutes, then how long would our ships last against their?" He looked at his empty glass. "No, the time for expansion is over. Once the new Seat members are sworn in, I think they'll begin with the fortification of what we already have - better technology, better weapons, faster ships, more defensive and offensive means, better hyperspatial technology, et cetera."

He sat the glass down on the old bar. "I am glad my country's getting new Seat members. The older ones were so full of the "Dream of the Stars" that they forgot how to manage that dream. Privateering and Pirating are on the rise, and the Starforce is hard pressed to cover most of the trade lanes, much less chase down pirates into their own domains. The new members have all stated their willingness to boost what we currently have, and not continue to stretch our proverbial muscles too far. May the graces of the Gods keep Alissii herself together."

On floor 38 of the UN Building a young woman stepped through the portal into a construction site....

'After 12 mths you'd think they'd have made some progress. I expect building management is being deliberately obtuse because we noticed their mistake...oh well, I'll hassle them later.'* she thought as she stepped over a pile of woodshavings and into the corridoor.
After taking a small card out of her briefcase and tucking it into a plastic tube, she punched 's-t-r-a-n-g-e-r-'-s--b-a-r' into the electronic pad next to what appeared to be a clear drain pipe and opened a hatch into the pipe. Placing the capsule into the hatch, she closed it and hit a button, before watching it zip downwards.
Within minutes she'd stepped back through the portal, but not before noticing a door to what appeared to be another office. 'Hmm...neighbours.'

For the curious a copy of the card can be seen here:
Front:
http://img441.imageshack.us/img441/6965/islandnh4.png (http://imageshack.us)

Back, right hand side:
Mr N. Chamberlain
c/o The Stranger's Bar
United Nations Building
Neutral Territory
Terra
N0T 3RE

Back, left hand side:
Dear Neville,
this is the seventh letter I've sent and this time I'm making sure it gets to you. The post service has been denying our existence, most annoying.

A lady in red ascerbically informed me that a certain barlord wasn't paying as much attention as befits his role since overhearing of the retreat of Randomea from public affairs, having even had a trial period of removal from the records. Please do not worry, it is merely temporary, the Crown prince is getting married so the Queen called for a 15 month removal from the outside world in celebration. It's traditional.

My poli-princess is three now and looking cuter by the second, she loves to play with the UN mascot on the beach. You can just see him there on the reverse with the ball. He hates photos. Yes, that's the view from my hut - maybe you'll see it some day. Oh, I've called him Timmy, be sure to tell a certain goat owner that next time you see him!

Once again postcards prove pointless as I run out of room. Send my love to everyone at the Bar, friends absent, and especially Violet and Dicey. They work too hard.
May the randomness never end,
Hodgelett Tirith x

* We would like it noted that this is merely an annoyed thought of an individual and no real reflection of the Queen of Randomea's, her ministers', her ambassadors' or her government's real opinions of UNBM.

Dr. Sizofren looks around at the table where some QUOD delegates, Yeldan delegates, and some other person have started talking and interrupting what he was about to say. Dr. Sizfren waits until everyone pauses, and starts to speak.

"Luc, you asked me about my thoughts on politics. Well, I believe that the military should be limited, and that the environment is good. I'll usually support anything as long as my region is interested, and there are no blatant loopholes that Cluich's death star can go through."

"Hello there other members of the General Assembly. How are you doing tonight? I'm glad I'm not the only member from my region anymore who comes to the UN. I believe the delegate of Hentainova is here, and I believe that the nation is a new one to our region. Anyways, I'm going to go get some more drinks for everyone. Do you know what you want?"

Dr. Sizofren is the Havian UN Delegate, and is the regional delegate.

OOC: Sorry I missed a few days from the thread...

The gaggle of young diplomats nodded and bowed in a chaotic little terpsichore, then turned around and left en masse. John turned back and smiled at the Quodites at the table, who so far had been sitting patiently and listening to him babble about the Empire.
As stepped George stepped away to speak to an attendant hovering at his shoulder with an urgent message - they thought he probably used jetpacks - the others turned to internal conversation for a moment.

"Was the Yeldan guy coming on a bit strong?" whispered Elspeth.

"I thought he was...at me, actually," answered Samantha in equally hushed tones.

"I think it was a more general thing," said George, with somewhat less regard for volume. "Listen, Extraordinary Rendition just made quorum, so congrats everyone on that. But, there's a slight problem. It seems Digweed made some, er, statements on the floor, about the current resolution."

"Oh God."

"Yes. They included suggested forced abortion was a 'reasonable' way to offset legalising incest..."

"Oh God."

"Yes."

"We have to keep him away from our debate, when it comes."

"Agreed. I guess I can do it, or one of you - who actually knows what you're talking about - could," he said, pointing to Elspeth and Anna. "Anyway, that's to come. For now - we drink!"

George turned to John. "Sorry, it's John, right? I didn't get a chance to introduce myself before. George Madison. Pleasure to meet you: we don't come across a whole number of Star Empires normally."

"George, much pleased to meet you. Truth be told, we don't come across many small nations such as yours. It can be quite a shock, when your home is defined by the planet you come from. Tell me a bit about your home country, the securty files were so very interesting!"

Flash Blonde enters the bar and seeks out Red Hot, "Holy ... well nothing's really holy in our secular nation so holy nothing! The Conch Revolution has begun!"

"You don't mean ..." Red hot commented.

"Yes I do. Faithful Navigator Marian Red has just declared the nation as the Conch Republic of Retired Werepenguins, disolved all regional ties with the Antarctic Oasis and has joined the newly formed Antarctic Paradise. Do you know what that means?"

"I'm not quite sure ..."

"Neither do I, but we are about to find out," Flash replied. Turning to the bartender he said, "I'll have two key lime margueritas please."

"It's a brave new world."

"Oh and a side order of conch fritters."

http://pic40.picturetrail.com/VOL291/1756382/3421442/220386035.jpg

Christelle giggled lightly, flexing her fingers.
"Of course I've told him. He's rather curious about you." She smiled. "I grew up in and had a very happy childhood. As for my first crush..." She paused, teasingly, and looked at him. "Are you really sure you want to know?" she asked, smiling. She had never seen him jealous yet, and a part of her rather wanted to see what it might be like.

"He is, huh?" Christopher had to admit that he was quite curious about Christelle's son too. After all, this was the first he had ever heard of the boy and it seemed odd not meeting him considering his relationship with the boy's mother.

Taking a sip of his tea and nodding his head, Christopher listened intently to what Christelle said. He didn't know what Ariddia or Cité-Belle looked like, but in his mind they must have been absolutely breath taking places to produce a beauty such as her. One of these days, she would have to take him there so that he could really appreciate her homeland.

"Of course I want to know. I have to see if I stack up compared to him," He grinned, leaning in on the table and waiting to hear who it might have been.

Bump....Bump......bumpppppp....bummmpppp

and on the 5th attempt Sir Albert managed to miss the wall, hit the door and fall into the bar. "by eck, them fact finding tours have some grand bars on t'route".

"Neville, owd bean, a glass o'Bahgumian Blue Brandy and one for everyone else, ah've been away from t'bar for too long".

"nah then, anyone know where ah left t'Bahgumian Mother in Law Squad?"

"We-ellll..." Christelle smiled. "He was quite tall. Dark hair. Lovely smile... Let's see... Nice eyes. Great personality. A bit clumsy, but very caring. Saheb, he was called." She grinned, and with her free hand trailed her fingertips gently over Christopher's nose, lingering on his lips. She gazed into his eyes.

"Jealous?" she whispered teasingly.

"Neville, owd bean, a glass o'Bahgumian Blue Brandy and one for everyone else,

Bari gets Neville's attention and says "Neville, could you make mine a Bahgumian Blue Brandy Alexander, please? Thank you".

http://i18.photobucket.com/albums/b106/Yelda/Bari2.jpg

Dr. Sizofren decides that he is bored here at the bat, and decides to leave. He leaves the bar.

A few seconds later...

Crash! Dr. Sizofren is inside of a hydrogen-powered car, and has crashed into the car behind him.

(Dr. Sizofren is not a drinker, and had tea. nothing else)

As his Yeldan acquaintance turned and ordered his new drink, John finished his.

"Brandy Manhattan, please. No bourbon."

Wlater pulled the door open and entered the room. He crossed to the bar and signalled to the barkeep.

"Could I get a double Berdullian Rum on ice, please."

Sitting at one of the bar stools, Walter rests his elbows on the bar and massages his temples. Life at the UN would not be easy with Sir Errol around. The barkeep placed the drink in front of Walter.

"That'll be seven eighty, gov."

Walter slid the money across the counter and quickly knocked back the rum.

"How about another. Start a tab for me."

The barkeep went to make the second drink while Walter looked around the room. His duties had kept him so busy he hadn't had time to socialize. To accomplish anything in this city, he'd have to, though. The barkeep returned with the second drink. Walter picked it up and moved into the room. He noticed a large table of delegates and moved toward it...

"That depends on when you are available. I'll be free in three day's time. If you can get a flight to the Federation by then, 5:00 in the evening would be a good time to head to the restaurant. That's prior to the dinner hour rush, so we're likely to get a dining room very quickly."


"That sounds perfect, Edward", Cami said with a smile. She took another sip of her drink, and decided she felt perfectly wonderful.

(OOC: Sorry for the delay, was out of town for the holidays!)

"Neville, owd bean, a glass o'Bahgumian Blue Brandy and one for everyone else, ah've been away from t'bar for too long".

"nah then, anyone know where ah left t'Bahgumian Mother in Law Squad?"

Midori smiled and replied "Sir Albert, its good to see you again. Now how could you mislay a MIL squad?"

Chuckling slightly as she asked her question.

"We-ellll..." Christelle smiled. "He was quite tall. Dark hair. Lovely smile... Let's see... Nice eyes. Great personality. A bit clumsy, but very caring. Saheb, he was called." She grinned, and with her free hand trailed her fingertips gently over Christopher's nose, lingering on his lips. She gazed into his eyes.

"Jealous?" she whispered teasingly.

Christopher rolled his eyes a bit as she described him, apparently unimpressed though more than likely attempting to appear that way. Looking at her, he blinked for a moment and then smiled, kissing her finger again, "Jealous? Me? No. Of course not!"

"Well.. maybe just a little, I suppose."

Christelle laughed, then leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose. She ran her fingers gently through his hair.

"I like it when you're jealous," she said, smiling playfully. "It makes me feel special." She kissed him again, softly, on the lips.

Roderick Spear entered the bar. A good-looking woman followed suit.
"I'll have a beer, Zar style," Roderick said to the bartender.
"I'll have the same, please," added the woman.

"Well you are special. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met, and that makes you plenty special," He kissed back before nudging her slightly. A part of him had to wonder if their open displays of affection were noticed, though after taking a look around it certainly didn't appear that way. Looking back to Christelle, he smiled, "So, how are you voting on the latest peice of legislation?"

"That sounds perfect, Edward", Cami said with a smile. She took another sip of her drink, and decided she felt perfectly wonderful.

(OOC: Sorry for the delay, was out of town for the holidays!)

Edward smiled softly and replied, "I'm glad you think so." He took her hand, kissed it gently, and spoke once more. "I have to leave now, but I will see you in three days."

He put a small card onto the table. "That has all my contact information on it. Let me know if you have any problems getting to the Federation or around the city."

(OOC: No worries, I was enjoying my holidays and didn't pay much attention to NS anyway.)

Christelle blushed again, happy at the compliment, then tilted her head questioningly, her hair shifting gracefully over her shoulders.

"The Extraordinary Rendition act? I'm voting in favour. On instructions from my government, of course, but I think it's a very good idea." She caressed his cheek softly, looking at him adoringly. "Have you decided yet, love?"

The best idea ive heard so far u should be delagate leader! :cool:

Outside, at street level, the quiet was being broken (in the same sense that one breaks a plate with a sledgehammer) by a party of men whose voices reverberated from the blank, sightless and thankfully earless walls. Among their thoroughly inebriated group, one man stood alone as being relatively sober - he’d only managed to get down six pints and a triple scotch before they’d been turfed out of the last (extremely neutral) pub and begun to wend their way to wherever they were ending up. His faded, ill-cared-for aircrew uniform bore the nametag “Courror”, along with a pair of wings atop a garish red and yellow “sunburst” flag. Courror, as the most world-weary of them all, was not in the mood to drink any more. His wallet was running dry and besides, if he didn’t shepherd his erstwhile comrades around it was quite likely they’d wind up taking a bath in a reservoir, or deciding to start an amateur boxing club in one of the more genteel clubs of the town, or any one of a thousand other activities to mortifying to imagine. Thus it was with a somewhat tired voice that he joined in their latest chorus: having wrapped up an all-new arrangement of “Show me the way to go home”, they launched straight into their next rendition with tuneless, reckless abandon, the sort of abandon born of a mind desperate to forget the world and escape to the wonderful tranquillity of oblivion.

"We’ll drrrrrrrINK-A-DRINK-A-DRINK to Lily the PINK THE PINK THE PINK, the saviour o-OF the ’ewman ra-A-ace!..." they bellowed, accompanying their with appropriate salutes and colliding unexpectedly with a set of bollards. Courror peeled off, seeing a promising-looking opening, and turned to try and manoeuvre them into position, but they were already steaming away down the road. 'ooo inventEEED medicinal COMpound, most efficashurs in ev'ry caaaase...

“Lads! Lads! I’m pretty sure this isn’t where we’re after… well OK, I’ll go and have a look… oi! Where’re you… oh, fine.” Courror heaved a bored groan as they wended their merry way towards what looked like a housing estate, punctuated by angry hooting and the crash of upended dustbins. “Fine, lads,” he said as he waved and descended the steps towards a rather glitzy-looking door. “See you in the cells tomorrow morning, then.” Abandon like theirs, he reflected, really belonged in Hogarth.

Stepping through the door, Courror was to say the least taken aback. The last time he’d seen a place this classy in such a town was when he’d accidentally ended up walking into the Private Bar of the highest echelons of the Order in Tashkiitsa. Still, since these people didn’t seem to have morning stars to wave at him he felt reasonably safe, and needed only to compose himself a little - for not even world-weariness can shrug off the effects of six pints of strong bitter on an empty stomach fresh from sleep - before descending further into the pub-club-bar-thing’s extensive space. He even managed to doff his hat to the interestingly statuesque chap standing by the door and hand in the weapon he had kept on him even after he’d left the AV-MF - a near-priceless dog-lock pistol that had once belonged to Admiral Tiberius Park himself. Of course, since Park had owned a collection of some seventy-seven pistols alone, this wasn’t an exactly unusual piece. Still, he liked it; it seemed to him truly an example of “an elegant weapon for a more civilised age”, untrue as he knew the supposition to be.

“Don’t play with that!” he snapped at the nervous-looking fellow behind the desk. “I don’t want to have to clean your brains off the walls if it goes off.” He stalked away towards the door, grinning; the poor lad was probably quite unaware of how safe the pistol was. He would have grinned less had he learned that, owing to a quirky device purchased some time prior by the barkeep, the pistol had promptly transformed into a very startled hedgehog.

Courror sauntered in, trying to blend in and succeeding about as well as one can when one is a tired, dirty, scruffily-dressed, hardened cynic with a permanently morose expression and an air of hard-upness, walking into a bar filled with the crème de la crème of international relations. A sore thumb painted magenta, he made his way to the bar, leaned on it in the most casual possible fashion and politely collared a passing member of staff, a rangy figure who darted about with slightly manic energy and appeared to Courror to be on the verge either of breaking down and knocking himself out by banging his head against the counter, or of bursting into Oh, what a beautiful morning! Poor bugger was evidently either in love or a manic-depressive, not that it made the worn-out airman any more polite. Life must go on, after all.

“’scuse me, mate - don’t suppose I could get a pint of your best stout?” He chucked a weathered ten-IsPound note toward the barman, wondering just how much of it would be left when he got the change, and looked both ways along the bar. Strange birdcage-type thing; rather classy pewter mugs (might be worth trying to half-inch one); rather oversized fireplace, the fire in which could probably be used to smelt copper, which was surrounded by chairs and topped, for some inexplicable reason, by a polished frying pan; various amusements, post-it-notes - including an especially prominent postcard above the bar, which Courror surmised might have something to do with the gangly barman’s mental state; yes, this wasn’t a bad place at all to land up. Certainly a damned sight better than some dump in the bottom of a warehouse where the glasses were sticky to the touch and even the Women of Ill-Repute looked like they wanted to be out of the place and onto better clientele. Still waiting for the beer, he caught sight also of just how many couples (or at least about-to-become-couples-as-soon-as-we-can-find-a-corner pairs of people) there were in this place. He snorted irritably and fished around for a fag, uninterested in whether smoking was permitted at the bar or indeed at all. Bloody happy couples. He caught the eye of one young man and gave him back a gimlet look that would have made Stalin shudder. Don’t you worry, sonny Jim, he scowled. It won’t last forever, and when it all goes to hell I’ll still be here, laughing at you. Yes, you! As he turned around to search his pockets, he spotted too a large and very ornate carved sign hanging above the door through which he had just effected his entry. In gilded, filigree letters, it read simply: “The United Nations Strangers’ Bar.”

Oh hell.

OOC note: Islenska, thought it'd be a nice touch to have him react to your character looking around. Anyone else, sorry for the slightly dodgy quality of the post and if it's not up to requirement, thread-runner-types, don't hesitate to tell me so.

...but stopped in his tracks when he saw the shabbily dressed man at the bar looking around. His uniform was stained and worn, and the man looked as if he were on his last dime. In all effects, he looked like an interesting chap to talk with. Walter changed course and walked back to the bar to sit down next to the poor fellow.

"You don't exactly look like you belong here mate. How 'bout I buy you a beer?"

Neville adjusted the postcard (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12184768&postcount=5367) for the 67-and-a-halfth time that morning (Violet had most unkindly interrupted him once to snatch the keys and snort about lovesick idiots who couldn't remember if it was Tuesday or Thursday, which was unjust, because it had to be Tuesday, because that nice lady from Bazalonia had delivered the ... somethings (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12082653&postcount=5195) ... on Tuesday ... unless it was Thursday ...).

Dismissing the problem as irrelevant to a man who had been honoured by seven personal communications from *sigh* Hodgelett *sigh*, even if he'd received only one, Neville stepped back to admire his handiwork ...

... and remembered why this wasn't a smart thing to do when standing on a stepladder. Recumbent on the floor, for a moment he admired the Bar from this unusual angle, giving a respectful nod to the Cute One's birdhouse-like shrine (because, after all, one never knew, with Kawaiians) and making a mental note about polishing the tankards of the Lost but Unforgotten Members.

But the fall seemed to have jarred into action some part of his brain that had been floating in pink-fluffy-cloud-land. Suddenly all the conversations, plots, introductions and snide remarks that he had blissed his way through in the past few hours came thundering back to him. Neville began to babble as he made up for lost time ...

"Yes, you probably are the only one from your region, you're the only one I can ever remember who's ordered oatmeal stout," he told the Kuhanten (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12177467&postcount=5341) delegate.

His hands moved in a blur as he distributed redundant drinks to delegates who had already tapped the resources of Violet or Jimmy, assuring the Alitossian delegate that the vodka was, indeed, AL 13 (and giving him a double because he hadn't thumped the clumsy Hentainovan); mixing a singularly repulsive Blue Brandy Alexander for the new Yeldan Cultural Attache and slipping something a little discomfort-inducing into it because he couldn't stand the way the loon was prancing around doing imitations of Zoolander's (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zoolander) Blue Steel male model; and, on Sir Albert's tab, distributing Bahgumian Blue Brandy to all and sundry.

"You might try the kitchens," he advised the veteran delegate. "I believe I heard one of the MILs say something about sorting Dazza out on proper food hygiene ..." (and if that's where they are, we're going to be eating over-salted everything for the next week, since Dazza won't take kindly to it, he added to himself).

The irruption of the drunken airman into the Bar's sacred precincts caused no pause whatsoever in this electrifying display. Truth to tell, Neville rather liked servicepeople; they drank with a single-minded devotion that few civilians could equal, if they didn't meet their tab or pay for repairs you could just bill their government, and if they got out of line a single glance from Baron von Richtofen (undoubtedly the most senior senior officer present) or from Teddy Roosevelt (Commander-In-Chief, even if foreign and temporally challenged) was usually enough to quell the insubordinate.

Feeling at one with all mankind (the pink fluffy clouds were beckoning again) Neville drew the lad a stout and considered asking him to interpret details of the postcard (which would entail his climbing up to fetch it again, which would mean he would again be touching the very cardboard that she had touched). However, something in the flyboy's demeanour suggested that he was not about to launch into Hello, Young Lovers; that he might, in fact, have a decidedly misanthropic attitude thereunto.

Discretion being the better part of valour, Neville instead concocted his patented hangover remedy and pushed it towards the airman, feeling that a person with a grasp of strategy and tactics might relish this sort of pro-active imbibing.

Noting the charitable gesture of the Ethorelian, he helpfully fudged the latter's tab.

"Drink up," he told the uniformed wreck. "It might help you talk to this guy. Might," he added doubtfully.

Somewhat more innebriated than normal, causing Sir Albert to worry more than usual about avoiding naked flames, he looks around and tries to hide the creeping sense of foreboding as he answered Midori....

"ahem, i'm sure it's no reason to panic, it's only six Bahgumian Mothers in Law that have gone missing, i'm sure they'll turn up in a Bingo Hall or suspiciously close to a site of suspected genocide..........."

"Officially they aren't classed as weapons of mass destruction, so ah don't need to organise a mass evacuation due to loss of WMDs....", slurred Sir Albert, casually forgetting to mention that this was only because the UN couldn't agree on the name of the terror category above WMD.

"everyone should relax, stay calm and have another Bahgumian Blue Brandy courtesy of Bahgum" and with that he sat down at the only fully armoured corner table in the bar, hoping that the shakes were due to the alcohol.....

Oh hell… oh holy bloody hell… Courror did not panic often. Thirteen years in the AV-MF, flying machines that ought to have been made into razor-blades long before he was even a glint in his dad’s eye, had done wonders for his already fairly well-established sense of self-confidence. However, he was no fool; he could pretty well guarantee that as soon as his status as a jobless, essentially nationless, semi-penniless (and wholly witless) ex-airman became apparent, he would be ejected post haste from the Bar - and somehow, he doubted that it would be through the main doors. Judging from the interesting scents issuing from what he took to be the kitchen, he didn’t want to end up out in whichever alley this place dumped its less desirable leftovers, both from the kitchen and from the bar floor. He glanced around with a sudden jolting nervousness, but nobody seemed to have noticed yet, or at least, nobody had noticed and managed to drag themselves away from the arms of their prospective breeding partner/newspaper/chair/position slumped in the corner covered in what appeared to be an inch of dust and several cobwebs. Still, he was not the most optimistic man by nature, and realised with a feeling of empty dread in the pit of his gut that it was only a matter of time. He could bear the humiliation well enough; it was the thought of returning outside, to the unbearable neutrality of this strange place, and having to locate his former companions that really unnerved him. Last time this had happened they’d broken into a zoo and made use of their pistols to allow the escape of two dozen bonobo chimps. He wouldn’t have minded, but the bloody things would have to make their way to the boarding school at which the Major’s two young daughters were both resident…

Thus it was with not a little dampening of the formerly vivid colour in his face that he turned back to the bar, quietly lighting the crudely-rolled smoke and watching the barman’s activities with a black smile that remained fixed even as the unfortunate (and clearly quite hopelessly smitten) gent collapsed out of sight. Courror lifted his glass slightly in a greeting as the barman approached holding a second drink. Puzzled, he gave it an experimental sniff and recognised instantly the famous Winter Washout, a hangover-killer from back in the good old days. Need a re-invigorate? Get a Winter Washout, mate! From when men were men, women were women and I wasn’t screwed. The barkeep was evidently on the ball - well, when he could wrest his mind from the contemplation of whichever feminine creature had written the Sacred Postcard, at any rate. A good bloke, Courror considered slowly through the fog, and took a deep drag on the Cancer Stick. And not unworthy of pity, for love was not, so far as the pilot was concerned, a many-splendoured thing at all. Rather, his view of love was like his view of Libertarianism: the promise was always wonderful, the reality invariably painful and damaging, and he felt sympathetically certain that this love was no different. It always fell apart in the end. Not to mention being bloody pricey while it was working…

A first, large gulp of stout washed down his gullet, removing some of the residual tobacco taste - a phenomenon to which he had given the highly scientific and precise term Crap Mouth, and he stared, semi-vacantly, into the glass. Stout is good. Black, deep, deep black. Like life, really. Courror’s brain entered a state of stupefaction, the kind of stupefaction brought on by both drink and an utter lack of anything even remotely acceptable to say, and he made no objection to the offer from this complete stranger who approached him and offered to purchase his next pint. Not even the announcement of a gaggle of missing in-Laws could actually worry him sufficiently to make a difference; he simply accepted it with a grunt and stubbed out the cigarette that had burned away to a tiny stub in his fingers before he’d even had chance to smoke much of it. Nor, indeed, did he fail to accept the two interesting blue drinks that were given to him as he continued to watch the bar staff at work. He might be miserable, and he certainly wasn’t what one might call “genteel” by nature, but there was no need to be actively impolite, after all; and besides, he might as well enjoy the hospitality of the Bar while he could. In any case, he was rapidly approaching a place in his psyche that effectively precluded any speech at all beyond grunts (or semi-deranged shouting).

Still staring at the deep black beer in his hand, Courror ceased any protests and let himself plunge into the murky recesses of his memory. A small part of him hoped that maybe this time would help to cleanse his spirit a little, knowing in the moment of thought that it would not. Unfortunately, he was dragged back from the pleasant hopelessness of drunken despair by the barkeep’s excellently-timed comment, which most annoyingly forced his brain to lean back from the inviting abyss and engage in actual conversation.

“Eh? Oh, yesh. Thanks mate.” He retrieved the change, noting with surprise that the drink appeared to have cost remarkably little, and perking up in the knowledge that he would at least get a good few in before getting chucked out. Knocking back yet more of the stout (the glass was by now half-empty) he added: “Nice postcard. Anywhere special?” before lurching round, in an exercise designed to allow him to maintain his lean on the wood-topped counter, to face the newcomer who had so kindly purchased another pint for him. “Oh… thanks very much…er… sir.” Courror grinned semi-wryly through the fuzziness. “Much obliged to you.” He sighed deeply, drank another quarter of the first stout and, addressing nobody in particular, said simply, “Not a bad li’l pub, this. What’s its, er… function? Er… sir?” Well done, bone-brain. Way to seem respectable, his brain drawled to itself. Now they’re really gonna be inclined to be clement when they realise who you aren’t. It didn’t help that Courror was completely at a loss as to how to address this individual, who seemed, like the barman, a kindly soul and not without brains but was quite clearly one of the Elite - and probably, said the more hardened Working Class Man part of him, the sort that would bloody insist on the capital E... but it was wrong, he knew, to allow one’s prejudices to take over, and he so he suppressed them admirably and proffered a surprisingly clean hand to the evidently equally tired man. “Courror, 526298. Naval Aviation.” Smile. Still feeling as though it were strangely detached from his body, he obeyed his brain’s instruction diligently and put on what was, for him, a pretty warm and friendly semi-rictus. Only his eyes belied it, but nobody had looked into them for years anyway and he had long since given up believing that anybody ever would, should or indeed could.

"Maybe your MILs have all run away to join the circus," suggested Violet, coming up behind the Bahgumian and planting a kiss on his sozzled head. "Well, everybody else is doing it," she said, in response to a Look from Neville. "Kissing, I mean. Not joining the circus.

"But tell me, Sir Albert, when did the MILs become so aggressive?" she asked curiously, securing one of the blue drinkies for herself (another Look). "I was over there dusting the Ancient Lump the other day" -- she pointed to the immobile delegate -- "somebody has to keep things noice, after all. Anyway, while I was near him I heard this kind of whispering, and it was all about the old days. Like, I got the impression that the MILs used to stop people actually killing each other in brawls and arguments and such. Before Neville got the Acme Weapons Transmogrifiers in, of course."

"It just goes to show," said Neville sanctimoniously, "a force assembled for peaceful purposes can all too easily be turned to aggression. That's why I think it would be a mistake for the UN ever to Ooowwww!"

Violet's debating tactics were pretty basic, but usually successful, especially when wearing stiletto heels.

mixing a singularly repulsive Blue Brandy Alexander for the new Yeldan Cultural Attache and slipping something a little discomfort-inducing into it because he couldn't stand the way the loon was prancing around doing imitations of Zoolander's (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zoolander) Blue Steel male model;
Unfortunately, Yeldans being human in much the same way that cats are not, the concoction has exactly the opposite of its intended effect. In fact, it has the effect of a line of cocaine with a viagra kicker.

Bari locates a nearby karaoke machine and delivers a sensual rendition of Marvin Gaye's Let's get it on (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k93YZdGxrgk).

Somewhat more innebriated than normal, causing Sir Albert to worry more than usual about avoiding naked flames, he looks around and tries to hide the creeping sense of foreboding as he answered Midori....

"ahem, i'm sure it's no reason to panic, it's only six Bahgumian Mothers in Law that have gone missing, i'm sure they'll turn up in a Bingo Hall or suspiciously close to a site of suspected genocide..........."

"Officially they aren't classed as weapons of mass destruction, so ah don't need to organise a mass evacuation due to loss of WMDs....", slurred Sir Albert, casually forgetting to mention that this was only because the UN couldn't agree on the name of the terror category above WMD.

"everyone should relax, stay calm and have another Bahgumian Blue Brandy courtesy of Bahgum" and with that he sat down at the only fully armoured corner table in the bar, hoping that the shakes were due to the alcohol.....

Midori took her tea over to where Sir Albert and Violet was content that Suki and Riyku would be fine with her friends.

"Then I'm assured that theres nothing to worry about" she replied with a little smile on her face.

"I also see that some things haven't changed here. Did you know that Kaigan got a promotion and a recall home?"

Unfortunately, Yeldans being human in much the same way that cats are not,

OOC: H'mm. Would this mean that the UN's 'Human Rights' resolutions don't apply to them?

OOC: H'mm. Would this mean that the UN's 'Human Rights' resolutions don't apply to them?
OOC: Didn't we have this discussion in the "Rights of biological Sapients" thread? The Bar probably isn't the place for this, but since the whole UN forum is pretty dead nowadays anyway....

Instead of cats, I should have used a term like Bonobos or something, but it's actually closer than that. A biologist would classify Yeldans as human, but most likely not Homo sapiens sapiens. It would be H. sapiens yeldansis or something. There's non-human (though humanoid) stuff mixed in there, but I never have bothered to work out their exact genetic make-up. Something for the wiki, I guess. I left a couple of clues here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12017779&postcount=4806) and here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12017848&postcount=4809) to indicate that there is "alien" DNA present, and that the Yeldans would probably prefer not to discuss it publicly.

...before lurching round, in an exercise designed to allow him to maintain his lean on the wood-topped counter, to face the newcomer who had so kindly purchased another pint for him. “Oh… thanks very much…er… sir.” Courror grinned semi-wryly through the fuzziness. “Much obliged to you.” He sighed deeply, drank another quarter of the first stout and, addressing nobody in particular, said simply, “Not a bad li’l pub, this. What’s its, er… function? Er… sir?” Well done, bone-brain. Way to seem respectable, his brain drawled to itself. Now they’re really gonna be inclined to be clement when they realise who you aren’t. It didn’t help that Courror was completely at a loss as to how to address this individual, who seemed, like the barman, a kindly soul and not without brains but was quite clearly one of the Elite - and probably, said the more hardened Working Class Man part of him, the sort that would bloody insist on the capital E... but it was wrong, he knew, to allow one’s prejudices to take over, and he so he suppressed them admirably and proffered a surprisingly clean hand to the evidently equally tired man. “Courror, 526298. Naval Aviation.” Smile. Still feeling as though it were strangely detached from his body, he obeyed his brain’s instruction diligently and put on what was, for him, a pretty warm and friendly semi-rictus. Only his eyes belied it, but nobody had looked into them for years anyway and he had long since given up believing that anybody ever would, should or indeed could.

"Walter Hessen," he responded as he shook the airman's hand. The grip was firm and strong, demonstrating more so than the uniform that he was a military man. "Charge d'Affairs for the Ethorelian UN delegation," Walter continued. "Nice to meet you." Courror looked impossibly tired. No. More than tired. Weary unto death explains it better. And at least slightly drunk.

"We don't get many military men in here. Even though there're quite a few in the area, they mostly stay away. I think they can't stand us diplomats," he said with a chuckle. "Not that I can blame them much." He winked, "I can't stand most of the diplomats either." The airman smiled blackly at him. It was an eery sight. The smile never reached his eyes. Scary.

Walter forced himself to continue the conversation, "Naval airman for whom, exactly?" Draining his drink and noticing that Courror had done the same, Walter signalled to Neville for another round...

At roughly this point, a man in a well-kempt beard, just starting to go gray, and a red smoking jacket has arrived in the UN's bar. The symbol on his lapel, a half-gear, half-blue swirl, marks him as a member of the Continent Arcanum delegation. His face shows a rather large amount of fatigue, and he approaches the bar with an expression of intense relief.

"Scotch, please, on the rocks."

His accent is not particularly noticeable - likely trained away in some school years ago.

John was sitting at the table with the Yeldan and the Quodites, and Dr. al-Satal was still sitting, enthralled with the Kriovalian god-golem. All of a sudden everyone in the room felt a strange tingling feeling up and down their skin, and if anyone had been looking at the center of the bar they would have seen an odd shimmering in the darkness of the bar, almost like looking at a mirage that extended to the ceiling.

The phenomenom continued only for a few moments, and with nary a sound there suddenly appeared a man where there was no man before. He was dressed in a white labcoat, with short-cut brown hair and wire-rim glasses. He was holding a long steel rod topped with a blue gem in one hand, and a complicated looking square box in the other.

Blinking in bewilderment, he looked around the bar, hoping to see something familiar. Swallowing, he cleared his throat and spoke.

"Ah-uh.. well, uh... Has anyone seen a big piece of metal that looks like an inside-out engine? It's rather important."

Blinking in bewilderment, he looked around the bar, hoping to see something familiar. Swallowing, he cleared his throat and spoke.

"Ah-uh.. well, uh... Has anyone seen a big piece of metal that looks like an inside-out engine? It's rather important."

"Not since I got back from my trip in the TARDIS," Harvey answered (without bothering to make himself visible to the person whom he was addressing, let alone to anybody else...): "Just how big a 'big' piece of metal are you talking about, anyway?"

Invisible Wabbits;12216678']"Not since I got back from my trip in the TARDIS," Harvey answered (without bothering to make himself visible to the person whom he was addressing, let alone to anybody else...): "Just how big a 'big' piece of metal are you talking about, anyway?"

The man blinked wildly at the voice that was coming seemingly out of nowhere.

"Uh... Aunt Margaret? No, wait, she's not dead yet... well, whoever and wherever you are... it's about the size of a desk. And it glows sometimes. And is shiny."

Flash Blonde enters the bar with Red Hot at his side, "So it's metal, the size of a desk, shiney and occasionally glowing? No I don't think I've seen it."

"Ah-uh.. well, uh... Has anyone seen a big piece of metal that looks like an inside-out engine? It's rather important."

"I HAVE BEEN CALLED A BIG PIECE OF METAL," the Colossus intoned, turning away from the shrine. "I DO NOT BELIEVE THAT I RESEMBLE AN...INSIDE-OUT ENGINE."

"No," Jevo followed half-drunkenly, "you 'resemble' some modern artist's metallic nightmare. Heh." The ambassador appeared to be lost in thought for a few seconds. "Somethin' I've been meanin' to ask...how's it that you're here and I'm guessin' that all the souls and bodies and everything's gettin' to the right place?"

"DO YOU WISH TO SEE FOR YOURSELF?"

"Nah...s'okay." Then Jevo realized the implications of the metallic construct's question, and he quickly downed the contents of his glass before motioning for a refill.

"Uh... Aunt Margaret? No, wait, she's not dead yet... well, whoever and wherever you are... it's about the size of a desk. And it glows sometimes. And is shiny."

Walter stopped talking to the airman long enough to reply to the confused-looking professor, "I believe I saw it double parked out front as I was coming in tonight."

He thought for a moment, "By now, though, they've probably towed it to an impound lot. Sorry mate." He returned to his conversation with the airman...

The out-of-place scientist looked downtrodden for a moment, and peered around the bar. He was, after all, in an unfamiliar place full of people he didn't know, so he wasn't sure how much he could trust them.

It was then that he spotted John Hoogelhande.

"My god... John? Is that you?"

John turned from his drink to face the labcoated newcomer, blinked, and grinned.

"By the Emperor, Junas Varik! What are you doing here?"

Varik grinned wryly. "I don't even know where here is. I was doing some late-night work at the University and suddenly I was here."

John laughed. "Well, this is the United Nation's Stranger's Bar. You've found your way into the United Nations building. What kind of research?"

"Top secret, really."

The two men laughed, and fell silent. A moment of awkward quietude came, and then Junas opened his mouth to speak. He suddenly got a strange feeling, like his skin was crawling. As a matter of fact, everyone else in the bar was feeling the same strange skin-crawly electric jig on their skin.

Once again, the air in the center of the room shimmered and glistened, and where once there was a table and a few chairs, there was now a large metal object about the size of a desk, looking like an inside-out engine, glowing slightly blue and humming lightly.

Junas gasped. "Oh lord! There it is!" He rushed over, grabbed a tablecloth, and threw it over the thing to hide it.

To John and maybe a few others, the type of research Junas had been doing was clear, but it involved an entirely too long and complicated name and explanation to be of any use to expound on. But what only Junas would know when he returned home (whenever that would be, there would be a table and set of chairs sitting on his lab table, each one stamped on the bottom with "Propert of UN Building Management."

Hopefully, Neville wouldn't mind, seeing as how it was hardly intentional.

"Bill? Frank? Louise? Are you still here, somewhere?" enquired Harvey.
"No? Oh well," he continued, "I guess you're probably wherever that thing came from. Have fun, and come back when you can!"

Deputy Ambassador Kim Min-Sun (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Kim_Min-Sun) approached the Strangers' Bar, her footfall echoing down the cold, deserted corridor of the building's 13th floor. She reached the door, and brushed some of the dust carefully off the handle, avoiding the tattered, abandoned cobweb that hung from it. She pushed the door open with squealing creak, stepping into darkness.

Min-Sun fumbled for the light, her hand finding the switch with an audible click in the utter silence. The lights flickered, went on for a moment - giving her a view of the dusty bar, and, she thought, of a hunched figure somewhere towards the back - then went out again.

A moment later, of their own accord, the lights came on once more, and she blinked. Over there, at the back, in the gloom, there was indeed what might pass for a humanoid figure. She shivered, deciding not to venture too close, and instead made her way up to the bar itself.

"Neville?" she called out cautiously.

A figure in the back took another drink from his glass of Wild Turkey, and said
"Neville ain't here sweetheart. While you're standing there, could you switch the TV to ESPN2?"

Sen. Sulla then lit up one of his Lucky Strikes.

The barbot tossed her the remote and the Deputy Ambassador zapped through all the channels looking for something familiar. She found it too easily. The airways were filled with one single image. All the channels in the world seemed to be on live, their cameras zooming in on the UN building as dark clouds where forming above it. The bar fell silent, all eyes trained on the flickering images as they where joined by a familiar dark voice coming through the speakers.

A figure in the back took another drink from his glass of Wild Turkey, and said
"Neville ain't here sweetheart. While you're standing there, could you switch the TV to ESPN2?"

Sen. Sulla then lit up one of his Lucky Strikes.

Startled, Min-Sun looked over at the shape still in the semi-lit back of the room.

"Have you been here all this while? The whole place seems abandoned..." She picked up the remote, apologising to the newly arrived delegate from the underbrush, and switched to ESPN2.

"I suppose we should get our own drinks?" she asked with a nervous little smile.

"I think Jimmy might be in the back. But if he isn't then go for it...just don't break anything. Neville and Dicey frown on that sort of thing."

Sen Sulla resumed watching the Black Widow in the Semi-Finals of Womens 9-ball Championship

Janvier Solana walked into the bar for his first time. He peered into the group of people looking for a friendly face.

"I think Jimmy might be in the back. But if he isn't then go for it...just don't break anything. Neville and Dicey frown on that sort of thing."


"All right..." Min-Sun said, somewhat uncertainly. She hesitated a moment longer, then poured herself a drink, scribbling it down on a note of paper so they would know what she owed them. She looked over to the door as it opened, and a stranger walked in.

She lifted her glass with a friendly smile.

"Welcome to the Strangers' Bar!"

-Sorry for turning on the VCR instead of the TV, the Underbrush delegate mumbled, backing and bowing out the door.
-I've never been a very technical person, hope you didn't loose too much of the match. I'll just shuffle back to my office and read through all the manuals I can get hold of, bye for now.

Janvier walked over to where the Arridian Deputy Ambassador had waved to him, and he introduced him self.

"hello" he started out. "im Janvier Solana".

Min-Sun smiled brightly.

"Hello!" She lifted her glass. "It seems to be self-service today. I'm Kim Min-Sun, of Ariddia. 'Deputy Ambassador', if you want the formal title. I'm more of a secretary, really." She took a sip of her drink. "I don't think I've seen you before... Ambassador?"

Janvier smiled "you can just call me Jan if you want, Ambassador Solana sounds way too formal" He then poured himself a drink and asked Min-Sun "Do you know where all the bar staff are, and this Neville i've heard about?"

Min-Sun shook her head.

"I have no idea. When I came in here the lights were out, and it was deserted, except for" - she lowered her voice - "that man over there in the back. You might want to try the back room, though."

Reveling in an all-too-typical Kennyite sense of self-satisfaction, Mark Reyes strode into the famed drinking establishment, only to find it near-barren. A slight look of disappointment crossed his face as he scanned the sparse population: a family obligation had brought him to UNHQ, and a desire to expand his, er, "business operations" had naturally lured him to the bar, where legends had told of sentient dragons, and witches, and robed otaku, and cute shrines, and magic cats who frequented the joint -- all presided over by a rather unfortunately named (and, some said, sexually ambiguous) bar lord -- but he saw none of them here; just a man he thought was Sen. Sulla, and some other guy, chatting with some lady he didn't recognize from behind. Perhaps everyone had been cleared out for a renovation (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=516131)?

Disappointed, the hotel-heir-turned-ambassador concluded he would not be gaining any new clients today, and was about to bail, when -- Wait a second ...

He recognized the young lady (ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Kim_Min-Sun) after all. It had been a few months since their original encounter (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11920039&postcount=27) at Dahlia and Accelerus' wedding, but it was definitely her. He'd first approached her with a "entrepreneurial" proposition in mind, but he never had a chance to discuss it with her. He'd left her his card, but as far as he knew, she hadn't called. That he did not quite understand; the card did say, "willing to travel," right there in the corner, but he wouldn't trouble himself too much over to aberration.

As he made his way through the mass of abandoned tables and chairs toward the counter, for a moment he wondered if the girl would even remember him, but immediately banished the thought: Of course she'd remember (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12079468&postcount=163) him, he told himself with about as much arrogance as he could muster. How could she not?

"Hello again," Reyes said smoothly to the woman, brimming with self-assuredness as he flashed her a generous smile. "It's been awhile," he recalled, stealing a moment to take in his acquaintance's appearance; just as cute as ever, and a bit more professional-looking since her promotion. His own wardrobe had pimped out considerably since his dad had cut him off; lucky for him, "business" was profitable.

"If Neville ever does get back, can I buy you a drink?" he asked.

Neville knew in an instant where he was. The complete lack of all life -- except the delegate from East Hackney, who was, seemingly, a constant on all planes of existence -- was a pointer.

But more convincing was the shimmering presence of the real Bar. He reached out, knowing what he would find; and, indeed, there it was: an apparent pane of plate glass between himself and world. As he pushed, it receded, and he knew that if he continued, it would shrink frustratingly to the size of a television screen, but he would still be able to see every regrettable detail of what was happening in his absence.

He had been carefully instructed at BarLord U: "Tempt not the Gods." But he had, of course, often and enjoyably, slipping various evil concoctions to various evil customers -- he remembered even now the debacle when, trying to take out Bahgum's Sir Albert, he had instead mickey-finned his beloved Randomean, Hodgelett.

There had been no other-worldly retribution for that, or for the others. This time, however, he had (quite reasonably, in his opinion) "negatively adjusted" a Yeldan drink. Evidently the capricious and arbitrary BarLordian Gods loved Yeldans. In their eyes, no doubt, the whole nation was 10ft tall and bulletproof (even, it seemed, their smarmy Cultural Attaché, Bari Devæno, who was obviously the reason he was now stuck here, in the outermost circle of BarLordian Hell).

Well, there was nothing for it. His instructors, wise in the ways of young BarLords, had been careful to see that all their students knew the price they would have to pay once their transgressions landed them here. He would have to mix, and drink, a number of cocktails. No matter how carefully he mixed them, they would all taste subtly wrong. The number would be proportional to the gravity of the offence. Once he reached it, he would be transported back to real life.

Better get started, then. He could see from the scene in front of him that new customers were coming in, old customers were standing around drinkless, Jimmy had sloped off somewhere (of course) and Violet had the day off to do an exam in her interminable labour relations law course. It was all (he decided, his vanity surging) Up To Him.

Defiantly, the first he mixed was the one that had started all this: a Blue Brandy Alexander. It was revolting. But surely an offence against the creepy Yeldan wouldn't carry a very heavy penalty ...

Thirty-six monstrous cocktails later, a green-faced Neville popped back into existence behind the real-life Bar, slurred "Drinks onna house!" and collapsed, singing.

"Tch, tch, how unprofessional!" clucked Jimmy, closing a dubious website and reluctantly turning to assuage the thirsty customers.

Min-Sun turned... and a smile lit up her face.

"Mark Reyes! Thank you, but I've already got a drink." Her smile widened. "It's been a while! How have you been?"

She jumped slightly as the bartenders suddenly appeared.

"I... Uhm, how much do I owe you for this?" she asked Jimmy.

Janvier stood up quickly in suprise as he saw the Bartenders appear out of nowhere, but then sat down again.Then he looked to Min-Sun and asked "are you leaving already?"

"Didn't you hear Himself?" demanded Jimmy sourly, slopping drinks as he dealt with the rush. "It's on the house. And guess who'll come to with a hangover and complain about the expense, eh? And guess who he'll blame, eh? And he can't even sing!"

"It's that one about the hedgehog, isn't it?" Dicey Reilly asked brightly. "I know all the words," she added proudly, joining in.

"There goes the neighbourhood," Jimmy muttered.

"Me?" Min-Sun turned from Mark to Janvier Solana, a little surprised. "No, why? Oh. No, I was just asking, since the bartender has appeared..." She trailed off.

Janvier looked a little embarassed and said "oh i was just wondering, it sounded like you were going." He then looked over to where Jimmy and Neville were standing "Wow, the entire bar seems to have livened up since the bartenders came back."

Min-Sun smiled slightly.

"It's usually that way." She looked at Mark again. "I'm sorry... You were saying?"

Min-Sun turned... and a smile lit up her face.

"Mark Reyes! Thank you, but I've already got a drink." Her smile widened. "It's been a while! How have you been?"

She jumped slightly as the bartenders suddenly appeared.

"I... Uhm, how much do I owe you for this?" she asked Jimmy."It's on me," Reyes announced to Jimmy as he produced a few crisp UN credits. "And give me a glass of what she's having, will you?"

That was one business item out of the way; now to sort the next (then, hopefully, he could negotiate a third). Suavely he executed the Ariddian's rescue from tedium as he deftly placed his arm around her and gently turned her away from the Cookeslander. "Sorry, dude," he informed his rival: "Miss Min-Sun and I have a small matter to attend to, then we'll be right with you."

He returned his attention to the girl, sure to turn on all his flirtatious charms for her. "I just wanted to get rid of him," he smiled. "Anyway, what were you asking? How have I been? Very gainfully employed, thank you very much. I was in town to help my dad open a hotel in Sovereign UN Territory, then I heard you were all alone down here, so I thought I'd swing by to keep you company!" He winked at her. It was a bald-faced lie, to be sure, but at least it was a pleasant one.

"What about you?" he inquired. "Whatchoo been up to since the wedding?"

"It's on me," Reyes announced to Jimmy as he produced a few crisp UN credits.[OOC: Oops. Drinks are free, are they? Ignore that remark. http://209.85.48.12/6802/45/emo/emotions33%5B1%5D.gif]

"It's that one about the hedgehog, isn't it?" Dicey Reilly asked brightly. "I know all the words," she added proudly, joining in.

"A HEDGEHOG IS A SMALL MAMMAL WITH SPIKES," the Colossus said rather loudly, but to nobody in particular. Then he turned to face Dicey - from across the room - and asked, "IS IT A LONG SONG? ARE HEDGEHOGS SUFFICIENTLY COMPLEX TO MERIT A LONG SONG?"

"There goes the neighbourhood," Jimmy muttered.

"Tell me about it," Jevo said miserably. "Seeing as how drinks are free," he continued, perking up, "could you get me something strong?"

"A HEDGEHOG IS A SMALL MAMMAL WITH SPIKES," the Colossus said rather loudly, but to nobody in particular. Then he turned to face Dicey - from across the room - and asked, "IS IT A LONG SONG? ARE HEDGEHOGS SUFFICIENTLY COMPLEX TO MERIT A LONG SONG?"

There were any number of other matters she should have been attending to -- including the recusant Ardchoillean Ambassador to Ausserland, who was apparently trying to disguise himself as a monk, and her obviously insane intern, who had just announced her intention of having a chat (chat!) with the Kennyites' Cdr Chiang -- but, somehow, Dicey felt compelled to answer her imposing questioner.

"It's one of those songs that goes on as long as anyone can think of animals with, um, the appropriate equipment," she said guardedly. "You just have to adjust the rhymes. Like, 'ladder' is easy, but 'thermo-nuclear device' isn't. But the chorus stays the same, no matter what."

Feeling she had explained enough, she listened intently to Neville, who had picked up on the mention of ladders, and joined him in carolling happily about their possible uses in conjunction with giraffes.

A rather be-draggled slightly injured and pantless Bazalonian UN Ambassador (and regional delegate) stumbled into the bar and collapsed on the floor...

"Forhey's" was the one word he was able to say before coming unconcious.

... "Forheys!" ...

"Fivesies," agreed Neville. "Sixies, sevensies, eightsies, ninesies, ten!" He staggered round the bar to the Bazalonian's side, then slumped into companionable unconsciousness beside him.

Jimmy, however, was in a dispensing whirl, and pulled the desirable brew with scarcely a pause. Still out of temper because Neville's sudden reappearance had interrupted his online distractions, he thumped it disdainfully on the counter, sloshing half the liquid gold out of the frost-dewed glass.

It pooled consideringly beside the glass, then snaked a rivulet towards the edge of the bar. This was a top quality beer; the quality of this beer was not strained. It dropp-ed as the gentle rain from heav'n upon the face beneath. It was twice blest; it bless-ed him that gives and him that takes.

Suavely he executed the Ariddian's rescue from tedium as he deftly placed his arm around her and gently turned her away from the Cookeslander. "Sorry, dude," he informed his rival: "Miss Min-Sun and I have a small matter to attend to, then we'll be right with you."

He returned his attention to the girl, sure to turn on all his flirtatious charms for her. "I just wanted to get rid of him," he smiled. "Anyway, what were you asking? How have I been? Very gainfully employed, thank you very much. I was in town to help my dad open a hotel in Sovereign UN Territory, then I heard you were all alone down here, so I thought I'd swing by to keep you company!" He winked at her. It was a bald-faced lie, to be sure, but at least it was a pleasant one.

"What about you?" he inquired. "Whatchoo been up to since the wedding?"

Min-Sun smiled at him. She had almost forgotten how handsome he was. And quite the charmer.

"Oh, I've been all right," she said vaguely, enjoying his company. "I'm a deputy ambassador now! Not that I'd want to go and talk in the GA... Min-Sun's my given name, by the way," she added casually. "My family name's Kim. But don't worry about it. Everyone makes that mistake." She gave him another smile. "At least you remembered my name."

Janvier saw that Mark and Min-Sun had to have a little alone time so he walked up to Jimmy and asked for another drink.

"Hey, everybody!" came a cry from the 'empty' space near the door: "Free drinks!"
There was a sudden rush of footsteps and then, although none of the Bar's inhabitants except Dicey had actually seen any of these new arrivals, the room seemed a LOT more crowded... and a confused hubbub arose over by the main bar itself, as a number of wabbitish voices simultaneously tried to order various drinks...

Min-Sun smiled at him. She had almost forgotten how handsome he was. And quite the charmer.

"Oh, I've been all right," she said vaguely, enjoying his company. "I'm a deputy ambassador now! Not that I'd want to go and talk in the GA... Min-Sun's my given name, by the way," she added casually. "My family name's Kim. But don't worry about it. Everyone makes that mistake." She gave him another smile. "At least you remembered my name.""Heh. Well, in my line of work, it's never a good idea to forget your client's name in a moment of passion--" Reyes began, before suddenly remembering that Min may not have ever figured out what his profession was. Agilely he brushed the subject aside: "At least we both seem to have made good since our last encounter," he said pleasantly. "Although it's a shame the General Assembly doesn't get to see your pretty face more often. Being in the public eye's not for everybody.

"And I should know," he added with a grin, for a moment neglecting that before they met, she hadn't the foggiest idea who he was. Even so, he thought, maybe his detour to the Strangers' Bar hadn't been a total waste after all? "Sorry I forgot to bring you a congratulatory gift for your promotion, Min, but I did bring this," he said, pulling out a key card. "What say you and I finish these drinks, then I can take you downstairs for a personalized tour of the Kennyite office suite (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=11129107&highlight=office#post11129107)?"

For a date, the office suite was quiet, convenient, and accomodating, provided President Fernanda had remembered to change his bedsheets since last he used them. And its accessibility was just a bribe away, since, as it turned out, the mission's security attache was only too willing to contribute to a security breach, for the right price. Cmdr. Chiang, after all, wouldn't be whiling away her time in the bar, exposing herself to unwelcome advances by overly modest interns in angelic white veils, unless she had a very good and profitable reason to do so.

Min-Sun blushed at the compliment, but hesitated.

"Well..." she began, fidgeting a little, then looked at him. He was smiling, and looked very charming. A kind face, she decided. Trustworthy. She smiled. "All right!" she said, feeling a little excited.

"It's one of those songs that goes on as long as anyone can think of animals with, um, the appropriate equipment," she said guardedly. "You just have to adjust the rhymes. Like, 'ladder' is easy, but 'thermo-nuclear device' isn't. But the chorus stays the same, no matter what."

Feeling she had explained enough, she listened intently to Neville, who had picked up on the mention of ladders, and joined him in carolling happily about their possible uses in conjunction with giraffes.

"I SEE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR EXPLANATION. I SHOULD WANT TO HEAR THE CHORUS."

Jevo mentally flailed. "Not today," he said abruptly, taking a hefty gulp of whatever had been placed in front of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped the liquid wouldn't prove poisonous.

"THE LORD KORO SAID..." the Colossus intoned almost threateningly.

"He said that some things were best explained back in the Temple, did he not?" The ambassador idly wondered how Koro would react to the metallic behemoth's questions about animal 'equipment' and hedgehog song choruses. Well, that was why one was High Priest, and the other merely a UN ambassador.

Min-Sun blushed at the compliment, but hesitated.

"Well..." she began, fidgeting a little, then looked at him. He was smiling, and looked very charming. A kind face, she decided. Trustworthy. She smiled. "All right!" she said, feeling a little excited.Reyes' eyes brightened as Min gave her consent. Closing this deal had been easier than expected.

Setting his drink on the counter, he gently grasped her hand. "Shall we, then?" he offered, nodding toward a side exit. He was pretty sure he detected a slight blush in his companion's complexion; she really was a little cutie, and it almost made him feel bad, playing her like this. Forlornly the boy resolved that he'd render any "services" that evening free of charge, as a sort of promotion present. He'd be sure to leave another business card with her, however, just in case she lost the last one; it never hurt to advertise.

He leaned in toward Min with a flirty smile as they slowly departed from the BarLord's Realm. "I sure am glad I ran into you here," he cooed. "Actually, I'm glad to get away for the weekend at all; the situation (http://z11.invisionfree.com/Antarctic_Oasis/index.php?showtopic=356) in Karmicaria is getting a little freaky."

John came too staggering to his feet he accidentally bumped into someone... though he couldn't see it. How ever he had more pressing matters to answer.

Like were he was, what he was doing without his pants and were was he, apparently what ever had just happened to John had caused him Amnesia and a large headache. Stumbling over the collapsed Dicey John managed to keep himself upright but found that he could not get to the bar which is the obvious place for anyone with amnesia to go to find answers.

Reyes' eyes brightened as Min gave her consent. Closing this deal had been easier than expected.

Setting his drink on the counter, he gently grasped her hand. "Shall we, then?" he offered, nodding toward a side exit. He was pretty sure he detected a slight blush in his companion's complexion; she really was a little cutie, and it almost made him feel bad, playing her like this. Forlornly the boy resolved that he'd render any "services" that evening free of charge, as a sort of promotion present. He'd be sure to leave another business card with her, however, just in case she lost the last one; it never hurt to advertise.

He leaned in toward Min with a flirty smile as they slowly departed from the BarLord's Realm. "I sure am glad I ran into you here," he cooed. "Actually, I'm glad to get away for the weekend at all; the situation (http://z11.invisionfree.com/Antarctic_Oasis/index.php?showtopic=356) in Karmicaria is getting a little freaky."

"Is it?" Min was feeling a little bit giddy. She had been thinking of Mark, on and off, and for him suddenly to reappear in her life and start flirting with her was quite unexpected. And he doesn't even know much about me!

It occured to her that she did not know much about him, either. For a Kennyite, though, he seemed a remarkably nice young man. A real gentleman.

"Why?" she asked kindly, as they left the Bar behind them. "What's been happening to you, Mark? Oh", she added, blushing slightly, "can I... call you Mark?"

"John, get some pants on. Jimmy, what were you thinking of, serving a customer who doesn't meet the dress standards? Neville, get up."

Violet, high on the euphoria of an exam she had totally aced -- every question she'd prepared had been on the paper -- had breezed into the Bar in one of those daunting super-competent moods. She whisked away the half-full glass of Forhey's before John even knew it had been within his grasp and mopped up the venturesome spill.

"Dicey, Bast, can you get Neville on his feet?" she added. "It looks so untidy, leaving him there like that."

The customers within range avoided her accusing eye, guiltily aware that they wouldn't have left bodies lying around the floor in their own homes, so why did they think they could get away with it in a public place? There was also a certain uneasiness about that phrase "dress standards", particularly among the furred, finned or feathered delegates. Violet, however, had moved on from the subject.

"And who brought that (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12226272&postcount=5406) in?" she demanded, pointing to the shimmering object the size of a desk that was glowing faintly blue beneath an incongruous red gingham tablecloth.

"Actually, I don't think I want to know," she added, drawing back before she committed the unpardonable Strangers' Bar sin of interfering with a customer's storyline. "But could someone please do something about it?"

"And who brought that (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12226272&postcount=5406) in?" she demanded, pointing to the shimmering object the size of a desk that was glowing faintly blue beneath an incongruous red gingham tablecloth.

"Actually, I don't think I want to know," she added, drawing back before she committed the unpardonable Strangers' Bar sin of interfering with a customer's storyline. "But could someone please do something about it?"

Varik looked sheepish.

"Well... uh... I would like to, really, but I... uh... can't. First I need to know how it got here, and that involves figuring out what exactly went wrong with the experiment. Don't worry though, I think it's harmless. At least mostly."

John looked at the woman shouting words.... somehow he didn't understand them, way back in the recesses of his memory it told him that he should. But he just couldn't. He gave Violet a blank stare, and it was just then he realised that he did not have any pants on.

"Where are my pants?" he asked but to those that listened only a non-sensical string of weird letter combinations came out. It seemed Johnathon has lost the ability to speak or understand any known language.

"Some people really shouldn't be let off the leash!" said Violet crossly. As her glance took in the now-upright Neville, the pantless Bazalonian and anyone else within range, it was a statement difficult to refute.

"Here, get these on, you!"

Without apparent effort, she reached under the red gingham tablecloth, extracted a sad pair of fawn polyester supermarket-chain "business" trousers and thrust them at the gibbering Johnathon.

"Those aren't my trousers, but I suppose they will have to do." he said still gibbering though thinking he was talking like a normal human being. He pulled the pants on and done them up. He looked silly, but at least now he had pants on, he was starting to remember some things, like the trousers weren't his and his Name was John MacKay the Bazalonian UN Ambassador but he had still forgotten alot and needed to remember them.

Why was he infact pantless in the first place... He didn't know he ordered a Forhey's. He order a drink "Milk" from the bar still gibbering yet not realising that he was and sat down trying to work out what happened.

GRRINGABLINGBLING BLING A RING JING DINGLE DINGDINGDING DINGLE JING A BLING RING GRRINGABLINGBLING BLING
a rather unpleasant (to put it mildly) melody, burst through the air and standing in the doorway the (again) newly arrived delegate from the Underbrush's face turned quickly bright red. Frantically searching through her purse she pulled out the ringing mobile and desperately hissing into it she turned and run out (again).

Janvier looked around to see a woman turn red as she fled the bar quickly and then went back to his Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster.

Sir Cyril looked hasselled as he walked into the strangers bar for the first time in about two years. Maybe it was because he had just spent three days trying to sort out his expenses without the aid of a computer, secretary or even decimalised currency. Maybe it was because that idiot Relp had insisting on replacing his secretary, Miss Jaqueline Archer, with a former miner named Dave - something to do with keeping the unions happy, apparently. Maybe the life of a serial bigamist was getting to him. Either way, he needed a drink. A large one - burra peg as they used to say when he was in India. Thankfully, that idiot Blatherstock wouldn't be joining him and ruining his wind down session, as Blatherstock was currently engaged in the highly demanding activity of having the living daylights beaten out of him by a sailor whom had overheard him describe the Gubernatorial Navy as 'being full of bumboys and leopard fanciers'.

He strode up the bar, and was about to sit down when he spotted a chap clearly wearing someone elses trousers. This did not bode well for a quiet evening, and thus he headed up the other end of the bar, took an empty stool, and waited for the barman to appear...

Jason rushed in, carrying a pair of pants. He was looking for John, and obviously finding him, Jason rushed up and said "Here you are, Me and... her... were worried, your pants were found and returned to us. Are you alright?"

He asked getting a gibberish answer in return, he looked carefully into his face and somehow he could read his response. "Okay, I need a drink of milk and some tea for the Boss and A Forhey's for me."

Jason was puzzled why couldn't he speak properly... There was only one solution a psychiatrist. But who? Who'd be able to be at a bar soon. The answer was staring him right in the face. Not literally of course, he pulled out hia mobile phone and dialed a number. "Doctor Andy? Yeah. Can you come to the Stranger's bar. There's an emergency John... You can? ... Great... When? that would be marvelous." Jason hung up the phone and almost straight away a doctor walked in... Not THE doctor but a Doctor none the less

"Dr Andy, thanks for coming."

"Vell, I vas in de area, and de Stranger's bar is vorld venouned.How could Iii not? Vere's de patient?"

He strode up the bar, and was about to sit down when he spotted a chap clearly wearing someone else's trousers. This did not bode well for a quiet evening, and thus he headed up the other end of the bar, took an empty stool, and waited for the barman to appear...

Fleeing Violet's masterful ways, Neville quietly extricated himself from the freeloading crowd and retreated to the haven of tranquility near the Kawaiian shrine. That chap from Cobdenia was there, but the BarLord remembered him as a good customer, not given to raucous song, random explosions or dastardly deeds, at least while drinking. Furthermore, he wasn't in the least Cute, which was reassuring, given the lack of otakus to keep devotional manifestations under control.

Neville gave him a sickly grin and a chota peg -- oh, damn; well, the burra peg could follow. Foreseeing the next line, he had one for himself, m'good man.
__________________________________

"Commander Chiang, I wondered if I might have a word?"

It was not an absurd hat, it was a beautiful hat, and Mr Faisano had worn it in front of the whole General Assembly. Avaya held firmly to that thought, both to maintain her rage at her boss and to encourage her in this encounter with the formidable Kennyite Stripper Commando.

"You may not know -- well, of course, you wouldn't, but --" (Damn, yes, I said damn, what am I, a wimp or a competent 20-year-old woman in charge of her own life? Stop sputtering, girl!) " -- I'm studying political science, and I believe I heard Mr Faisano say he was doing his PhD in the subject, and I'm having a bit of trouble with a few concepts, and ... well, I wondered if he ... if you might ask him ... Commander Chiang, do you think he'd have time to tutor me? Just a bit? When he's not busy? Or perhaps recommend a good basic textbook?"

She'd tacked the last bit on when she'd realised how little Cmdr. Chiang's military demeanour gave away. She didn't in the least want a good text book. She wanted shared time in secluded carrels in the UN library; long, long arguments over gradually cooling cups of coffee; walks along well-raked gravel paths, while autumn leaves crunched romantically underfoot; the discovery that she looked beautiful without her glasses (well, she didn't wear glasses, but veils would do); maybe even study dates, maybe even at her apartment ...

She didn't want sitting around playing turtle-doves in full view of the entire UN. But she couldn't seem to get time alone with Sammy to explain. Dicey was always playing sheep-dog. The Co-President seemed to have some sort of wary respect for Chiang, though; anyway, Avaya could talk to anyone she liked.
_______________________________________

"While the kid's keeping Chiang busy, how good are you at teleporting?"

Dicey's temper had been building as she strolled across the room to where Ardchoille's Ambassador to Ausserland sat in feeble disguise, discussing, goddess help us, socialist philosophy (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12177702&postcount=5342) with a kind newcomer. Her hand on her errant lover's shoulder was not affectionate. "You bloody idiot! You know the Kennyites want to arrest you on sight! What the devil ... oh, forgive me," she interrupted herself, turning politely to the delegate from Leninia-Trotskya. "A-minor-business-matter-if-you'll-just-excuse-us-for-a-second-you-moron-you-nincompoop-you-drongo-what-the-hell-did-you-think-you-were-doing?"

"I just wanted to see you," Michael protested, as she was forced to stop long enough to breathe.

"See me what? Burned at the stake? Hung out to dry? Using magic against a fellow delegate? Because Chiang is officially part of their delegation. She's been watching you, checking you out, and I'm not sure even magic would stop her if she decided to risk a diplomatic incident. But for once the kid's doing something useful, even if she thinks she's doing it to spite me, so let's get you out of here while Chiang's distracted. Teleport back to Ankh-Morpork! Now! We'll discuss this later!"

Michael just sat there. Dicey sighed. "I get the feeling you haven't been paying attention at Unseen U. You can't do it, can you? So much for Wizarding 101. All right, just let your mind go blank -- shouldn't be too much trouble --- and ... there!"

With a pop of displaced air, Michael disappeared. Dicey sat down suddenly on the floor, her legs rubbery, completely exhausted.

"Whisky!" she croaked, apparently addressing someone standing above her, though there was no-one visible.

"Whisky!" she croaked, apparently addressing someone standing above her, though there was no-one visible.

"AS MY LADY WISHES." The Colossus ambled over to Jevo, who had finally managed to get a bottle of the stuff delivered to him, but who had not yet managed to open it. The metallic construct grabbed the liquor as delicately as he could manage, lifting the Krioval ambassador only half a meter into the air, and then the Colossus returned to Dicey's collapsed form. "IS THIS SUFFICIENT?"

"Is it?" Min was feeling a little bit giddy. She had been thinking of Mark, on and off, and for him suddenly to reappear in her life and start flirting with her was quite unexpected. ...

"Why?" she asked kindly, as they left the Bar behind them. "What's been happening to you, Mark? Oh", she added, blushing slightly, "can I... call you Mark?""You can call me anything you want, baby," he said teasingly. "Nothing's been happening to me, per se, but I really lucked out, considering Dad's hotel opening was scheduled right before the queendom starting collapsing upon itself."

Still gripping her hand, his eyes twinkled as he loooked down on her and started playing with her interlocked fingers with his own. He hoped she didn't ask about the details of the Karmicarian keruffle, because he really didn't have any. He was only the ambassador to Karmicaria, for God's sake; why would anyone think he knew anything about what was going on in Karmicaria?! Besides, the last thing he'd planned on doing that night was talk.

"You may not know -- well, of course, you wouldn't, but --" (Damn, yes, I said damn, what am I, a wimp or a competent 20-year-old woman in charge of her own life? Stop sputtering, girl!) " -- I'm studying political science, and I believe I heard Mr Faisano say he was doing his PhD in the subject, and I'm having a bit of trouble with a few concepts, and ... well, I wondered if he ... if you might ask him ... Commander Chiang, do you think he'd have time to tutor me? Just a bit? When he's not busy? Or perhaps recommend a good basic textbook?"Chiang groaned as the strangely mobile bundle of whites defiantly breached her invisible fail-safe line and deigned to molest her with unsought importunity. Couldn't the girl see the commander was working? Well, probably not, she conceded silently, for the sight of an off-the-clock exotic artist nursing her usual tumbler of Jameson might have have appeared as a moment of leisure to the untrained eye. And yet, there was much to be done in the impending battle, despite the unexpected victory (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12300967&postcount=5) for the good guys over that irritating and overly persistent tribute to a "Baywatch" icon. There remained the defenestration of that erstwhile candidate for the Silly Party to attend to, as well as an investigation into what possibly could have caused an irregular page expansion following the dispatch of the Ardchoilleans' latest missive.

Yet there the commander was, a hero of the Kenny-Kawaiian conflict, distracted from her moment of valor in the ongoing War on Image Spam, now stuck coordinating footsy sessions between Sammy and his bitch. The child's request may prove useful, though, if only to provide some romantic distraction for the envoy, and stave off certain madness (http://z11.invisionfree.com/Antarctic_Oasis/index.php?showtopic=355&view=findpost&p=6457791). Quietly Chiang turned on the intern and gave her as forced a smile as she could muster.

"You're in luck, kid," she said with restraint. "The ambassador hasn't been in the General Assembly much lately, so he has some free time. Lemme just call him real quick."

She pulled out her cell and dialed the number. C'mon, c'mon, she thought urgently as she listened to the ringing on the other end. The faster she sorted out this mess, the faster she could return to the fray.

But lo, another complication, she saw as she looked up to witness her target at the other end of the bar vanish into thin air, with Dicey Reilly desisting her gesticular hocus-pocus, still standing over the nothingness where "Ambassador" Mike Grandison had been standing just a moment before. So this wasn't an innocent visit from Reilly's intern after all; the criminal witch just wanted to divert her attention while she dispensed with her lover-turned-"diplomat." Sourly Chiang remained on the line, awaiting Sammy's answer, knowing from an article she had read in The Ardchoillean a while back that Reilly had just committed the gravest of offenses. She knew who she'd be calling next.

Bari Devæno concludes his latest karaoke performance and sips from his Blue Brandy Alexander. He looks around the bar and notices that it looks a little "funny".

"Is it just me, or do the walls seem to be shifting around a bit?"

(OOC: Damn you, Kenny, I'd hoped to slip that one past the 'keeper.) IC:

It was one of those tableaux that end up being shown in fuzzy woodcuts in history books. Supported on one side by the loving (one assumes) arms of the Kriovalians' absolute, ineffable god, and on the other by a shifting cast of invisible but comforting Wabbits, Dicey read her doom as it appeared teasingly, letter by goddamn slow letter, in words of fire in the space above the bar:

"Know ye by these presents that the Mage Dicey Reilly, Firewitch Unsurpassed, having been indicted for high crimes and misdemeanours (to wit, repeated public misuse of magic), is hereby condemned to serve in public office for the term of her natural life.

As of this day, Dicey Reilly is appointed PRESIDENT FOR LIFE of Ardchoille, and may the appropriate deity have mercy on her soul."
"Letters of Fire? How terribly kitsch!" said Dicey woozily, and, without further ado, fainted.

Fortunately, Bast, though his ears were flattened to his head and his fur was standing on end, remained sufficiently alert to read the codicil:

"For complicity in said high crimes and misdemeanours, Ardchoille's Ambassador to Ausserland, Michael "Grandalf" Grandison, first-year student magician, is appointed a Member of the Order of Ardchoille, with Star, and will henceforth bear the burden of being known as Sir Michael Grandison.

Sir Michael is officially warned that continued misconduct may lead to his elevation to the peerage."
"Well, that seems fairly comprehensive," said Violet, calmly mopping spilt Blue Brandy Alexander. "At least they can't complain about the size of your bar tab any more, Dice. And no, Bari, I can't say I've noticed anything about the walls, but I may have been a bit distracted."

(Matchless sang-froid was one of the job requirements for Strangers' Bar staff.)

“Oh, many thanks.” Courror’s smile managed to claw its way up to his increasingly bloodshot and blurry eyes as he awaited the refill. “Well, the full name of my country is unpronounceable, or so I’m told. In English it roughly renders as “The Isles of Retribution.* Anyway, it doesn’t matter much now.” He went back to staring into the glass’s murky depths, and heaved a sigh of genuine sadness. “The fact of it is that my country isn’t so much a shadow of its old self as a grainy photo of the shadow.” He sipped, and cracked an unexpected grin: “makes me wonder how long I’ve got in here, actually. But, when it was worth talking about, it was a great place. A great place indeed.”

His yo-yo smile began to droop again; the alcohol had now entered his bloodstream sufficiently to trigger his patented mood-swings, which had been known to last for three or four days after the last of the poison had left his system and made him a formidable drinking partner. Either he was so depressed he couldn’t stop drinking, or he was so happy he couldn’t stop celebrating with drink - either way he usually managed to pack in a fair bit before unconsciousness kicked in. However, taking advantage of his brief upturn in mood he proceeded to down most of the rest of the pint and nodded vigorously in Hesser’s direction. “What about yours? You look like… what the HELL?”

Courror might have been inebriated, but the sudden appearance of large, shimmery-shiny metal things three feet away was hard to ignore unless one took being blind drunk to whole new levels. He was also acutely aware that something very strange appeared to be happening to time in this bar; the proprietor seemed suddenly to be in a state of drunkenness so advanced that he was in danger of distorting reality itself - or perhaps that was just the beer kicking in - and one of the more open-minded delegates had taken it upon himself to remove articles of clothing that should never be removed in a public place. Still, he appeared to do this so regularly that an aide was detailed to resolve the situation, so Courror reasoned that he couldn’t complain; he just wished that the events hadn't flashed by like they had. For starters, it reminded him of the days of the Park Island Perk-Up, which had caused three heart attacks in his squadron alone.

He could, however, complain about the flaming letters that now scrawled themselves above the bar, for in ensuring their dramatic quality their creator (Courror was now far past the stage of wondering why or how the letters were writing themselves flawlessly in mid-air) had inadvertently given them rather too many sparks. It was one of these that had entered an apparently discarded drink near Courror’s left elbow, which promptly and spectacularly ignited. Needless to say, he was somewhat surprised by this turn of events and could not be blamed for knocking the flaming fluid onto his flight suit and setting fire to his arm. In fact, all things considered, his action in jumping off the stool and yelling “oh Jesus, my fucking arm!” before dousing the flame (and one of the staff) with the remained of his pint was quite self-restrained. Lesser men might have used someone else’s drink, after all.

*I made this Nation when I was 16 or so, and it was intended to last about three weeks. This was my idea of a “clever” name. Yes, I was extremely puerile. For my sins I have spent three years trying to get around it. Also, apologies to anyone who gives a damn for delay.

-Could I order one of those that gentleman is dousing himself with, a highpitched feminin whisper was heard from the entrance area. The Underbrush delegate had returned. This time in what appeared to be the national costume variant of an evening dress.
-I really need something strong and that beverage would seem to have the desired effeeeaAAUUGHHHHUU OOOhhhHUffFF KLoNkNNiDooinGGKABraaKCKC Ugh.
Slipping on the wet floor she careened into an empty stool before opening the doors with the back of her head while managing to cover more of the furniture than herself with the shreds of her embroidered dress.
-Ouuf, she groaned as if wanting to signal that she was still alive while halfway crawling and rolling back out the doors.

"You can call me anything you want, baby," he said teasingly. "Nothing's been happening to me, per se, but I really lucked out, considering Dad's hotel opening was scheduled right before the queendom starting collapsing upon itself."

Still gripping her hand, his eyes twinkled as he loooked down on her and started playing with her interlocked fingers with his own. He hoped she didn't ask about the details of the Karmicarian keruffle, because he really didn't have any. He was only the ambassador to Karmicaria, for God's sake; why would anyone think he knew anything about what was going on in Karmicaria?! Besides, the last thing he'd planned on doing that night was talk.


"It's nice to talk to you again," Min-Sun said, grinning and looking up at him. She giggled as he played with her fingers, and she gave his hand a playful squeeze. He was being very flirtatious, she thought... but where was the harm in that? It was fun.

"I'm sorry things haven't been going well for you in Karmicaria." They made their way down the empty corridor." I hope it won't damage your career?" she asked anxiously.

-<snip>Slipping on the wet floor she careened into an empty stool before opening the doors with the back of her head while managing to cover more of the furniture than herself with the shreds of her embroidered dress.
-Ouuf, she groaned as if wanting to signal that she was still alive while halfway crawling and rolling back out the doors.

"Hey, Vi, we'd better get some more mercurochrome and extra bandages in case that kid ever makes it inside the bar," Jimmy noted helpfully.

"If that kid ever makes it inside the bar, we'd better get baby-bumpers put on every sharp surface," observed Violet.

Some spare one-size-fits-all clothes wouldn't hurt, either, she mused. The customers seemed to be baring a lot more than their souls lately.

And no, Bari, I can't say I've noticed anything about the walls, but I may have been a bit distracted."
"Oh good! Nevermind then."

*Bari returns to the karaoke machine and belts out Gold by Spandau Ballet (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cscchgTVBVY)*

"aahh, Vere 'e is" stated the Doctor as he waltzed towards Jason and John.

"Doc, not me, John he needs help." said Jason as the Doctor started to look into Json's eyes with a light something that is by no means comfortable.

"Ah, vell, vhat about my other pathient."

"I'm fine, I don'r need a Doctor." said John, coming out as non-sense gibbering.

"Ah.... You vere vight to caaall me." the Doctor said looking into Johnathon's ear.

"How long has he been the UN Ambassador?" dropping the accent as it was too much to maintain. "And no I don't talk like that normally I just find it amusing sometimes."

"Um, forever...." Jason replied.......

"And how long has he been the regional delegate?"

"For a while.... He's coming up on his 200th Real Life day anniversary."

"And has been in the UN Strangers Bar much recently?"

"Not that I know but the bar staff probably would be better to ask."

"How long do you reckon it has been since he has been here?"

"Well, last time I remember was before he became the regional delegate."

The Doctor was shocked

"Ahhh... He's had a psychotic break trying to deal with everything that has happened at the UN, and particularily without an appropriate outlet for the tension, like here. He just couldn't cope and his brain went snap!"

"MY BRAIN DID NOT GO SNAP!" said John still coming out as gobbly gook.

"Yes, I know. Let's take you home and rest up."

"So so do you know who is going to be acting ambassador and Delegate until whatever will happen happens?"

"Not my business."

"Urghh.. Better calll... Johanna."

the Doctor lead John out of the Bar... It would be the last time they would see him. While Jason got on the phone with Johanna. "John's had a psychotic break and a psychiartrist is looking after him." he said on the mobile phone. and that was all.

"Sooo.... Can I have a Forhey's please."

Marco Ignatius slowly awoke from his whisky-induced reverie... How long had it been? It felt like days... What a scene was unfolding around him! He felt the urge to feign that he was still asleep, as it seemed that every delegate in the bar was sustaining some kind of physical injury. And where was that hooded socialist he had been conversing with?
He parted the rich velvet curtains and looked out at the peaceful cityscape. He caught sight of an airship looming out of the mist, and preparing to moor to the building adjacent. His blood ran cold when he saw the naval ensign of Leninia-Trotskya flying from the gondola. Please, he thought. If there is any justice in the world, let tonight not be when he arrives...
However, it was to no avail. A few minutes later, the door to the bar burst open and in strode the one man Colonel Marco Ignatius really feared who wasn't a member of the Politburo. His cloak flying behind him, Captain-General Vladimir Taracco looked every inch a hero. His burnished medals glinted in the ambient lighting of the bar, and as he strode across the room discarded shot glasses shattered under his boots like waves breaking on rock.
"Ignatius!" he bellowed above the raucous shouts of the drunken delegates, "I trust this... disorder has nothing to do with you!" His coarse voice sent shivers through all who heard it. He hadn't been appointed Captain-General of the Red Cavalry for nothing. He knew how to command.
"Of course not, sir," stammered Ignatius, leaping out of his plush chair and standing to attention, "I was simply enjoing a brief nap before this chaos broke out."
"Indeed," said Taracco, eyeing the half-empty whisky bottle sitting on Ignatius' table. "Well, on to business. The Congress of Soviets, in all their wisdom, have decided that we need a permanent mission to the UN, and that you will need additional delegates to assist you in your ambassadorial duties." He stepped aside, and, much to Ignatius' surprise, there were three other delegates cowering behind him. "This is Alexius Whitfield, Maria Chuffingly-Chuffingly, and Sergei Maelstrom. They will be the other members of your permanent mission." All three of them were taking in their surroundings with a mixture of apprehension and awe.
"Welcome to the United Nations," sighed Ignatius.

Jason sat at the bar and got his order of his favourite beer, Forhey's, it almost seemed each time he attempted to have a drink that something happened and prevented him from doing so. Not this time no siree... He got his beer picked it up and pressed it to his lips.

However Johanna rushed in, the door was flung open and she was in no normal state.. Johanna stuttered. "Ja.. ja. Jason .. I.. I... I... I..." she stoped there Jason's beer was now back on the counter.

Taking a few deep breaths Johanna continued, she had Jason's full attention. "I was just in contact in DFAT telling them about John and... and... I'm the acting Ambassador and regional delegate too. I can't beleive it.. but that's not all. They've decided that it's time for us to step down from the delegate."

"When will that happen and will that affect our drinking time?" Jason asked.

"I'm acting Ambassador immeadiately DFAT are sending forms for me to sign which will be here any second. and I guess the new elections for Delegate will wait for VOIA to get off their ass. When that will be I dunno."

"VOIA?!" asked Jason who was obviously somehow not up on regional politics at all.

"Vilitan Orbital Inteligence Agency, you know those guys for ensuring AO runs smoothly."

"Well, congratulations miss Ambassador." Jason said as he turned around to take his drink. Which has inexplicably disappeared, no is either quite sure what happened to it or where infact responsible for it and does not want to let on that they were.

"Know ye by these presents that the Mage Dicey Reilly, Firewitch Unsurpassed, having been indicted for high crimes and misdemeanours (to wit, repeated public misuse of magic), is hereby condemned to serve in public office for the term of her natural life.

As of this day, Dicey Reilly is appointed PRESIDENT FOR LIFE of Ardchoille, and may the appropriate deity have mercy on her soul."
"Letters of Fire? How terribly kitsch!" said Dicey woozily, and, without further ado, fainted.

"Letters of Fire?", Harry McWabbit mused, as he carefully guided Dicey's descent to the floor so that she wouldn't be hurt by the fall: "But why isn't that 'public misuse of magic' too?"
"And, wait a minute! If Ardchoille's in the UN then doesn't compliance with resolutions mean that Dicey-darling should have been entitled to a fair trial before being sentenced like that?"

"Well, congratulations miss Ambassador." Jason said as he turned around to take his drink. Which has inexplicably disappeared, no is either quite sure what happened to it or where in fact responsible for it and does not want to let on that they were.

"Wasn't me, honestly it wasn't!" comes a wabbitish voice from a few feet away...

"She did have a fair trial!" returned Avaya, hotly.

Dicey's fall from grace had drawn the intern away from Cdr Chiang before she even knew the answer to the most vital question in the entire world: would Sammy Faisano tutor her in politics, in private?

But she put her own concerns aside to defend her nation's reputation for truth, justice and compliance of a completeness seldom contemplated. Though she did wonder who she was defending it against; a suggestion of Wabbitness in the ambient air, a bending of the light where it shouldn't have bent, was not a sound basis for a dialogue.

"There's not a convention or resolution or slight raising of the General Secretary's eyebrow we haven't complied with," she nonetheless continued. "Dicey's been up before the Oldest Coven time and time again, but would she learn? No! I really thought she'd turned her life around, but, as my Uncle Phillippe says, once a recidivist, always a recidivist!"

"Not a recidivist! Civil disobedience! Gandhi!" muttered Dicey, muzzily. "And Phillippe's a rat!" She sank back into oblivion.

"Plus, they're allowed to use the Letters of Fire because it's an official declaration on a magical matter," the girl continued, ignoring such hair-splitting.

"Well, I don't think we should allow it in the Bar, upsetting customers like that," said Violet stoutly. "Neville, is there any way we can send an official complaint to Dicey's government?"

"Oh, we can send it," said Neville. "We just can't make them read it. Besides, it's internal politics," he added virtuously. "We never get mixed up in internal politics."

He would have finished off the declaration with some sort of BarLordly flourish involving martini-shaking or beer-pouring, but it's hard to do either well when you've crossed all twelve fingers.

Wolfgang, who'd been a bit not-here-in-the-least recently, walked in an sat down at the bar. Catching the end of the conversation, he cheerfully said, "Mr. Neville, I'd like to complain that my hand is empty of nonalcoholic swill. Do you have the cure for that?" He was in a good mood, as his author's classes and work at his university had been canceled today due to incredibly inclement weather. "So... exciting things been going on in my absence?"

Invisible Wabbits;12324303']
"Wasn't me, honestly it wasn't!" comes a wabbitish voice from a few feet away...

"Well, enjoy what you don't have...." said Jason. Things "How about a hot cup of tea with some milk and Sugar." he asked the nearest Barperson as they came came past.

"Jason, hang on that's not all. They also told me something else." said Johanna

"That we're stepping down as Delegate.... No more Telegrams, no more doing those stupid regional poles, and no more trawling through countless pages of idiotic UN proposals. You know what that means?"

"That Bazacola have installed a vending machine in the UN?"

"What?! No! It means that we're freeee. Free I tell you!" Johanna said taking something out of her hair allowing it to fall to it's full length. She shock her hair around as if it was one of those shampoo commercials and decided to sit by Jason at the bar. She order a Gin & Tonic.

The Colossus watched the exchange with some interest. "PRESIDENT FOR LIFE? ALMOST AS GOOD AS QUEEN. OR EMPRESS." The demigod's eyes became even more brilliant. "OR EVEN A...GODDESS!" His entire form brimmed with radiance. "IF THE LADY WISHED IT. SHE CERTAINLY HAS WORKED HARD TOWARD SUCH A GOAL." Energy crackled not-quite-ominously, but certainly very close to being in that state, sort of like an electron being struck by a photon but only gaining one orbital instead of two. Where two orbitals, in this case, would be the deification of Dicey Reilly, while one orbital, in this case, would be the mere suggestion of such a step.

Meanwhile, Jevo Telovar had fallen under the Colossus's influence, activating his special power of speed drinking. Drunkenly, he looked at the three swirling forms of Dicey, one of which was conscious (!), and said, "She can...my Goddess...any day...follow..."

And then the Kriovalian Ambassador to the UN made good on his word, falling to the floor unconscious.

He would have finished off the declaration with some sort of BarLordly flourish involving martini-shaking or beer-pouring, but it's hard to do either well when you've crossed all twelve fingers.

OOC: Twelve fingers? Not actually one of our citizens, by any chance, is he?

OOC: @ Happy Hexadactyls -- Barlords renounce citizenship of their homelands when they are initiated into the Order. They are sworn, sworn, to impartiality, and must never reveal their origins.

@ Krioval: You're not going to complicate Dicey's love life even further, are you?

OOC:@ Krioval: You're not going to complicate Dicey's love life even further, are you?

OOC: Would it make things more interesting if I were? In any case, Serph has privately said that he might have asked Dicey out, if he were attracted at all to women.

Jinella Agaranth walked into the bar, followed by her new assistant, Ikir Askarabath, and several Royal Guards. They ordered drinks, and the mood on their faces ranged from grim to happy, all in one shot.

"Even with the news from back home, I guess we have something to celebrate, no?" Jinella said.

"Indeed," one of the Guardsmen said. "Congratulations on your promotion. And yours too, Ikir."

A red faced delegate stumbled into the bar. What humiliation she had faced just that morning in the International Communist Union's UN Alliance meeting! The memory of it still rang in her head, and she predicted that the other members of her delegation would find no end of glee in forcing her to re-live it for days to come. Hopping nimbly onto a bar stool, or at least, as nimbly as one could do such things in such a long dress, she reflected on how she used to be afraid to even set foot inside the bar, for fear of being incinerated, incarcerated, or... inebriated.

Well, they aren't really a bad sort, she thought to herself. After all, they
even told me what kind of cocktail to order.

"Excuse me, barman..."
she began, using her most haughty tone of voice.

"Yes, Miss... Chuffingley-Chuffingley, isn't it?"

"Quite. A 'Blood and Iron,' please, and don't skimp on the Worcestershire sauce."

"Pah... Harumph... Piffle!" came the disdainful noise from one of the other delegates. "That, my lady, is not what one would call, a suitable beverage for a lady."
That last line was greeted by many snooty guffaws from the male denizens of the bar.

"Make it two, barkeeper,"
said Chuffingley-Chuffingley, growing increasingly irate.

She hated it when people looked down on her because she was a woman. There had been rumours that she had been put on the UN mission soleley because the other three members were male. She had made it her personal mission to show the world that this was not the case. And, she thought, she was failing pretty well so far. But in everything there was a challenge. It was accepted thought that a respected UN delegate should be able to hold his - her - liqour. And so, here went nothing.

"I'm sorry, madam," the barkeeper was saying, "The International Court of Justice allows only one of these beverages to be served per week."
Blasted ICJ! They seemed to thwart her at every turn!

When the drink came, it certainly wasn't what Maria Chuffingley-chuffingley was expecting. First of all, it was served notin a glass, but in one of those odd spiked helmets, meaning that she would not be able to put it down until it was empty. She wasn't feeling too sure all of a sudden. It even looked like... yes, it was bubbling!
Maria felt the expectant stares of the other delegates. She couldn't let them down. So, taking a deep breath, she quaffed the whole thing.

Maria had never fought in a war, but the feeling that followed after drinking from the helmet, she thought, must be not dissimilar to the effect of a shell landing three feet away. She vaguely remembered marching around the bar with the finale of the 1812 Overture being played loudly. Or was that her imagination? Then, blackness.

From behind a plush chair, two male delegates from Leninia-Trotskya's permanent mission to the UN began to laugh hysterically.

Maria shook herself awake from the stupor, and found herself in an armchair, still in the bar. Alexius and Sergei, her fellow delegates, were standing over her, still snickering.

"Wha... Ooh... But, the... the Verdun salient... No, no... It's the Russian winter that got 'em... Wha... 1812 overture!"

"Calm down, Maria," chuckled Sergei, "That was half an hour ago!"

"Half an hour! Why you... You set me up to this!"

"Relax, I'm sure the other delegates were quite impressed with you. At least you didn't throw it all up."

Truth be told, that was a welcome proposition. As much as she wanted to get the stuff out of her system, it wouldn't cooperate. She could feel it even now, bombarding her insides. Maria sighed.

"Why do you do this, boys? It's because I'm a woman, isn't it?"

"Why, of course not! In our modern, enlightened socialist nation, we don't believe in such things. We do it because you are... Well, were... a bourgeois, Miss Cuffingley-Chuffingley." He said her name in as aristocratic an accent as he could muster, and the two fell about the floor giggling again.

"What I wouldn't give to be back in that meeting. At least I could have made a fool of myself in a respectable fashion. You two will be the death of me." This was all she managed to say, before blacking out again.

Lord Byron, Pushed open the door to the Bar and strolled nonchalantly to the barkeep. "A G39 if you still offer it" he said as he placed notes on the bar, sure that the tab had long run out. He looked around him. "Much has changed" he thought as he viewed the clientelle.

The Colossus watched the exchange with some interest. "PRESIDENT FOR LIFE? ALMOST AS GOOD AS QUEEN. OR EMPRESS." The demigod's eyes became even more brilliant. "OR EVEN A...GODDESS!" His entire form brimmed with radiance. "IF THE LADY WISHED IT. SHE CERTAINLY HAS WORKED HARD TOWARD SUCH A GOAL." ...

Emerging yet again, this time with more determination, from her swoon, Dicey found herself looking up into the glowing eyes of the Kriovalian demigod.

She winced. She'd looked up into, down into and across into many masculine eyes, and she was fairly sure she could read the message in these. Of course, she could be wrong -- you never could tell with demigods -- but if she were right ...

"Oh, Goddess, no!" she prayed unthinkingly, and then winced again. With good reason.

Ardchoilleans generally didn't pray. The Goddess was just a little, well, capricious; it was considered wise not to draw oneself to Her notice with unnecessary demands. To say something as clear-cut as Oh Goddess, no! was sheer folly. There was too much chance it would turn into Oh Goddess, yes! before you could even gasp out, "Don't blame me, I'm an atheist!"

Desperate for anything that would give her an escape route from this theological impasse (she didn't even want to think what might happen if the Goddess chose to incarnate), Dicey heard the chauvinistic guffaws from the Leninia-Trotskya delegation as the bell of freedom.

"This is how it's done, dear!" she told the sinking L-D delegate. Snatching a tumbler of melting ice from a tabletop, she deftly dragged one of the male delegates forward by his belt and tipped the ice into the space this created.

"Here, I'll show her how, too," volunteered Avaya, for once in complete accord with her boss. She was better armed, thanks to a nearby champagne bucket; though it was harder to direct the ice, she was able to deal equally adeptly with the other lout.

Violet should have been doing her share of holding up half the sky: slamming down the protective grid over the mirror, perhaps, or catching Cdr Chiang's eye so that together they could execute a defensive flanking movement.

But suddenly the long-absent Prince -- no, King -- Byron stood before her, and nothing else mattered.

[I]The night was warm. Maybe not warm to most people but Efawhs' heart was light and cheerful and warmed her through and through as she decided to take her first steps into the Stranger's Bar. Her skin of alibaster was clothed in the soft shade of aquamarine, a color that matched her eyes and the dark of her hair. She smiled with anticipation and a bit of nervousness. And with one hand clutching her pocketbook and another holding up the front of her gown, she took her first steps inside. Across the threshold she paused. Her stelleto heals making her look taller than she actually was and with a voice that showed none of her nervousness she said...[I]

"Hello everyone. I am Efawhs, the UN Delegate from Paranormal Phenomena. I am very glad to meet you!"

"Glad ... meechya ..." panted Dicey, looking round for more Leninia-Trotskya males to victimise. Her gaze fastened on the newcomer's elegant footwear.

"Ah, if it's not too much trouble, would you mind stepping as heavily as possible on this?" she asked politely, pushing a still-struggling body towards Efawhs. Dashing over to the piano, she rattled off a few bars of an Irish jig.

"You could probably dance on his spine!" she shouted above the din. Then, catching sight of an old friend, "Oh, hi, Byron! Listen, I've heard some new words to this one!" The task of enlightening the remaining L-T men had apparently been put on hold. Dicey was well into her zoological repertoire.

Beside the visitor from Paranormal Phenomena, a bundle of what appeared to be exceptionally clean laundry moved quietly into place.

"Hello, I'm Avaya Thibaudet," a young voice said from behind one of the many veils. "I'm interning with the Ardchoillean delegation here. That's my boss, Dicey Reilly, over there. Do forgive her, she's suffered a terrible disappointment. She's been sentenced to the Presidency for life. A very sad case."

A flick of a gloved finger summoned a glass of Indian Tonic. "And whatever Efawhs here is having, please, Neville -- oh, and I think the Leninia-Trotskya delegate is recovering from that awful drink they gave her, too. Efawhs, when she wakes up, this will be Maria Chuffingley-chuffingley, delegate of Leninia-Trotskya and the victim of a very stupid male joke."

From the position of her head, Avaya was glaring reprovingly at the unfortunate pranksters, though it was difficult to tell.

"So," she said chattily, comfortable for once in the presence of an even less experienced -- and female, and thus safe -- delegate. "What brings Paranormal Phenomena to these hallowed halls?"

"Oh, dragons, magic spells, otaku, invisible wabbits," muttered Neville, but his Barlordly presence was ignored.

"Hello Efawhs. I hope you enjoy your stay in this filthy place we call the UN," said Roderick.

As Colonel Marco Ignatius strolled leisurely into the bar, his normally calm visage contorted into a look of surprise as two of his fellow delegates crawled across the floor of the bar and latched themselves onto his legs.

"Argh! What has gotten into you Alexius! Sergei, I'm... Get off!"

"NOOOO!!!" they wailed, "The... the delegates... They're mean!"

"By the almighty..." he decided not to finish the oath, as there already seemed to be some kind of divine being in the process of being invoked. Instead, he spluttered, nay bellowed, "What have you done to Maria?"

"It was just a bit of fun," sobbed Sergei, "We made her drink one of those strange cocktails just to see what would happen, we meant nothing by it...."

"And then they started flinging drinks and beating us up and..." continued Alexius.

"Ha! Serves you two right," said Ignatius, taking each by the ear. "Now, off to your offices. I'll be down in half an hour, and if you're not filing resolutions by then I'll report you as unporductive workers. now go!"

The two disgraced delegates gasped. Being classed as an unporductive worker was akin to being a fascist, back in the people's republic.

"Barman, bring Miss Chuffingley-Chuffingley something warm and nonalcoholic," commanded Ignatius, turning away from his sorry countrymen.

"Ah Dicey, good to see that you're back. I hope that the deplorable behavior of my junior delegates hasn't touched off an international incident. Can we still count Ardochille amongst our friends?"

Deputy Ambassador Kim Min-Sun (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Kim_Min-Sun) entered the bar discreetly, and, without looking at anyone, went up to Neville and asked for a chilled grapefruit juice. She sipped at it for a while without talking.

She had hesitated before appearing in public this morning. After all, she was still uncertain how to feel about what had happened
last night (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12306182&postcount=5459). A part of her still felt rather excited, but a nagging feeling of guilt tugged at her mind, and would not go away. She was not entirely sure why.

She took another sip of her drink, then, in a small voice - addressing Neville, or perhaps no-one in particular, while gazing into her glass - said:

"I think I may have done something very silly with a Kennyite..."

"I think I may have done something very silly with a Kennyite..."

"Anything anyone does with a Kennyite is usually silly," Neville said unsympathetically. The words "Have you had your shots?" trembled on his tongue, but were swallowed as he realised there was more interesting game afoot.

"Why don't you tell me about it in lurid -- I mean, why don't you tell me about it in detail?" he wheedled. "It was probably nothing to worry about. These things often get exaggerated if you keep them to yourself. A trouble shared is a trouble halved. Confession is good for the soul. You should make a clean br-- you should get it off your chest, I mean. Soooo, what happened?What'd he do?"

"Can we still count Ardochille amongst our friends?"

Words trembled on Dicey's tongue as well; something along the lines of, "More than friends, soldier-boy". But, given the current complexity of her love-life -- not just the now-ennobled "Sir" Michael Grandison, but the dear Invisible Wabbits and her unrequited passion for Sir Albert of Bahgum, with the flick of a fluttered eyelash towards the Red Baron and the fascinating and mysterious Gobbinnean huntsman, Prince Rhodri -- she, too, swallowed her instinctive response.

Besides, there was that insidious anti-union proposal coming up; best not do anything to threaten good relations with any states that showed a decent respect for the ordinary working girl. Man. Woman. Cat.

"Think nothing of it, Marco," she replied airily. "What happens in the Bar, stays in the Bar."

Unless, of course, it happens to come in handy elsewhere.

She couldn't really see how friendship with Leninia-Trotskya would get her out of her political dilemma back home, but a grounded witch grasps at any broomstick.

"Anything anyone does with a Kennyite is usually silly," Neville said unsympathetically. The words "Have you had your shots?" trembled on his tongue, but were swallowed as he realised there was more interesting game afoot.

"Why don't you tell me about it in lurid -- I mean, why don't you tell me about it in detail?" he wheedled. "It was probably nothing to worry about. These things often get exaggerated if you keep them to yourself. A trouble shared is a trouble halved. Confession is good for the soul. You should make a clean br-- you should get it off your chest, I mean. Soooo, what happened?What'd he do?"


"Well..." Suddenly, Min-Sun wondered whether she might not have been better off locking herself away somewhere for the day. "He, uhm... He and I... Well, we first met quite a while ago," she began, after taking a deep breath... which she released with an equally deep sigh. "He was so nice, and friendly, and charming... I think I let my guard down a bit, and I'm just wondering now..." She avoided Neville's eyes, and glanced round the bar. "Has he been in yet today?" she asked worriedly, lowering her voice... and forgetting that Neville probably had no idea who she was talking about.

"He who?" Neville queried avidly. "Which Kennyite?"

At least the masculine pronoun ruled out Cdr Chiang. Neville's sense of self-preservation, not always that well-developed, nevertheless warned him against getting within cooee of anything concerning that Kennyite's personal affairs.

"You don't mean you've been dallying with the utterly impeccable Sammy Faisano, do you?" he asked, lowering his voice and glancing uneasily at the nearby Avaya. One over-stimulated Ardchoillean witch was enough for one night; if the young intern had been betrayed after she'd gone so far as to knit the ungrateful dog a hat, Neville didn't want to be in the vicinity.

Not unless he was wearing protective gear made of the new anti-magic fabric Spell-Chek (TM), as advertised by that reliable company Acme Industries on late, late, late night television.

"Faisano?" Min-Sun's eyes widened in surprise at the suggestion. "No, no! Of course not." She lowered her voice again, blushing a little. "Mark... Mark Reyes. You must have seen him in here sometimes? Very handsome," she added, blushing some more. "And very charming. Well, I thought... It's just that after last night I'm not sure..."

She wriggled uncomfortably, looking down at her drink, before glancing up at Neville again.

"Has he been in here today?" she asked, almost anxiously.

"There are any number of very handsome, very charming men wandering around in here ... if I do say so myself," said Neville complacently, doing the running-hand-through-hair thing he had seen in a movie last night.
"I can't say any particular one stood out from the pack, though. Perhaps," he added cunningly, "you might care to describe him in more detail? Height, weight, hair, colour of eyes, distinguishing scars, tattoos? Preferred methods of operation? We could put out an all-points bulletin; I'm sure the Gnomes would be very discreet."

He swiped a cloth vaguely at the counter, "Tell me, were you personally,ah, unwise, or politically unwise? If it was personal, well, he may have tossed you aside like a used teatowel, but them's the breaks, kid. But if it was political, though, it might be smart to start working on some alibis. I gather the 'breaks' can be rather severe in some nations when things get political."

He eyed his victim -- had she gone a little paler? Dear me, he hadn't meant to really upset the poor kid. And with a hangover, too, no doubt. Well, there was only so much he could do with non-alcoholic pick-me-ups, but he'd mix her a good one. And try to think of something reassuring to say.

"It might not be all that bad, he might just be sleeping it off somewhere," he said with belated kindness. "And anyway, he's a Kennyite. He's probably just forgotten who you were. I bet he doesn't even remember your name."

He guided her hand to the restorative drink. But, despite the effort he was making, he had the feeling that his attempt to cheer Ms Kim up had just fallen spectacularly flat.

Min-Sun felt about as pale as she looked. She put her glass of fruit juice down so as not to spill it, her hand trembling slightly.

"But I don't think I want him to have forgotten me..." she said, in a very small voice - almost a whimper. "I don't know... I didn't do anything politically wrong, though. I don't think..." She cast her mind back as best she could. Some parts of last night were a little hazy. Others were all too clear in her mind. And Neville was making her doubt. She sighed, confused and uncertain.

"He's Mark Reyes. Dark hair, lovely dark eyes, a sun tan, stubble... Do you really think... after what happened... he'll just forget?" she asked anxiously... and not entirely sure herself what would be worse.

Rhodri Mawr, Prince of Segontium, Master of the Red Hounds, Ambassador from the court of Gobbannium to the United Nations, Ambassador in Chief of Gobbannium, etc, etc, finally made his way into the Strangers' Bar. He had been looking forward to relaxing in this haven of liquid refreshment, and made an effort to leave his titles at the door. Especially that damn epithet. He had just about managed to convince the other delegates not to call him Ambassador Mawr, and if formal court practice didn't require it (with much snickering) he wouldn't have even had it on his admittance papers to the Assembly. There was no way he was going to translate it for them, that was for certain; either he would look like a self-important prig or he'd have to explain about Prince Rhodri Morwenog, and no one actually wanted to do that if they could avoid it.

He looked around. The surroundings seemed pleasant and vaguely familiar, despite the occasional deeply strange intrusion that Rhodri was becoming used to in the UN Buildings. Spotting Dicey Reilly near a piano, he smiled and waved. The smile became a little more fixed when he realised how hyperactive the Ardchoillean seemed. The last time he had seen anyone bouncing that much it had been Princess Rhianna towards the end of the whole crocodile fixation, and hadn't that turned out well?

Seeing the barkeep occupied with a slight young lady, Rhodri signalled to one of the other staff. "Do you perchance have a full-bodied light ale, something of the nature of a Harvest Gold?"

Moments later he was the proud possessor of a pint glass brimming with a clear golden beer. Relaxing against the bar, he took a sip. "Ah yes, just like the valleys brew it."

Concealed beneath his black-hooded sweatshirt, Sammy smiled to himself as he considered his relative stealthness in his current post. With Cdr. Chiang busy defending his repeal (was that all the UN knew how to do anymore? Repeal shit?), and Ace and Rico distracted with their quest to ambush the insufferable Schwarzchildish ambassador, he finally had some leizure time to himself and his studies, and no one yet had recognized him. A refreshing change of pace, he thought, since everyone was usually spoiling whatever fun they could be having by keeping an annoying good eye on him.

Even that pretty Ariddian woman (he quickly ducked as she glanced in his direction) was too busy interrogating Neville to take note of the unsettling presence of a Kennyite in the room, and Dicey Reilly was presently occupied with torturing some Leninian dude. His girl (was it presumptuous of him to regard her so?), meanwhile, seemed to be observing them, though with her, no one could ever be sure. Even in his current success at undetection, he still had a lot to learn from her in that department.

His gaze fell upon the newcomer, presently grinning with pride over that glass of lemonade posing as booze. Fizzy yellow beer is for wusses, he recited sagely to himself, then concluded soberly that some things were worth risking recognition for. He let out a whistle as he raised his arm toward a nearby barservant. "Yo Jimmy," he called out. "Send that guy a man's beer!"

OOC: OK, I've got to ask, what does Sammy consider to be a man's beer? The stuff the Ambassador's got isn't the least bit fizzy, so if he's trying it on with a weissbier or something like that, Words Will Be Had.

OOC: OK, I've got to ask, what does Sammy consider to be a man's beer? The stuff the Ambassador's got isn't the least bit fizzy, so if he's trying it on with a weissbier or something like that, Words Will Be Had.

http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f235/HoratioSulla/Olde_Frothingslosh/ababottle.gifhttp://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f235/HoratioSulla/Olde_Frothingslosh/sixpack.jpg
(OOC:This is a Manly beer)

Sen Sulla walked up to the bar, and ordered another Wild Turkey(TM) on the rocks. He handed Jimmy a dollar, and said,
"May I have some change please, O master of Grogly things. The Golden Tee(TM) machine is calling my name."
He nodded his thanks and walked over to play a round.

OOC: True it's a "manly beer" but wouldn't most men really want a "full bodied" beer "screaming with hops?" I much prefer the Wailing Wench.

http://pic40.picturetrail.com/VOL291/1756382/12738707/t-190844937.jpg (http://pic40.picturetrail.com/VOL291/1756382/12738707/190844937.jpg)

Maria Chuffingley-Chuffingley strode purposefully into the bar, and was greeted by what seemed like a cheer from the delegates present. Although, considering the sheer volume of noise that passes for normal conversation in the Strangers' Bar, it could have been anything.

There was one person who stood and toasted her as she entered, though: Her UN ambassador, and now superior, Colonel Marco Ignatius.

"Greetings, comrade!" he began, "and might I say,you do look dashing in that uniform!"

Maria smirked to herself. Who would have thought it? Apparently, there was a Leninian-Trotskyan law from 1906 concerning proper etiquette surrounding that drink, the Iron Duke, which she had come into rather unpleasant contact with on her last visit to the bar. Anyone who could successfully quaff an entire helmet of the stuff, and keep it down, merited an immediate promotion to the rank of Major-General. If nothing else, it had at least afforded her a modicum of respect from her fellow delegates.
Apparently, it was used as a test of worth by the socialists during the Leninian-Trotskian Civil War. Perhaps that's why the war lasted six whole years.

"I don't feel dashing," she countered. "I'm more at home in a suit than clad in leather, khaki and ribbons..."

Ignatius cut her off. "Soldier, I would normally repremand you for not addressing a superior officer as sir, but seeing as this bar is in international territory, I am forced to be particularly leniant."

"Sir!" Maria shouted, snapping to attention, "I await your orders, sir!"

"Get me another bottle of whisky, and a glass for yourself, Major Chuffingley-Chuffingley. And let that be a lesson to you not to disgrace our proud military tradition again!"

He couldn't help smiling during his tirade. If there was one thing Maria Chuffingley-Chuffingley would never disgrace, it was tradition. This may have made her a rather iffy socialist, but, Marco imagined, it would make her a damn fine soldier.

"Your whisky, colonel," said Maria, hurrying back to their table, "That was a most inspiring speech you made in the GA today, by the way."

Prince Rhodri looked in surprise at the glass of darker beer that suddenly appeared beside him. "Courtesy of the gentleman over there," the serving man told him, indicating a man largely concealed in a black hooded sweatshirt. Despite the fact that he had barely dented his current pint -- well, not more than a third of it anyway -- he had little difficulty in persuading himself that it would be rude to refuse the drink.

Lifting the glass in a silent toast to his benefactor, Rhodri sipped carefully at the beer. A sweet, malty taste, quickly overtaken by powerful hops. No hint of any undesirable additives -- not that he expected any, since the barkeep in this place seemed the sort to take adulterations to his beverages very personally. And strong. Very strong. "7% or we're an Otter," Rhodri murmured appreciatively. Getting on for over twice the strength of the quaffing ale he'd settled on for his first serious night's drinking in a while, but plans were made to be adapted.

Talking of adapting, it would be rude not to thank the person responsible for introducing him to this brew. Picking up both glasses, he headed for the table where the man in black seemed to be curiously trying to make himself less conspicuous. "Many thanks for the beer," he said expansively, trying not to sound formal and as usual failing dismally. "We hope you won't be offended if we finish this one first," -- he indicated the golden ale -- "we prefer to quench our thirst before starting on the more interesting offerings. We're Rhodri of Gobbannium, by the way. I don't think we've met before?"

Attempting to be surreptitious but failing miserably, Tarquin Fin-tim-lim-bim-whin-bim-lim-bus-stop-F'tang-F'tang-Ole-Biscuitbarrel waddles over to Dicey Reilly's table and slips her a note scrawled on a cocktail napkin. He then heads over to a corner of the bar and assumes his normal position.

http://www.montypython.art.pl/obrazki/lcmp19-15.jpg

Dicey opens up the napkin and finds it to be a short note from Sheik Nadnerb bin Cluich. She casts a quick glance around the room, her eyes finally settling on the sheik, seated a table near the fireplace, a bottle of Cluichstani whiskey and two glasses before him. He gives her a brief nod of acknolwedgement, then pours himself a glass of whiskey and stares absently into the fire.

Dicey turns her attention back to the missive on the cocktail napkin. Though obviously written with some haste, the sheik's stylish Cluichstani-influenced script is still perfectly legible:

Ms. Reilley,

I could use some assistance from someone of your...talents. We should talk. At your earliest conveniece, I hope?

Sheik Nadnerb bin Cluich

Talking of adapting, it would be rude not to thank the person responsible for introducing him to this brew. Picking up both glasses, he headed for the table where the man in black seemed to be curiously trying to make himself less conspicuous. "Many thanks for the beer," he said expansively, trying not to sound formal and as usual failing dismally. "We hope you won't be offended if we finish this one first," -- he indicated the golden ale -- "we prefer to quench our thirst before starting on the more interesting offerings. We're Rhodri of Gobbannium, by the way. I don't think we've met before?"Sammy groaned as the stranger approached -- he really could have shot Jimmy for pointing him out ... in fact, he did still have Wolfgang's gun handy ... nah, forget it. "Thanks, man," he told the barservant sardonically as the latter passed by with a mischievous smile on his face. Jimmy would get his later. But now he had to entertain.

He felt a certain insecurity as the prince curiously regarded his wardrobe -- didn't he know the ambassador was in mourning (http://z11.invisionfree.com/Antarctic_Oasis/index.php?showtopic=389)? ... Well, likely not.

Graciously the Kennyite motioned toward a chair for him to sit down. "You're welcome for the brew," he smiled. "We like stuff eye-wateringly strong where I come from, including our language -- though you've probably already noticed that from myself and my staff on the floor." He gave the royal gentleman a grin. "Oh, sorry -- I don't think we have been introduced before: my name's Sammy (ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Sammy_Faisano); I represent the Federal Republic," he said, offering his hand.

Casually he leaned back in his chair and pulled off his hood. "So, what do you guys in Gobbannium do for fun? Aside from referring to yourselves as 'we,' that is."

Min-Sun picked up her grapefruit juice again, looked around, and whimpered slightly as she saw there was both a Kennyite and a Cluichstani in the same room as her. Not to mention a few other people she felt a bit wary about. Faisano wasn't all that bad, of course... But that Cluichstani with the strange name and the frozen facial expression...

Her hands clenched round her glass, and she stood, intending to make a discreet exit. Instead, the glass slipped from her hands, and, as she fumbled to catch it, spilled part of its contents.

She closed her eyes, standing still.
Perhaps if I pretend this hasn't happened...

Casually he leaned back in his chair and pulled off his hood. "So, what do you guys in Gobbannium do for fun? Aside from referring to yourselves as 'we,' that is."

Rhodri grimaced. He'd been trying to forget about the whole formality business. "Sorry about that," he said. "Gobbannaen has a separate set of pronouns for royal individuals. We presume it started out as a matter of respect from the peasantry, as well as emphasising that if you wish to get technical we aren't strictly speaking entirely human. Somewhere along the line it hardened into a tradition that the royal family don't use the normal singular pronouns for ourselves at all, and now it's one of those irksome unwritten rules. Translating into English, we are effectively forbidden from refering to ourself in the first person singular on pain of... well, severe embarrassment we suppose. It certainly wouldn't help our re-election chances.

"What do we do for fun? Drinking is a popular start." He raised his glass of Arrogant Bastard, the Harvest Gold being long finished. "Sports; mainly rugby, but football and baseball are making surprising inroads. Really quite a lot of people sing very well. We are really quite fond of hunting, though it is getting more difficult to find decently managed grounds these days." He made a mental note to get Cerys to put together some proposals on Reforestry. "And of course wenching is always popular.

"How about you, Sammy? When you're not pretending to be hoodies, what do Kennyites do for enjoyment?

"How about you, Sammy? When you're not pretending to be hoodies, what do Kennyites do for enjoyment?Sammy had to snicker at the fact that apparently some cultures actually feared (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hoody#Moral_panic) hooded sweatshirts. In OMGTKK, however, they were a means to fit in (and, obviously, to keep warm (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Antarctic_Oasis)): "Heh. We're all 'hoodies' in the Federal Republic," the ambassador explained. "Well, most of us, at any rate. What do we enjoy, you ask? Flag-waving, of course; calling war protesters unpatriotic; torturing gnomes; beating up old people; sitting on our porches playing the banjo with our cousin Zeke (all of us seem to have a cousin named Zeke); watching porn; drinking beer, preferably the kind that gets you drunk within two sips; smashing chairs over each other's heads; bitching about how other countries think we're a two-bit dictatorship (http://z11.invisionfree.com/Antarctic_Oasis/index.php?showtopic=226); shooting at foreigners, and laughing as they run away like bitches. I'd encourage you to visit sometime, if you can get the right apparel. Kevlar's always in season." He chortled.

"Did you mention football? The American variety's very popular in my home nation -- mostly 'cause our soccer team sucks -- in fact, the last state dinner (http://z11.invisionfree.com/Antarctic_Oasis/index.php?showtopic=137) I attended was just pizza and beer to watch a football game. We also like basketball and baseball, and, of course, pro-wrestling. In fact, the co-empress of one of our closest regional allies is an ex-wrestler. Then, of course, there's basketball riots, football riots, draft riots, war riots, rent-a-riots and regular riots. You also said something about singing? 'Kenny Idol' is in its sixth season, where the losers are subjected to endorsement deals and singing contracts for as long as they're young and cute and fun to watch, while the winners all get the chance to die in a pointless war. Reruns of 'Amigos' -- that's the Kennyite version of 'Friends' -- are popular again, now that one of its stars has been elected vice president. Other frivolities are drooling over paparazzi photos of the vice president on Tiki Taki beaches in tiny bikinis, and obsessing over the president's sex life. Though, as a member of his administration, I should probably note that my official position is that President Fernanda did not. have. sex. with anybody."

He paused a moment to take in (what could have been) a look of absolute horror on the prince's face, then suddenly burst out laughing. "Just kidding dude!" he said. "Only most of that is true!"

He stifled his giggles long enough to go back to what Rhodri had said about elections. "You guys elect your royalty?" he asked curiously. For a moment, he was glad that he served at the pleasure of the president, and the president's habit of constantly seeking out "pleasure" wherever he could find it meant total job security.

"By the way, should I call you 'Your Highness'?"