NationStates Jolt Archive

* The Rep of Komokom noticed at last the drink kindly provided by the good Telidian representative, and bows to her, he then proceeds to drain this glass of liquid goody, but his eyes go wide :

" :shock: "

* Yes, like that, When he hears the remarks of the Izrathia,

" I don't think I've ever heard some-one talk in words with each first letter capitalised before. Kind gives new meaning to "capitalism" when one thinks about it too hard ... "

* :wink:

" I don't think I've ever heard some-one talk in words with each first letter capitalised before. Kind gives new meaning to "capitalism" when one thinks about it too hard ... "

* :wink:[/quote]

haha, Good One, But It's A Habit, All My Passwords Begin With Capitols, So My Pinky Automatically Hits The Shift Bar, Theres No Controlling It. I Get Bad Grades In English Because Of It.

*Vlad Pryde climbes down from the cockpit of his "Blood Asp" BattleMech, and walks inside in full military dress, cigar between lips*

Ahhhh, hello folks. Nice to see all of you here. What's on the menu?

*Sits down at bar among piculiar looks*

I'll take a Fusionnare on the rocks.

*Stands up on bar stool, adresses pub*

Anyone who wants to buy a 90 ton walking war machine complete with 2 Guass Rifles, 2 Heavy Large Lasers, 2 Heavy Medium Lasers, and a Short Range Missile Rack, come see me up here at the bar, and we will have a bidding. Also comes complete with owners manual (well over 900 pages long) and a half-off coupon to the nearest training camp.
Oh....also, one more stat about the BattleMech: it has a top speed of 66 KPH, and stands at 12 meters tall.
My asking price is 50 million C Bills, which is about the equivelant of 80 million US dollars, so turn all of that into your own currency and figure it out. I am also giving it away to the person who can give my country the largest endorsements.
Thank you, and enjoy your meal.

*Sits back down on stool*

Mar Darneka sighed. "And I thought I copuld get away from the Arms Dealers in here. We in Daryn find having nothing our neighbors want to be adaquate defense. There are times being a nothing little nation pays off. "

Morgan Wonders If, Opposing The Death Penalty Would Do Any Good, Seeing As How One Of Those Gigantic Bloodbath Machines Would Kill Them Anyway.

Beer Is Good. So Are Cigars.

Well if this isn't a good idea I don't know what is! I have nothing better to do with my free time! Seriously I don't though I could learn to spell.

*Walks up to the dart board and throws a dart and with canadian accuarcy I miss and almost hit someone* OOPS!
Well anyway I need help with sounding like a canadian eh!

The Imperium of the Holy Empire of Canadian Dominance walks up to the official who almost hit him with a dart. "Excuse me there, but not all Canadians have bad accuracy. I may be a little frank in saying this, but maybe you just need a little practice. I apologize if you take offense."

He then walks over to the bar and taps the bartender on the shoulder. "I will have a glass of wine if you please. I don't want to overdo it here in front of the other heads of state."

The waiter promptly delivers the Imperium his glass. He then sits in empty concentration while fiddling with his fingers and sipping his glass of wine.

Lord Evif walks up to the bar and starts singing Auld Lang Syne in honor of the old server, which has less than an hour to persist.

* The Rep of Komokom , stands by the fire with his glass ready, and states,

" This is not the end, not even the start of the end, but, the end of the start ! "

* He raises his glass in the hush and waits !

Less than a minute to go!

*odd vanishing noise from the corner of the bar*

* There is silence, like that before a clap of thunder, and golden light fills the bar !

* The Rep of komokom looks around, noticing the place does look quite spiffy :

" Although I have this queer feeling in my stomach, that things are not quite back to how they should be. Oh well, might as well make the best of it ... "

* He walks out of the bar, to take a look at the decor in the new halls, and before he exits, he mutters :

" Hey, I can post with no trouble ! "

:)

The new place looks nice. It is definitely an improvement over the previous one. This time you do not have to worry about the place suddenly closing.

Sir Albert returns to the bar, thereby narrowly averting the national Bahgum beer shortage crisis which suspiciously occurred during his enforced leave from the Strangers Bar, and was threatening to engulf the whole region of Oooop North.
By Eck, it's grand t'be back.

* Slips back in for but a moment, if only to shout Sir Albert a pint, or 12.

" Welcome back old boy, jolly good to see your return ! "

* Then returns to finding his way through these new halls ...

Lydia walks in to the bar feeling quite rested having just returned from a short leave home. “Back to the grind stone, I suppose” she said thinking to herself whilst taking a moment to look round the new place. “Not bad, not bad” she muttered to herself and while looking round caught a glimpse of the Rep of Komokom in the periphery of vision. “Trust the Rep to be one of the first ones here” she thought smiling to herself. “Can I get you drink Sir” Lydia asked the rep “I must say it is good to see some familiar faces arriving back here. I had feared we might loose a few a long the way...”

"drink quick dieing of thirst."

A man and a woman trudge into the Strangers' Bar. They look around and take in the sights. They appear weary, as if they had taken longer to get here than they could possibly have imagined. The woman, in her thirties, is of below average height, her hair dark and her skin swarthy. The man is slightly younger and towers over her, the sheen on his olive skin betraying his nerves. They move to the bar, eyes hunting out faces as if seeking someone familiar. The woman's gaze lingers on the already inebriated Bahgum ambassador and a flicker of a smile is traced on her lips. It is not a smile of familiarity as of recognition, as if she had been told to look for such a character here.

The woman buys the first round of drinks, a black coffee for herself and a small glass of red wine for the man. They take seats near a young lady and an robed gentlemen. They smile at this pair and the woman speaks.

"Hello. My name is Varia Yefremova, The Cloud-Water Community of Ecopoeia's newly elected Speaker to the United Nations. This is my deputy, Mathieu Vergniaud. We've heard much about this place." She paused. "And even more about you, sir. The Rep of Komokom, I presume?"

a young man, all of 26, strolls in to the newly referbished UN Pub, takes a quick look around and realizes he knows noone here...sits down at the bar, takes a look at the whiskey selection, sees nothing he likes and so lights a cigarette and exhales noisily...lemme get a...tall glass of milk...

Sir Albert looks up in shock, worry lines crease his forehead, confusion apparent in his face.......'milk???, tha needs a spot o' vodka in that m'lad', with that he opens another barrel of Bahgumian Blue Brandy, gives the lass from ooop in t'clouds a sozzled wink, and sets to in earnest in his quest to test the alcohol stocks of this new fangled bar.

* Having motioned for the good Telidian Representative to join him,

" My dear, I never left, here for the whole con-fuffle, albeit quite a queer event, big golden light, things freezing very solidily in place, feeling of a great amount of time passing, being stuck with my glass by my lips and the smell of Mango Liq. in my nostrils, very bad time I assure you, not being able to sip a sip ... "

* Sipping a sip as he says so. Say - that - ten times fast ...

" Then all of a sudden, boom, dust just zooms off it all, the bar, the drunken delegates, glasses holding nought but spirits of spirits past, big golden light gives a boom and a flash,then, all I see is new paint job, and wider halls out-side ... More elevators, N.E.D. bless my legs ... "

* Another sip ... is stopped, as-is the mono-logue, by the sight of his friend and regional delegate of The Black New World making a bee-line for the bar, and the arrival of two familiar faces, familiar so if only racially rather then personally ...

" Ah - so ! You two must be Ecopoeia's new nose to this walloping great grind-stone, its is a plesure to meet with you, and yes, I am The Rep of Komokom, though no points for you in this round I think, the, ah, frying-pan beside me makes I obvious I would think, "

* He says with a knowing smile, aware of his some-what, well, "some-what" reputation ...

" But yet, you look some-what tired from your travels if I may so say, so please feel free to pull up a chair if you would, and please so, may your first order at the bar be on my tab, I would consider it an honor, I insist to you !

* The Rep of Komokom summons for a waiter to take orders ...

Desdemona sits at the bar next to a rather exhausted looking Giordano.
'I liked the old bar better. Red wine please Neville. Varia, that is a beautiful name."

Mathieu arched an eyebrow as he noticed the merest hint of a blush on Varia's cheeks. He chuckled quietly, his nerves settling. Varia supped at her coffee and cleared her throat.

"I've been told that my mother was an unconventional woman. Apparently, she wanted me to have a unique name so she played around with syllables and made a judgement based on her own sense of aesthetics. I guess she made a sound choice."

She smiled and noted with relief that Mathieu had entered into earnest discussion with The Rep. Maybe that will settle his nerves. Nothing like an offer of free booze, I guess. Strange, he seemed so confident in the elections.

"Since we're on the subject of names, your own reminds me of my old theatre back home. I was never a Desdemona, but I like to think I made a pretty decent Emilia. Well, I say decent but in our production she was a little, uh, indecent. I'm not sure we were true to the original text there..."

“My dear Rep, a most disconcerting experience I am sure. Especially being unable to take a sip of your Mango Liq. Quite arduous indeed” replied Lydia. “However, I am sure it will make a wonderful addition to your memoirs of your time here should you ever think about putting them to paper.” she continued smiling.

“Ah greetings, a pleasure to make your acquaintance” turning her attention to the two new colleagues from Ecopoeia. “My name is Lydia Cornwall, Ambassador to the UN for the Telidian government. I must admit it is always a pleasure to meet delegates from Ecopoeia, I have always found them to be amongst the best to grace these fine halls”. “A privilege indeed” she continued, “to be in such distinguished company as yourselves, the Rep and indeed Lady Desdemona, to name a few.”

“I must say Lady Desdemona, it is a pleasure to see you back here, I had feared you would never grace these halls again with your presence. Does this mean we will have the pleasure of your continued company or is this simply a fleeting visit?”

Aside from the strange nature by which the bar had managed to change its own decor, Kestral felt no oddities from this place or the representatives which were her collegues. She did, however, feel too shy to intrude herself upon their kinship and joviality. So in the corner she stayed, just watching the others talk and share. With each toast, she raised her glass in silence, but did not speak up to most anyone else. She simply felt out of place with these longtime friends, and their festive personalities.
Why couldnt she be as carefree as them? Who knows...

What a novel idea

what do i do to join the UN? Do i have to be a specific type of government? :confused:

wow, i can finally access the forums and post!!!



too bad I have nothing of importance to say.

Ah, the NacMacFeigle, splendid, spledid, how are you old fruit? Got to say, things have been rather stale since your last visit, one was wondering how on earth we were going to have our latest batch of mother in laws up to combat readiness without you. Have a barrel of Single Malt, compliments of Bahgum.

"Well," said Stephanie as she entered the bar. "Here I am again. What's new?"

'My mother stole it from Noon but I assure you I don't have sex with my brother.

'Yes I'm back doing proposal related business, my insane region thought it would be a good idea to make me a delegate. I just need to find my old front lacing corset. Especially considering the amount of new comers.'

Desdemona was concentrating on taking the perfect sip out of her wine she didn't notice Giordano walk towards her until he threw up in her lap.

'Gi, dear when I said don't stay in the bar when it is moving I didn't mean run after it wile drinking large amounts of alcohol and contracting sun stroke!'

She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the toilet. Several scantly clad ladies ran out.

"So," Stephanie said as she resumed her seat at her table. "Everything's about the same, then."

I was wondering how I can get mor involved, in like a UN committee, or where I can read the UN Constitution and find all these answers. I want to know if the UN has any teeth when it comes to imposing the resolutions, can we even prevent world hunger or war, or political injustices? I'm not a deligate, but am a UN member... how may I be of service?

"Just a question," Stephanie inquired of everyone around her, "is anyone else only getting about 10 threads displayed at the new forum? All the older ones seem to have disappeared, including many of the stickies and FAQs."

OOC: there is an option at the bottom to see old threads

I was wondering how I can get mor involved, in like a UN committee, or where I can read the UN Constitution and find all these answers.
We don't have one the only thing limiting the UN is game mechanics and democracy.

I want to know if the UN has any teeth when it comes to imposing the resolutions, can we even prevent world hunger or war, or political injustices?
All resolutions are enforced once passed by the compliance ministry. We can prevent what ever we want to.

I'm not a deligate, but am a UN member... how may I be of service?
Post in the forums, have an informed opinion.

OK, so the U.N. has no constitution, but has passed many resolutions... might it be possible to see the full list and content of these documents in the NS forums?

No committee exist either? I find that VERY odd since many people would love the RP aspect.

You say the resolutions are enforced... how? Are UN members that do not comply denied thier membership? If I dont agree with a proposal that makes all energy sources solar and wind, am I warned by the UN, considered a rogue state?

You say game mechanics and democracy limit the U.N. Could you explain what that means in more detail, cause the things I see limiting the U.N. are organizational and basic in nature.

I am the UN Delegate for my Region. I was wondering who are the top people in the UN.

Dear chap from Engleterra, slurs Sir Albert, pull up a stool, and have a pint or six, you'll find that these nagging questions of yours will go away and the UN will really come into focus in your mind *looks to the others* isn't that so chaps and chapesses?
Now, you there, Hashtonian chappie, come and meet the barperson, you'll find that this is the single most important person in the UN and don't forget, mines a double blue Bahgumian brandy. Drink up now, there a good fellow.........

OOC:

OK, so the U.N. has no constitution, but has passed many resolutions... might it be possible to see the full list and content of these documents in the NS forums?
http://www.nationstates.net/cgi-bin/index.cgi

No committee exist either? I find that VERY odd since many people would love the RP aspect.
The UN works as part of the game. Although some people RP it isn’t necessary for the game or the UN

You say the resolutions are enforced... how?
The compliance ministry drops round and makes you comply.

Are UN members that do not comply denied thier membership? If I dont agree with a proposal that makes all energy sources solar and wind, am I warned by the UN, considered a rogue state?
For game purposes it is enforced, your stats change, your nation must obey. For RP purposes do whatever you want but some people consider it godmodding if you say ’I’m not doing this’.

You say game mechanics and democracy limit the U.N. Could you explain what that means in more detail, cause the things I see limiting the U.N. are organizational and basic in nature.
Read the FAQ, the stickies, and my post http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=333482

If you have any more questions feel free to telegram me, If you need the oppinion of a mod it would be better if you post in moderation.

A group of 5 strangers walk into the Bar, the United nations members from "The R5 Massive", a sad affair of Chaps and Chapettes who are really are just a little too smart to fit into normal society slid into the UN with no problems at all...

Led by their regional delegate, the Prime minister of Maousland, a small country too Neutral for its own good. All look haggard and tired, as they find themselves a corner booth in the shadows, and wait for the waiter to arrive to take their order. The PM of Maousland, one Mister Shawl, is idly making amendments to his coffe-stained, dog-eared draft resolution on the global disarmament on Weapons of Mass Destruction around the world, and is idly wondering how to fit in an amendment that would outlaw unwashed hippies from his parliament...

One of the national leaders, tired of waiting for the waiter, draws the sword he habitually carries with him at all times, the metal making a silken ringing sound on the Air.

"Waiter! Beer!"

‘His name is Neville, Sir Albert, or more formally barlord. And on that note best give me another glass of wine’

Walking through the door is 2 new guys you probably don't know talking in hushed voices.
They sit down at the bar and orders 2 whiskys, and when they get their drinks, they go sti down by the fire and reading what looks like speeches of some sorts.

ahhh, Neville, what a grand name, must try to remember....now where's that brandy??

One of the gentalmen from the 2 people looking over speeches, goes to the bar, looks around, and orders a rum and coke.

The other gentalman, Alzakaran UN ambassador Ultam Razaoui goes to the bar and orders a strong ale, and goes to the nearest billards table hoping on having a game. :)

A tall, pale looking man in a Soviet-style overcoat walks into the pub, spots PM Mofu, and walks over to him. "Mofu, how are ya me friend", says the man.

"Ah, Talim. It looks like you found me allright :D . Do you want a drink? Maybe a Firewhisky,eh? Sir Albert, can we have 3 Firewhiskys?"

The delegate for Ecky Ecky Ecky Patang wanders to the bar, orders a shot and surveys the others.

Neville old bean, whiskies all round, we'll pay it out of the Bahgum mother in law visiting fund, our glorious leader always approves...........

Nusku Capleton, formerly Rehochipean Minister for Defensive Incapacitation, Aikido and Productive Dialogue, slips through the double doors and heads for the bar.

"Christ paragliding backwards, this place has changed since I was in here last. Can't say it's an improvement, either. Neville? You still stocking Bakrata Diamond in here?"

She settles onto a barstool.

"Um, so, basically Rehochipe pulled out of the UN because, to quote a senior government figure, 'there are some wonderful nations there, but they've got no whack and the rest couldn't be trusted to run a bingo night'. But then we kind of had an election, and it sort of looks as if our people don't want the crap laws that come with the UN, but do want all the benefits. You know how voters are." She regarded her drink, which seemed to be half-empty already.

"Speaking of which, I lost my Ministry to a sodding hardline pacifist. So now I'm Special Liason to the UN, and in essence I'm going to be sitting around in the bar and keeping an eye out for potential allies. Oh, and Desdemona, Thackeray says hi."

The newly appointed delegate for The Empire of Tametia saunters in, sizing up the assembled throng before sliding into a darkened booth....

* The Rep of Komokom waves his drink happily at Nusku Capleton, glad to see the Rehochipean lot with a representative on the floor of the U.N.

" Jolly good, it feels like all the old hands are coming back "

* : He notes, ( more on nationalities then personalities of course )

...

* Noting further he strolled past a room with the Sophista representative making a good point earlier, though the wiff of potential spirits ( drinkable rather then etheral ) gave haste to his feet more so then his brain could give stop, ( more so to his said feet then it ever could his oten said mouth ) .

PM Shawl ambled over to the biliards table with his drink, idly wondering if he could catch a game with anyone. a couple of his other regional members had already started playing darts, their game worsening with the amount of alcohol that was consumed.

he picked up the Cue, set the balls on the table and waited for the first chalenger. He was sure he didnt have too long to wait.

"whomever plays me, i swear the loser shall buy the next round" he declared with a smile.

Shawl was something of a Blaggard.

fortunately, Sir Albert, although it was little known, was the Bahgumian trick shot, bar billiards, pool and pubgames champion a record 26 times in a row. He hears the challenge and decides to step up for a change, it goes without saying that he always played his best when he was totally and utterly sozzled, which happens to be a fortuitous coincidence...though hardly unexpected..............
Right then me'lad, steps up and pots every ball in one visit using the reverse end of the cue while he is waiting, lets 'ave a game.

i was reasontly invaded by a un nation without warning or reason (the holy empire of chris eastwood) i was wondering if this was the sort of behavour un nations had because if it is i want nothing to do with it!
:mad: :headbang: :mad: :headbang: :mad:

"Not actually a representative, I'm afraid," Nusku grumbles. "More of an ambassador. Our government - particularly J-T, Elsepeth and PDK - is still pretty adamant that the UN needs to start behaving in a significantly more grown-up way before we can be ready to hand complete authority back to it. But I'm here to bring up such concerns, look out for potential allies, that sort of thing." She hands her now-empty glass automatically back to the bartender, without looking at it.

"We feel most of the UN has its heart in the right place, you understand. It's just that its brain is disengaged from its hands."

Cassandra Rose (defiantly confident despite only newly aquiring her position as Special Liason to the UN for the Grand Duchy of Hurin) enters the bar and takes a surveying glance across the assembled company before proceeding to the bar and ordering a drink, waiting for someone else to make the first move, or for the right opportunity to make hers.

* With an eye on the angry new face banging its head against the wall, and a faint hope it won't dent the new decor in the room, The Rep of Komokom notes to Nusku :

" And at times its pants are removed and the hands find them-self resting on a some-what different organ all-together ... "

* He says with a smile, remembering some of the more ... plain and lacking material to pass over his desk.

Mathieu supped delicately at his glass of Syrah.

"Speaking of disengaged brains, another bunch of proposals concerning gun registration - or the the lack thereof - have hit the floor. Fortunately, they don't apear to have a snowball's chance in hell of making quorum; nonetheless, it's pretty dispiriting to be confronted with this when you've only been on the job for a couple of weeks."

He shrugged. "Still, could be worse. I might actually live in one of these nations."

A shudder and then he returned his attention to the wine. It was really rather good.

“Jerry, I need a drink and a strong one at that please” requested Lydia from the elderly barman and friend. “So, tell me any new arrivals?” she questioned. “Well, I think you will be pleased to know that there is a new delegation from Rehochipe, I believe the Ambassador’s name is Nusku Capleton” replied Jerry while pouring a lightly translucent purple liquid in a thin tall glass. “That’s excellent news indeed I must go pay my respects. By the way what is this?” asked Lydia looking at beverage with a somewhat worried look. She had never encountered a drink such as this before and whilst it was only half filled the rest of glass was now slowly being filled with a milky sort of purple, blue gas emanating from the liquid.

“Well, myself and some of the other barman here have been trying for ages to get our hands on this, it’s called Tricalumn, sorry not sure about the pronunciation” explained Jerry with the enthusiasm of a child that had just found a lost toy. “The whole thing is a bit like piece of art” he continued. “It must be half filed and served in a tall thin glass such as this and apparently the liquid interacts with the glass and air in the room forming a gas on top. Then, in a moment you will notice, ah here we go, I’ve never actually seen this happen myself” stopping the explanation to observe the rest of the chemical process. The gas was now slowly filling to the top of the glass and just as it reached the top stopped, condensation appeared on the outside of glass, the drink instantaneously chilling itself without the need for ice. In fact the entire concoction looked as though it had just been served directly out of a freezer.

Lydia looked on rather astonished at the whole spectacle wondering why anyone would put so much effort in to creating an alcoholic beverage. “Could I have another please Jerry, I’d like to give one the new Ambassador” asked Lydia looking round the bar for the Rehochipian.

“Ambassador Capleton, Rep of Komokom sorry to interrupt, I see your glass is empty Ambassador, perhaps you might care to try this it’s called, Tricalumn. I’ve never actually tried it myself and I thought we might share a new experience? Allow me to introduce myself I’m Lydia Cornwall, the Telidian representative. I must say I am very pleased to see representatives of Rehochipe back in these halls, very pleased indeed.”

Sir Albert stands up in a rare fit of sobriety and clears his throat to make an announcement. It seems that our Glorious Leader is looking to move to a more populous region and feels that the bar is the place to ask to find well minded regions. Bahgum is awaiting telegrams.

thats, that out of the way, pint anyone?

"I'll Take One..." Is Heard From The Darker Corner Of The Bar, From Izrathia's Represenative, John Priest. The Lack Of Decent UN Votes Has Made Him Practically Live In The Booth.

Shawl Stepped up to the Bar.

"I'll have one of those, what are they called? Tricalumn? i need a drink... that Damned proposal's Been turned Down... the world that needs weapons capable of leveling a city in a single stroke is a sad one" mused Shawl.

He watched his drink cool itself, a wonder of thermal Physics.

"I just lost my post of Regional delegate to that Blaggard From the Barty party" he continued. "ah well, thats life... Oh, Sir Albert, I owe you a drink for that game of Billiards..." he remarked as he reached into his wallet and retrived a five Cuckoo Clock Note.

He sipped his drink apreciatively.

He realy did have to have a quiet word with the Maousland treasurer about the name of their nation's currerncy...

Nusku nods politely to Lydia, and accepts the drink.

"Thank you. It's good to have an opportunity to open relations with your nation again; ACA-CACE is a wonderful set to be in but it does have an insular tendency. Thackeray commended you to me, I should add." She sipped cautiously at the suspicious-looking beverage, fervently hoping it wasn't liquid oxygen.

"I seem to remember J-T saying something about coaxing you into IFTA... but we'd better leave economics out of the Bar or knives will be drawn. Mmm, this is... kind of toxic, but in a good way; is that aniseed?"

John Priest Wonders About Why He Even Bothers With The People Who Elected Him Represenative... Bumbling Idiots... The Country Is At War With Itself, Literally, Everything Is Taxed But Nothing Is Improved... And He Barely Gets Paid Enough For The Yacht...

"Cheer up mate" remarked Shawl, "it could be worse, it doesnt apear that your feet are taxed" he jested, before leaving the Bar to find a darkend Booth,and turned his attention back to his drink.

Liquid Oxygen? now that was an interesting possability. He pulled out a small box of matches, lit one, and cautiously inched the stuttering flame towards the rim of the tall glass...

A resounding Boom tore the Corner booth apart, leaving shawl stood in the middle looking rather shellshocked, coated in black soot, his rather expensive suit smoldering beyond repair.

he turned towards Sir Albert, (who was busly trying to put his hair out).
"Liquid oxygen is, aparantly, the active ingredient", he stuttered, before colapsing backward into the wrekage of the Booth.

As the doors fly open, a tall dark handsome man walks tinto the Bar. Behind him is the leader of The Barty Party; Bart.

"These bodyguards should realy be shorter" He mutters as he casually picks his way to the bar over the scatered Debri. And past ashattered corner Booth where Shaw, the leader of Moausland, lies flat on his back; defeated yet again by science and logic.

"I cant believe they still let trash in to places like this" he muttered. "Look at him, now he is not a deigate, he's nothing" He says with disgust as he Steps over at the cruppled wreck.

"Sir Albert! Martini, shaken not stirred"

Im just here to get drunk and eat steak.

John Looks At His Drink... "Goddamn, And I Thought Cigars Killed Me!!!" And he Lights Up Another...

Also, He Wonders Why They Havent Had A Foot Tax Yet... Hmm... Things To Consider...

The witch and the 2-metre black-and-white cat teetered in the doorway, checking out the scene. Smoke rising from one quarter, a possible corpse flat on its back in another, something muttering unseen in the darkness -- just like home. But Dicey Reilly, co-President of Ardchoille, still hesitated.
"What if they don't serve witches?" she whispered.
"Then we'll order something else," said the cat, impatiently. "Now move, we're in the way."
Obedient to the large paw in the small of her back, Dicey edged her way through the crowd and moored herself on a stool while the cat engaged the barman's attention.
"Barlord, we seek your advice," said the cat. "Our small nation is troubled by a religious sect. We need to speak to others who have dealt discreetly with similar problems -- no invasions, no persecutions, nothing obvious. Whom would you recommend?"

Ooc: I Changed Char Named To Joseph, Because I Hate John

Joseph Priest Can Overhear The Enormous Humanlike Cat And, Laughs At The Civil Rights Being Crushed And Gasps At What Kind Of Bestiality Could Be Amuck In That Country... Or Maybe He Just Needs More Beer... "Bartender!"

"We don't want them to stop being religious or anything," Dicey explained hurriedly, noting the bartender's dubious look. "It's just that they're so . . . well . . . depressing about it all."
"They're called the Fundamentally Flawed," added the cat. "Their basic tenet is that the whole world is fundamentally flawed, so why bother trying to fix anything."
"We've tried writing musicals where the girl cheers up the FF boy and takes him to the pub," said Dicey. "And we've fiddled the pop charts to get lots of 'everything is rosy' music into the play-list, and we've given the schoolkids an extra week's holiday and promoted free all-day showings of Shrek I and II, but nothing works!"
"Surely there must be someone here who's run into the same sort of thing?" said the cat.

Nusku shrugs. "We had some trouble with a cult a little while back, but that was more to do with kidnapping and brainwashing and such, so we were able to act a little more directly.

"I'd recommend a couple of things: giving government funding for the building of their spooky little temples and so forth. 'Alternative' movements tend to stop being quite so attractive once they're government-approved. And, y'know, depressing ideologies tend to crop up when people feel alienated from a world that offers them nothing. So, um, a more diverse, inclusive, peaceful society? I dunno how exactly you go about doing that; that's more the Ministry of Being Nice's department, and all my experience is in Defensive Incapacitation."

Joseph Priest Chugs The Beer And Heads Off... Talking On His CellPhone...
"Hey, Mister President? I Have A Great Idea... How Much Do People Like Their Feet...?"

"Finance temples? Now that could work," said Dicey thoughtfully. "Of course, we'd have to give every religion the same amount -- separation of church and State, you know -- but . . ."
"But the FFs wouldn't use it," interrupted her feline companion. "You know they don't think anything can make a difference."
"Well, then . . . Hey! I've got it! If they don't use the money, then we could get them for misuse of Government funds!" Dicey gabbled. "And if they DO use it, I bet there's some way we could tax them on it! Tax them cross-eyed! And if they object, then they're heretics in their own eyes, since they know they can't make a difference! And . . ."
"She's Irish," the cat apologised to the Rehochipean. "Six generations in Ardchoille, but when it comes to politics, she still thinks Irish. By the way, I'm the current Advisor to the Humans. You may have met my predecessor? No? Well, I'm Bast."

Alyson Ronaska, Serconean Ambassador to the UN, walked into the bar and ordered a J2O.

Lady Des sits at the bar and stairs deep into the barlords eyes.

'Neville, would you say that I'm a UN regular?'

The steamy barlord takes her hand and tenderly wipes the stray hairs out of her tear-filled eyes.

'I have no idea but you do need a new narrator.'

Varia noted the tearful Lady Desdemona and pulled up a stool next to her. Ressting the inexplicable urge to order a pint of Large, she instead requested a small whisky from the part-time barman and smiled at the Black New Worlder.

"I've not been here long, but I can already see how stressful it is to be a permanent UN representative. It's strange, but it feels as if this institution strips us of our dignity at times, leaving us clinging to the shadows like destitute waifs, nursing a strong drink, making conversation with our fellow urchins."

She gazed over at Nusku and Lydia, who were gamely negotiating their way through a terrifying beverage.

"Of course, I may simply be putting as melodramatic spin on things. Probably spending too much time around Mathieu." She grinned at her fellow Ecopoeian, who was on his umpteenth glass of red and looking the worse for it.

"Perhaps a change of scenery would bring you some cheer? I don't believe we've had the pleasure of a Black New World delegation in Ecopoeia and I'm sure the communities would welcome the chance to show off their ... uh ... fish. And stuff. Well, it's just a thought."

A few stools down from the women, Mathieu belched flamboyantly. A satisfied smile played upon his lips before he realised that Varia was frowning at him. He coughed, attempted to straighten up and slid gracelessly off his stool.

Lady Des who has spontaneously stopped crying and, for some reason, has her hair in a tight French plat turns to Varia.

'I would but the services of a delegate are always required and when I'm not doing that I'm playing the posh tart in the manor.'

* Sitting in his chair, The Rep of Komokom does not spill a drop as the blast wave of the corner booth rolled past. He decides to ignore the peeping of the scantily clad ladies out of the powder room door at all the commotion.

" I bet that stung "

* He makes his way over to his delegate, the Lady Des, and galantly offers her a silk hankerchief to remove and traces of tears, then comments on the most glorious colour of her hair.

:)

As Bart looks around, he sees many people wondering how to deal with there problems.

"Why not just blow them up. After all that seems to be a favorite of the Americans here."

No one looks amused...

"merely a suggestion, as it is none of you would be faced with this if you had just surpressed free will in the first place."

Bart turns towoards the day kicking rubble from his path.

"This place is a tip, tidy it up."

He leaves a cloak swishing behinde his back with the symbol of the Barty party on it.

'Aww you noticed.'

Lady Des slips the silk hankerchief in her -ahem- pocket, you never know when thes things are going to come in useful.

barely noticing the conflagration about him, due to the fire in his throat from teh Bahgumian Blue Brandy, Sir Albert makes a note to suggest that liquid oxygen may be the way forward for the next batch of brandy........

barely noticing the conflagration about him, due to the fire in his throat from teh Bahgumian Blue Brandy, Sir Albert makes a note to suggest that liquid oxygen may be the way forward for the next batch of brandy........

I say:
Look kids, here is one of those idiots of which I spoke, quick grab your camera!

Or should I say in nerd-speak:
The magnificence that is his badass Green_baronland passes wind in the direction of Bahgum. Green_baronland cannot help but be flabbergasted by the absolute absurdity that is his turd-ness, Bahgum. We are entirely gracious to insert our stick up the rear-entry portal of Bahgum, aside that he is one to be enjoying of such stimulation. We shall dance the glorious dance of welcomdom for the monstrosity of ignorance displayed by Bahgum, who actually believes he commands a artificially contrived nation, created within the confines of some idiot's false ideals. One shuns his face from such ignorance.

Recognising a series of subtle snubs, Bast berated himself. All this time dealing with humans, and he'd forgotten how desperately they defended their playtime. Still, all was not lost. He wasn't into inter-species amour, but human females always seemed to enjoy tickling felines under the chin . . .
Dicey, meanwhile, having enjoyed her idea-fuelled high, was now toying with melancholy. Soulfully, she eyed the noble, utterly unfazed Sir Albert as he picked his elegant way through the debris. Wouldn't it be wonderful to confide in a man like that, a wise mentor, someone with old-fashioned values whose honourable nature would almost force him to gently educate a provincial innocent like herself, guide her faltering steps through the intricate maze so easily navigated by these suave international diplomats . . .

I say:
Look kids, here is one of those idiots of which I spoke, quick grab your camera!

Or should I say in nerd-speak:
The magnificence that is his badass Green_baronland passes wind in the direction of Bahgum. Green_baronland cannot help but be flabbergasted by the absolute absurdity that is his turd-ness, Bahgum. We are entirely gracious to insert our stick up the rear-entry portal of Bahgum, aside that he is one to be enjoying of such stimulation. We shall dance the glorious dance of welcomdom for the monstrosity of ignorance displayed by Bahgum, who actually believes he commands a artificially contrived nation, created within the confines of some idiot's false ideals. One shuns his face from such ignorance.

* Upon hearing this, The Rep of Komokom breaks into hysterical laughter at such pathetic word poking.

"I think, (chuckle), sir, it would be best to keep such absurd banter out of this establishment, I think you'll find your kind are more welcome in " General " ... "

A groan arose from the smouldering pile of rubble in the corner as Shawl climbed out from under the remains of the Table, checking that he still had all his limbs.

"Gods, my head..." he groaned.
"Gods, my suit...!" he cried, looking down.

he finaly looked about the bar, noticing the mild devistation caused by one drink.

"Oh Gods... My Drink..."

trailing smoke he limped over to the Bar, bumping into a giant cat as he did so.

"Watch where you'r going, moron!" muttered the Cat.
"must've been hit round the head..." he muttered to himself. it was the only explanation for a giant talking cat, which clearly couldnt possibly exist.
"Your just a figment of my imagination, I expect."

He paused.

"you want a drink?

"Why, thank you, sir, don't mind if I do," said Bast. He turned to the bar: "I'll have what he's having, please," he ordered.
Dicey might have saved him, but by then, Dicey had problems of her own . . .

"I think I'll steer clear of that Tricilium stuff... Two Pints of Turbots Realy Odd please" he said to the Barkeep.
"so, how long have you Been a figment of my imagination then?" he asked, rubbing a large bruise on his head.

A (Foulmouthed) Blue Imp ran past at ankle height.

"gods... either I got hit a little too hard, or if i rember my Pratchett, that was one of the Nac Mac Feegle back for a drink" he said to the Cat.

He paused.

"I'm not sure which is worse"

"You're sure you're not a figment of mine?" asked Bast, suppressing an urge to rub affectionately around this battered stranger's ankles. He couldn't help himself, he just adored human metaphysics, and here was a double dose being served amid friendly folk and comfortable surroundings, accompanied by (sip) one helluva drink.
"I have, of course, delved into the Discer's canon, as any educated being must," he continued, "but I am not sufficiently expert to identify subsidiary species. I would be grateful to absorb your teachings on that (or, indeed, any other) subject. Whasshi -- what's in this stuff?" he added, descending suddenly into ordinary speech as the Turbot's began to hit.

DG of Magdhans cautiously opens the bar doors, and peers into the musty yet welcoming light and smell, the room full of happily chatting strangers.

"Well this is a dandy place, which has been spoken of quite much before me! Why I should be shot for neglecting to come here earlier!"

He hangs his wet coat on the mahogony hat rack, and sets himself into an open seat in the bar.

"Could you serve me a martini of any sorts, Miss?", he asks the barkeepess."I seem to have lost me keys to the minibar at home." and proceeds to look around feeling doubly welcomed by the decor and rustic layer over trash and rubblee on the floor. He hears music but cannot discern what it is over the hubub of noises. He wonders if there may be a few happy nationwomen among these nation men looking for a dance?

"Wait, is that a cat, a giant talking cat? Oh god..."
*motions to waitress*
"I think instead I will have that Tricilium stuff which that man in the corner is having. And a nice filet mignon, medium rare, please."

Unslaved Comrades leader Katie walks flambountly. She sets her leopard print umbrella by the coat rack and prepares for a fun time at the bar. She takes a seat on a stool.

"Can I get a glass of Tricilium, I think it's called, what they have?" pointing to the numerous glasses of steaming purple drink.

The flourescence of the uplights faded into the ceiling behind the grated storefront window. A single ember gave way now to a person standing in the darkness under the overhanging sign. Smoke rose up from its hand resting at the hip and curled between the neon tubes.
Laconic guitar played in a bar still closing across the street.
The figure touched the door handle, then tugged. It was not locked yet and gave way softly, allowing the character to vanish just as the din of footsteps came from the alley. An old man hobbling turned the corner and bent down. A latch clicked and the silhouette of the old man paused.
Then he was gone and nothing stirred for a time hidden by the eternal street light. The bar was closed, a couple thought as they walked close by the window.
It crouched to set a clock reading 1:45 as the screen wall flickered with the rerun of the five oclock news. Unengrossed, she turned to the window of her apartment and stared out blankly across the way at the neighbor's gauzy orange curtains smoldering. She walked to the window and her arms dropped as she began to rearrange several round stones. Fifteen minutes later, satisfied with her work she slid back under the covers and turned out the screen leaving the rocks out by the open window.
A light drifted over them.

"Double absinthe on the rocks for the delegate from Interport; I think she's hooked on the ambience," Nusku shouts to the barman. "Y'know, if you're going to unleash your literary pretensions in here, it would do one well to check whether you're any good first."

Shawl finished his pint of Turbots Realy Odd.

"well, I gotta Go *Hic* i gotta go and find me talior... I need a new suit..." he remarked with only a little slur in his vioice as he stagered from the Bar. "Twas nice talking to you..." he said as he departed the Bar, stepping over the Rubble.

Gods, what were they going to say at the embasy when they got billed for this lot?

which reminded him. he pulled out a *slightly Battered* mobile and speed dialed a number.

"Hey, Prime minister, Can you get me the minister for Space travel to take a look at this trickilum Stuff, will you? it shows promise..."

He turned and looked at the Rubble strewn bar.

"Toodle Pip, to Y'all"

* The Rep of Komokom faintly remembers that strange little man who came in here earlier. He contemplates having the mess cleaned up, but rather hopes the little fellow and his slightly taller ego will come back and trip over. What was his name .. Bort ?

" ... ( Sips his drink ) ... "

* The Rep of Komokom finds he is suddenly remembering the Nac Mac Feegle, it is not like there is anything wrong with being short. I don't think I'll sit so close to the fire this time. No, the smell last time eliminated one good suit. And my eye-brows have just about grown back 100 % .

LG (DG's alter ego) savores ther last bite of his steak, and tries the tricilium one last time.
"Ugh! Still horrible! Why did I ever try it?"
Proceeds to move next to the fire, dodging the various bits of rubble, and trips.
"Damn" *stands up and straightens himself, noticing he has unfortunatley become the temporary center of attention* "Uh... sorry about that... maybe a round of drinks on me..."
*curses the rubble with several Magdhan explicatives, and bids it to go away*
Sits himself in a comfy chair by the fireplace letting the warmth take him in. The ground over here was littered with week old little savory thingies, and a few party hats, topped of with a layer of scribbled upon notes.
Gets up and orders a glass of Magdhan wine, sits back down, gulps it, and falls asleep.

A Pair of offical looking gentlemen with clipboards entered the Bar.

"Good evening, we're from the Maousland Embasy, aparantly theres some damage we need to survery..." said the first, his words falling short as he surveyed the Damage.

there was quite a lot of it to be surveyed.

"Bloody hell" said the second. "i was expecting it was just Shawl Being a muppet as usual... Not a bloody bombsite..."

he pulled out an exceptionaly long checkbook, wrote a figuire with a lot of 0's in it and left, talking angerily down their mobiles as they did so.

Shawl was in a little bit of a pickle. but at least the Maousland space industry had been given a boost...

Bast sighed. Things seemed to be quietening down, what with everybody passing out and the nice man who had ordered the wonderful Turbot's Really Odd going away. Furthermore, there were now men with clipboards infiltrating, and unpleasant things tended to happen whenever Dicey Reilly met men with clipboards. Best get her out of here. Now, where . . . oh, dear.

"Nic Moc Fleegle," said Dicey. "No, Noc McFeegle. No, wait, Nac Mhic Feiogall . . . couldn't I just do the one about the pheasant plucker's son? It's much, much easier to say. Much. Much."

She gestured expansively to show everyone just how much, much easier. The row of purple drinks she had lined up behind her -- apparently forfeits in a tongue-twister game -- obligingly demonstrated the domino theory. Liquid spread, oozed, dripped; combined with other Really Odd liquid; etched patterns into the bar, into cloth, fur and skin . . .

Ladies and Gentlemen, my sincere apologies but I will not able to join you in debates for a little while. I have been requested to return to Telidia until such time as the newly elected government has made decision regarding UN policy and I am required to take part in these discussions.

I really do hope I will be back here soon, even if it is only to sample drinks from the best bar in the world.

As always, respectfully
Lydia Cornwall, UN Ambassador
Office of UN Relations
HM Government of Telidia

OOC:
Unfortunately I am having to take some ‘time out’ from playing NS due to a RL illness which has turned out to be a little more serious than anyone initially thought. This is by no means a goodbye forever, just a little time out to concentrate on my health and to get some much needed rest.

Finally I would just like to add that some players here are some of the brightest, most interesting and fun people I have met. I hope you know who you all are and keep it up, because it’s you who really make the UN what it is.

I'm really sorry to hear this, Telidia. Rest up, get well soon and I hope to see you in here again.

"Finally I would just like to add that some players here are some of the brightest, most interesting and fun people I have met"

Count yourself as one of them.

All the best, you're in my thoughts.

Ach. Here's hoping your recovery is a smooth one. All the best.

OOC: All the best, Telidia. Get well soon!

IC: Stephanie had observed the entire bar from her undisturbed table, where she had been playing patience for some time. The smoking ruins in one corner, a giant talking cat, and something about a foot tax. She shook her head.

"Neville, I feel like something I got the first time I entered this bar. One Komokomian brandy!"

With one swirl of his Patent Kleensweep Bar Wipe, Neville stopped the creeping liquid in its tracks. Then, for the first time in recent history, he raised the bar flap and emerged. Crooking an elbow, he escorted Ms Cornwall to the door. The bar lights swelled and dimmed, once, twice, three times. "Give 'em hell, Lydia!" urged a bass voice. "And if they give you trouble, tell the Telidians they su--" yodelled a contralto, its last syllables muffled by a large black paw. "Y'all come back now, y'hear?" drawled a tenor.

As the room erupted in farewell cheers and whistles, as clenched fists punched the air and languid waves cleft it, Neville returned to the bar. He took the pewter tankard marked "Telidia" from its rack, polished it carefully and returned it to its place -- upright, as tankards were always kept when a nation's representative was expected back at any moment.

"Knows his trade, does the old Nev," someone observed as the chatter resumed. Impassively, the barman poured a Komokomian brandy.

OOC: Get well soon.

IC:

Giordano walks into the bar looking slightly dishevelled.

'Pint of Lar…' he crumbles under Lady Des's stare, 'just a water please, mate… and one for Des.'

'That's Lady Des to you'

Shawl entered the Bar, his face downcast, with a bandage wraped around his head.
He'd been to the embasy, where the visiting minister for space exploration had dutifuly greeted him, thanked him for the tip about the trikilium, and given him a broom and told him to "clear up his own damned mess".

he looked at the shattered corner booth with disdain.

"Barkeep? a mop, a bucket and a pint of Scumble... I need something to remove the scorch marks with..."

This could take a while...

"Blimy, they do serve giant cats in here"

"They serve practically ANYBODY, apparently," said Bast, in tones that suggested he was not expressing fervent admiration for such an open-hearted policy. Dicey stood on his tail.
"RRrrowrrohyeahsorry," said her diplomatic colleague. "Um, perhaps, sir, I could buy you a drink while I explain about the difference between Ardchoille cats and giant cats?"
Neville slammed down their usuals in front of the trio. "Shawl, this is Bast and Dicey," he said. "Bast and Dicey, this is Shawl. All of you, play nice. No Maus jokes, no cat jokes and no witch jokes -- not until we've got a bigger audience, anyway."

* The Rep of Komokom, lowering his glass from a fare-well, may it better bloody be temporary, to the good Telidian, drains it and orders a glass of Komokom Lemon Liq. on a pillar of crushed ice in a crystal high ball glass. Sipping from this he remarks to Lade Des,

" Well, I'm certainly wishing the Ennish well on this one, bloody good proposal, best of luck to them on cramming this through at last, rarely do we see a document so polished ... "

* Takes another sip, and decides not to comment to Giordano that he looks frighteningly ... sober ...

"Ooops... Right, Sorry..." muttered Shawl, whilst using the scumble to remove a particularly stubborn scorch mark from the flagstones. the floor smoked, and a small peice of loose change on the floor bubbled and crackled away to nothing upon contact with the liquid. He smiled.

"Isnt it wonderfull what can be done with apples..." he said, to no one in particular.

a stray bead of Scumble trickled away and started to melt a hole in a delegate's shoe.

He paused, a few words bothering him.

"I didnt know there were any Maous Jokes... Not about me, i hope? And anyway, theres an old saying in maousland... Dont joke about witches unless you want to be up to your arse in hedgehogs..."

In the background, a few shouts and cries were coming from a member of the UN who discovered that her shoes had been melted to the floor.

"Whoops, powerfull stuff that..."

leaning on his mop, he took another sip of his Turbots, Before turning towards Bast. "so, what is the diference?"

"Ordinary cats are ordinary. We aren't," explained Bast. "Or, to simplify, while we have developed to a high degree our psychic powers, humans have developed to a high degree their physical powers. But when we're together, we resonate. So we can be engineers and you lot can be wizards."

"Or witches," added Dicey. "It's sort of like the old tales about familiars, only mutual. But," she added warningly, having noticed Shawl's hopeful look towards the mops and buckets, "we're not allowed to do magic outside Ardchoille."

"It's not magic that I talk, though," Bast assured him. "It's just that I'm a brilliant linguist."

Obligingly, he gave Shawl an opportunity to observe his talent. His remarks when he realised that the floor was being eaten away under him drew on the native tongues of more than 40 different nations.

As people watched on, admiring the great stength of the stuff Shawl was using to remove the stains, Bart enters the UN strangers bar for the second time.

His cloak swishing as he entered, while talking on the latest mobile phone, with camra and for some strange reason a coffee machine,

"Look do you want to talk to the prime minister, or do you want to talk to someone who knows whats happening......Right good, now LISTEN..."

He looks up from the handy dandy mobile hand pad the initials SR on the top standing for something which the BArty Party holds dear.

"A JDC barkeep...." seeing the confused look on the barkeeps face. "A Jack Daniels and coke."

He turns his attention back to the palm top.

"look you ninny...not you barkeep...YES YOU, you blasted ninny, people breath air, air is everywhere...soooo what do we do.......(pause).......NO YOU NIINNY WE DO NOT HOLD A NATIONAL AIR DAY, WE TAX THEM FOR BREATHING."

Then muttering to himself and grabbing the JDC he walks over to a empty table.

"mother always told me...if you are going to go into politics make sure you are in a dictatorship.....why didnt I listen?"

Stephanie looked up, sure she had heard someone cursing fluently in Old Ennish, then got up onto her table before she fell through the floor.

"Well, this place sure does change quickly," she said.

* As The Rep of Komokom notes that strange little man is back in the bar, he quickly places all four of his spare teflon-coated frying-pans on the floor, one each under the legs of his chair. He then uses his official one as a paddle, and rows his way across the floor cleaning puddle, which is rapidly spreading, into a lake of the stuff.

" If ... I keep .. on ... ah-ha ! "

* The Rep of Komokom builds up enough speed to sail across to the bar and get a re-fill.

Greetings.
My name is Ambassador Donald Mink. The nation of Simianonia extends its heartfelt thanks for our UN positon.
I have been sent here to cover up our human righst abuses and generally be corrupt and garner as much guns and wealth as I can.
Also Im a shady sod that the Presidente didnt want hanging around in case I slipped a dagger in his back.

" Well, I'm certainly wishing the Ennish well on this one, bloody good proposal, best of luck to them on cramming this through at last, rarely do we see a document so polished ... "

"To Enn!"

Shawl, Bast and Dicey were all balanced on top of one small Barstool that was precariously standing on one flagstone not covered by the bubbling liquid.

"Course, In Maous, we only order the Damn stuff in shot glasses, and most folks go blind after drinking that much" said Shawl, nervously watching a bead of scumble edge towards one of the chair legs.

"well, at least the Floor's clean, " said Bast. "what do we do now?"

"we wait till it eats through the moatar holding the flagstones in place, and then it'll drain into the Cellar, and we'll walk to saftey. The bottom of our shoes will end up a little on the coroded side, but its better than trying to wade through a whole pint".

he paused for a moment, thinking.

"Sir Albert, this place does have a cellar, doesnt it?" he shouted across the Bar, the ocupants of which were either getting out of the Scumble's way or watching the trio on the barstool, taking bets on who would fall first.

"Yes, but you'r not going to like whats in it!" Sir Albert shouted back.

"Why?" Said Dicey, noticing that the Scumble was indeed trickling away into the cellar bellow.

"Its Tretonian Firewiskey!"

"Ok, Positively no smoking folks!" Shawl yelled at the audience they had drawn.

((Ok, I MUST giggle madly at this point that a cat and a witch are discussing politics. Hey Bast! Sometimes I am known as Bastet, in honor of my ward and matron. It is tenderly amusing to see that SHE is still remembered, but to see her in such a comical content considering the nature I have seen her is 'fol'. Anyway, I will let you back to the game.))

Kestral sat quietly in her booth, still watching everything but saying little. She would leave every evening just before 1am, and return diligently by 7pm the next night. She watched everyone. Learned everything she could, and found most of the delegates quite amusing.

Shawl absentmindely waved a greeting at Bart as he sat down at his table, stepping over a small rivulet of Scumble as he did so. Most of the stuff had gone, but it still wasnt safe to get down off the barstool.

and it sure as hell wasnt safe to smoke yet.

"Move your tail! you nearly had me off then!"

As a small sizzerling started to calm down, Bart realised that while he had been transfixed by the uter stupidity of Shawls idea for cleaning the bar.

"Hello.......really.....Excellant." At this same point the phones of everyone in the bar starts to ring.

"Barkeep, I have heard from my sources back in my country that Mr Shawls country Maousland, has said all drinks are to be on him. that being the case, I will take a Vodka Martini....Shaken not stirred."

Shawls face goes from fascination to disbelief, how can he afford all those drinks, perhaps his government shouldnt have posted on the main board....maybe.

All this happening just as Ven walked in the door..

Wearing a very smart, oriental looking, shirt. Black in colour with loose, light weight, white cloth trousers... Ven didn't fit with the rest of the bar's customers, who were wearing mostly suits...

Looking at Bart...

"Aha, witness the rich and silly ordering yet another watered-down martini in a smug, superior way..." :rolleyes:

"Amazingly, after everything that's happened this bar is still open for business... it is indeed a bar with considerable might (and insurance)..."

raises an eyebrow in Shaw's direction.... "when will you ever learn... if wanting to play with corrosive substances always read the bottle first"

Taking care not to step onto the dangerous floor Ven does a number of unlikely looking jumps, bouncing off chairs, tables, benches, walls and dry parts of the floor to end up on a fairly safe looking part of the bar...

"Make mine a a pint of... hmmm... Carlsberg. Put it on Shawl's tab... cheers!"

"The C in Cat comes before the D in Diplomat," said Bast to himself, and leapt in a catlike way for the top of the bar. He knew perfectly well that this would topple the bar stool, but he did it anyway. Cats are like that. Dicey, gasping, made a gesture that traced itself in lines of fire in the air. Shawl found himself seated comfortably beside Bast, with a nice fat cushion underneath him. But Dicey had disappeared with a faint Pop! of imploding air.
"Recalled to Ardchoille," said Bast, unconcerned. "Told you we weren't allowed to practise magic outside. But don't worry, she'll get off under the Three Laws -- not allowing, through inaction, any sentient to come to harm."
Dicey reappeared, looking ruffled. "They're not going to put anything on my permanent file, but I've got to be Co-President for ANOTHER 12 months," she fumed.
"An extra 12 months of keeping YOU on track? Ye gods and little fishes! Looks like they've found a way to make us both pay," said Bast dolefully.
"Speaking of paying, Shawl is. I think this calls for desperate measures -- two double nips of Ardchoille '64, please, Neville."

* The Rep of Komokom makes sure his last refill has been put on Shawls tab, then, considering most but not all scumble has gone, ties two frying-pans from his chair in position, one on each of his shoes, and uses these to skate across the still slightly acidic surface of the bar floor, thinking it might be wise to ensure the fire-place really is completely out.

" Else we might find our-selves relocated ten floors up in a " Is Homosexuality Natural " or " Jesus Said This Says Me : " debate, fates worse then death ... "

"things I wish I'd never said" Muttered Shawl, as he Kicked over over the mop bucket to swill the last of the scumble away. The water, steaming on contact with the last of the scumble, drained away into the cellar, where it would later evaporate leaving a chemical residue not unlike rat poison.

"well, at least the floors clean" Pointed out Bart.

"slightly coroded, with the ocasional hole, but yeah, clean" replied Shawl. "speaking of slightly coroded, Ven! how are you? havent seen you since that buisness with the Nac Mac Feegle. Your still Arm working properly after that?" he smiled. "oh!" exclamed Shawl, rembering his diplomatic duties. "Bart, Ven, this is Bast and Dicey, from Ardchoille."

He leant over towards Bart and Ven.

"Do not, on any acounts, call him a Giant cat. He's not, he doesnt like it, and there's a difference. The black pointy hat is there for a reason, dont insult her unless you want to be up to your arse in hedehogs" He whispered to his fellow diplomats, before leaning over to Bast and Dicey.

"Ven is a tad on the proud side, and if memory serves he still carries a samuri sword. Dont annoy him. And as for Bart... have you heard of the God complex?" he whispered.

"Isnt that something to do with doctors wanting to help people?" whispered back Dicey

"Yes, well, in this case he actualy think's he's god..."

"So, Drinks on me? said Shawl, pulling out a battered wallet.

"So, Drinks on me? said Shawl, pulling out a battered wallet.


Tomi Kuper (http://www.benovision.co.uk/NS/TomiKuper01-1.jpg) roused himself from a Ripping Van-Winkle-style nap and gently waved his glass towards Neville, preparing himself for another half bottle of Martini with his customary 2 cubes of ice. Blearily viewing the bar, he realised that very few occupants remained since he had last been conscious, and that the plethora of species who were acting as diplomats was expanding.

Sipping gently on his loop-de-loop straw, Tomi wondered how long the Shiree Council would hold him in this purgatory....

So what if he'd been less than truthful about Watfordshire's technological abilities regarding spaceflight....

They'd looked good on paper...

Well the sketches....

Tomi gestured once more towards the barman. Perhaps his Red Star parcel had arrived. He was hopeing his 'CACE PwnZoRR Joo11!!!!11' T-shirt had come through.

Kuper sniffed suspiciously.

Evidently; some fresh undergarments would also come in handy

Lady Des walks over to the fire place and casually drops a letter into it. Well, no that isn't true. She did it suspiciously.

Walking back towards the bar she uttered the familiar mantra:

'Red wine please Neville.'

'New narrator again?'

'Yes.'

'I wondered why you where wearing full Victorian mourning dress and sighing despondently.'

'You just can't get the staff.'

"Like I'm ever going to leave my sword behind... :rolleyes: Proud am I?... well, yes. Arrogant I think is a better word for it, but proud will do.... My arm is fine thankyou, although my knuckles still crach whenever I try to make a fist ever since Master Sanders broke my hand... after we'd finished training..."

*looking around the utterly ruined floor* "So... seeing as everything is on Shawl, and this is his mess, he'll be paying for the repairs I take it?..." (Without waiting for a reply) "good, good... It's important that the money comes from the guilty man's pocket"....

"What's with the warning about hedgehogs,?.. all I see is a giant cat..."

'Bad narrators are good for something.'

And the floor magically cleaned sparkling softly and making Desdemona forget about her lost love.

'That's Lady Desdemona to you.'

UN Emissary Trebor Zetroc had just received an angry and terse message from Emperor Bob himself. "Return at once to the Empire of One Bob. If the resolution 'Ban Trafficking in Persons' is indicitive of the type of legislation that those fools will pass, I will not be bound by their idiocy."

Trebor quietly entered the bar, mostly unnoticed. He was used to being unnoticed standing only three feet tall, and dressed in the required hooded Chamelon Cloak. The cloak quickly adjusted to the bar environment as he found his way to a corner booth. Sitting with his back to the wall where he could observe the entire bar.

"I barely get here and settled into my home, and Emperor Bob throws one of of his patented fits", thought the sulking emissary. "I should have listened to the warnings of others. Emperor Bob will surely take his anger out on me since I was the one that urged him to join the UN. If I return, I most likely join the others that have disappeared. If I don't return as ordered, the Emperor will send one of his Policy Enforcers to 'get' me. Dead or alive, whole or in pieces. It matters not to them."

As Trebor removes the hood of his cloak, he becomes visible in the dimly lit corner of the bar. Still, nobody notices his presence, as his chin rests on the table. "Barkeep, what does a citizen have to do to get a drink?" he says a little more harshly than intended. Only a cat turns to notice.

Shawl looks around the now repaired Bar with a look of imense grattidude on his face. thank the lord for the Narative quantum thingagumies that make up this place...

he paused, listening. Ven had just called Bast a giant Cat, this could get nasty. And whilst Dicey wasnt allowed to use magic outside her own country, Ven was tempting fate just a little...

He siged, went to a corner Booth, got under the table, pulled his hat down over his eyes, stuck his fingers in his ears and began humming to himself.

it was the best way to avoid trouble, he always found.

As Bart drains his glass he moves over to Bast,

"So whats with your region then. Dont suppose you have any..." Bart thinks how to put the next couple of lines..."trouble makers. You know the Barty Party are very big on stupid big weapons that kill stupidly small amounts of people"

Bast looks alittle weirded out..

"Whats the point in them?" he asks.

"simple they waste the tax payers money, also you get a big red shiny button."


Bart slowly removes a small peice of paper un folds it and starts showing bast some of there best range.

"This one is called the big bopper. but the one you really want is this one, gods missle. Its my personal fav."

Still waiting for a response from the barkeep, while keeping eye contact with the steely eyed cat, Trebor hears a strange humming noise from under his table in the corner booth. Slowly he peers under the table and can barely make out something that appears to have strange protrusions coming from the side of it's head. Curious, Trebor asks, "Can I help you"?

Stephanie decided she may as well return to full bar-life, rather than just sit at her table playing cards as she had been.

"Bartender. One Ennish shandy for the vertically challenged man in the cloak."

"Umm, well," said Bast, wondering how quickly he could get rid of this strange person who was trying to sell him (blush) WMDs! He'd been told it would happen in the big city, of course, but somehow he'd never thought it would happen to him. True, he was sophisticated, he'd been around, he knew there were places where (blush) WMDs were discussed quite openly, but surely not with (double blush) illustrations . . .
"Actually, when we have troublemakers in Ardchoille, we make them President. Or Co-President, if there's more than one," he babbled. "Look, if you'll excuse me, I'll just get Dicey to come over here and explain it . . . "
Dicey didn't want to explain anything. Dicey was still riled over the extra 12 months on her term. But here was Bast shifting from foot to foot and ... good grief, he was ...
"You're blushing," she said accusingly.
"He's a giant black and white cat. How can you tell he's blushing?" asked Ven, genuinely curious.
"Pink whiskers," said Dicey shortly. "And he's not giant, and he's not a cat. And I'm sorry, but Duty Calls. My fellow delegate and I need to have a Little Talk."

* The Rep of Komokom springs his head up and his eyes go wide :

" Bloody hell, I just realised, my nation has existed for just one year today ! "

* Then, after a brief pause,

" Komokom shouts a free round for all present ! "

'Excluding Giordano.'

'What, but… you're not the boss of me!'

'Yes I am.'

'Right, well then. Congrats K!'

'Yes. Congratulations.'

"Hmm another free drink" Bart Looks on cautiausly, "hmm...Better take a few of these."

Bart pulls out a few strange looking pills. And seeing the look on everyones faces he added,

"de-drunkers. I got the idea off the hitchhikers guide, they work brilliantly, stop you getting drunk and they also taste of strawberrys."

Everyone still looks wary,

"dont worry we tested them on live subjects, no animal testing here, we use full poor humans. they just beg for the chance. we also added some caffine to stop any to help keep people awake."

Bast looks over from her convo, as though Bart has just gone insane.

"now then, stupidly useless WMDs anyone?"

with the offer of a free drink Shawl removed is fingers from his ears and cautiously emerged from under the table. there didnt seem to be any trouble brewing after all, so he ambled towards the Bar.

"Well Bart, i dont know how you do it, but you managed to embarass someone by trying to sell him a chemical weapon" he remarked, ordering a Pint of Turbots Realy Odd.

"Ha, Yeah, well, its a gift" Remarked Bart. "Speaking of which, I dont suppose Maousland would want to buy a used Mk84 Fission Bomb?"

"Sorry, we're stricktly nuetral. We're not interested in WWIII, unless I start it."

He sipped his drink, thinking. Something was niggling in the back of his head. Something wrong with what Bart just said...

"how the hell do you get a used Nuclear weapon? He remarked.

" 'S a dud"

"Ah"

Giordano sits at the bar grating his teeth. Neville nosily polishes a glass. These two facts may be related.

'Des. Can I have a drink now. Please.'

'Go on.'

'Neville, pint of Large to put me out of my misery.'

Neville turns to Des.

'I'll put him out of his misery in a bit…'

"Why do you keep talking Like That -- you know, in capitals?" whined Bast.
"I don't. And if I did, it'd be narrative empha -- I mean, Narrative Emphasis," said Dicey. "But that's not what I want to talk about."
Bast began to blush again.
"No, not that, either," said Dicey, impatiently. "But I saw the way you were looking at that little -- er, vertically challenged -- guy, and I'm sorry, but I have to remind you, mate: Eating People Is Wrong."
"You're doing that capitals thing again," Bast sulked. "And you don't have to remind me. We've never eaten people. Only small furry things that move very fast and nine times out of ten they get away and actually they enjoy the thrill of the hunt anyway and it's really much more humane to cull them than let them starve to death from overpopulation and we're more civilised than you humans any time."
"Okay," sighed Dicey. "Somebody called free drinks, I think."

The double doors leading to the outside world suddenly opens, letting the sunlight play over the carpet and furniture nearby the door. In the newly created opening stands a black figure in contrast to the sharp sunlight on the outside. The figure takes a step inside the lounge and closes the door after himself and proceeds into the room, heading for the bar. Upon reaching the bar he finds himself a seat and sits down.

The man who just entered the room is the leader of the Armed republic of Walther Brandl, namely Walther Brandl himself. He is dressed in a dark gray variant of the battlesuits the Armed republic employ and it has no significant markings or ranks, even thou he is top dog. Walther raises his hand to his face and strokes his welltrimmed beard for a few moments until the waiter reaches him.

"-I'd like a beer, please." Walther says.

"-Wich brand sir?" the waiter asks.

"-Suprise me." Walther answers and the waiter hurries away.

OOC: This is my first attempt to RP on this forum, so go easy on me, ok? If this is no good, I'd be very thankful if you could help me and explain how it works.

Stephanie sat, having been surprised by two things. The first was the Very Important Looking man that had just entered the bar, before ordering a drink from the waiter.

The second was the simple fact that the Strangers' Bar apparently now had waiters.

Walking towards his table, she asked him "Could I join you?"

Before he could answer, she sat facing him.

"So, what brings you here, apart from the vagaries of international diplomacy?"

"I don't. And if I did, it'd be narrative empha -- I mean, Narrative Emphasis," said Dicey. "But that's not what I want to talk about."

Lady Des stands atop of a large elegant chair.

'That's it! As a member of the order of the union of fictional characters I hereby call a strike against the narrators!'

'Well how do we know who is speaking?'

'We narrate ourselves. Said Lady Desdemona.'

'Well I'm in. Said Giordano in his sexy acce…'

'Enough of that. Interrupted Lady Desdemona'

'We will go back to work once these conditions have been met. 1. No drastically changing appearance of character. 2. Let characters say what they want. 3. Freedom of throw away dialogue. 4. stuicking to one narration style. Brothers will you join me?'

'Sure why not. Added Neville the part-time barman.'

OOC: It is currently Strangers bar day on UN ISP. I'm planning to keep it going untill mignight (GMT) unless something else comes up.

If you want to join in and don't know how go to
http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=309637

Comrade Guevara, curled up comfortably under a table in a warm dark corner of the Strangers' Bar, stirred in his sleep and muttered something under his breath as a uniformed flunky prodded him gently in the shoulder.

"Comrade? Comrade?"

Guevara groaned as his brain battered its way up through several layers of hangover towards consciousness. He prised open his sticky, bloodshot eyes and looked around in some confusion.

"By Marx, I must have been asleep for months... what is this place?" he wondered, taking in the room's pristine expanses and the shiny, marble-topped bar, a full sixty feet long. "Did I die and go to Paradise? Were the Christians right after all? Funny, I never expected a bar in Heaven... God always seemed like the teetotal type..."

"No, comrade," explained the flunky with a look of infinite patience. "This is the Strangers' Bar and you're still in the UN - it's just had a little refurbishment since you were last, ah, fit for duty," he continued, with a meaningful glance at the empty rum bottle in Guevara's hand.

"You haven't been heard of for months, so I was despatched to find you and inform you to, err," he glanced down at the note he was carrying, "quote 'get your bleedin' arse in gear, 'cos East Hackney are UN Delegates for the ACA now'."

Guevara boggled. UN Delegate? How? When? I'll have to get a new suit made... perhaps something military, yes, with a row of bright shiny medals. And perhaps I can get people to call me Generalissimo... His mind raced at the supreme power now resting in his hands.

"Oh, and one more thing," the flunky added. "Everyone's on strike against the narrators, so knock off that third-person narrative, would you? Strictly first person from now on. Don't want anyone to think we're scabbing, do we? Hmm?"

"Gods, We have to narate ourselves? moaned Shawl, taking a swig of his drink"
"This Is just going to involve redicuolous amounts of thinking, He complaned, daring anyone to say anything."

"And my spellings not as good as my usal narators either, he grumbled... "

'Thanks for your support you two. And Generalissimo, we appreciate your approval.'

Walther looked up from his beer he'd just got from Neville the barlord to look upon she who just adressed him.

"-What brings me here? Mostly the drinks and the company, a soldier has no real interest in politics. Sure, I can get company in the local bar, but I like a change of scene."

As he speaks, he produces a packet of cigarettes from a pocket on his armour.

"-It is okay to smoke here, no?"

He takes out a ciggarette for himself and puts it nochalantly in the corner of his mouth, then he offers the woman who just took a seat one.

"-Do you smoke?"

Suddenly Walther looks a bit troubled

"-Oh, I am terribly sorry, I have not interduced myself." he then puts the ciggarettes on the table and offers her his hand and says, "-I'm Walther Brandl, and it's a pleasure to meet you miss...?"

'Scab! Des pokes her tong out at Walther Brandl'

Bart looks up from his palm top and places hi high tech mobile phone on the table. Seeing the very important person on a table near him, he decides that now is more than a good enough time to finish his job.

Pulling out another strange gadget, a silver ball with 3 holes in it, he presses the black button on the top, and a small sound is heard. ...

"Right time to move one, this information should suit the Barty Party well enough."

Just at that moment his mobile phone starts to ring,

"Hello.....yes sir...of course I understand.........Are you sure...only him gottcha...see you later sir."

"Well my fellow drinkers it would appear the Barty Party has just left the UN, I bid you all fair well, and leave you with some advice...Dont mess with the barty party"

And just as he begins to leave Bart pulls out a pistol and Shoots Shawl in the leg.

"Let that me a lesson Mr Shawl, tell your government we dont accept betrayel."

And at that Bart leaves the strangers bar never to return again.

"Very nice to meet you, Walther Brandl. My name is Stephanie Fulton. I am the Ennish Ambassador to the UN. No, I don't smoke, but thankyou for the offer, Stephanie answered."

"She continued, You say you are a soldier? And you like drinks? Then you'll be fine here in the Bar. What with the witch, the melting floor, and people striking against narrators, it might be good to have someone with a vaguely sensible outlook on life in here."

* The Rep of Komokom, hailing from what is usually a Compulsory Consumerist State, has no troubles with said, or more likely, not said, voice work ... :)

" That and I like my current method, saves on the grammar killing ... "

* Does certainly, most for the part ! "

" Very funny. Do you actually WANT me to raise your taxes or not ? "

* Errr, sorry boss. Won't happen again.

" Good "

* At this point, a midget lets off a fire-arm on its way out the door, sparking The Rep of Komokom to get something of his chest, he leans out the door and shouts :

" Bugger off ! ... Shorty ! "

"-The pleasure is all mine Ms. Fulton. I have not been around long enough to know anything about the witch, the melting floor, and people striking against narrators, but as long as they serve good beer and I can find some company I wont complain."

The sudden commotion and the gunfire triggered something in Walther, he hit the floor in an instant, dragging Ms. Fulton with him. When they hit the floor Walther had managed to get his helmet on. Before Ms. Fulton had the time to say anything Walther spoke;

"-I think it is best if you stay here and keep low Ms. Fulton"

before she could answer him Walther had gotten his gun from his thigh-holster and was halfway to the table where the man who got shot was, keeping his gun aimed at the door where the shooter departed. Upon reaching the wounded man Walther shouted "-Medic!", then gave him a quick look to see where he was shot. He then sqatted besides the wounded man, replaced his gun to it's holster and and took out a first aid kit from his battlearmour and administered a quick dressing to the man's wound to stop him from bleeding to death and all over the floor.

"-I think that will do until you can get to a hospital"

Walther retuned to his table where he found Ms. Fulton still on the floor, looking rather suprised. He helped he up and took his seat and found that he managed to keep his beer almost intact. He took another pull of his cigarette wich was still lodged in the corner of his mouth an directed his attention to Ms. Fulton and asked her:

"-Do these kind of things happend in here often?"

OOC: I took the liberty to assume that some events happend simultaniously (spelling), I hope you all don't mind :)

'Naw, we usually just get drunk and make sexually suggestive comments, said Lady Desdemona of Merwell'

"Gah! bloody Hell, but that hurts goddammit!" Yelled Shawl, rolling on the floor with a bullet in his thigh.

He reached up to the Bar, grabbed a bottle of wiskey and sloshed it all over the wound, soaking the feild dressing that the new chap had hurredley applied.

His eyes crossed, a hoarse yell peircing the Bar.

"Damndamndamndamndamndamndamndamndamndamndamnthatstings!" he exclaimed, hoppping around on his good leg whilst swigging hevley from the bottle of wiskey. The pain gently subsided the more he drank, until he was eventualy in something of a drunken bliss.

"Damnit, i'm gonna have one hell of a hangover tommorow. *Hic*"

He paused, looking at his bloodstained suit.

"I cant come in this place without ruining a good suit, can I?"

and at this point, he fell off his Barstool, smacked his head on the bar and slipped into blisfull unconchousness

"Medic!"

(OOC: Ardchoille, shocked as only a democratic socialist can be at the thought of provoking a strike, immediately caves in, removes all small children from coal mines, introduces 35-hour week, doubles basic wage, etc. But doesn't apologise for Bast hearing someone Talking In Capitals, because you all must have heard someone do it. Teachers do it all the time. Parents do it a lot, too. Now, please, please, third-person narration resumes?)
Huddled behind the bar counter with Neville the barlord and a bottle of Ardchoille Finest, Dicey and Bast checked each other over for damage.
"Okay, no drastic changes of appearance," said Dicey finally. "You're still a black and white cat, I'm still a red-headed witch and . . ."
". . .And Shawl is still unconscious and possibly bleeding to death. We'd better go help him, he's the nearest we've got to a mate in here," said Bast.
Crawling (or, in Bast's case, slinking) out onto the carpeted floor, the pair were surprised to find that the rest of the clientele was also on hands and knees.
"Some religious practice, perhaps?" ventured Bast.
"Well, when in Rome . . .," sighed Dicey. "C'mon, Shawl, wake up!"

<<OOC: You seem to have left out the fact that I administered first aid to Mr. Shawl, got back and helped Ms. Fulton back up to her seat and then seated myself...>>

Walther notices some persons crawling out from behind the bar and smiles a little as he notice the resemblance between them and very large babies.

"-I wonder what they were doing behind the bar?" he adds to the last question directed at Ms.Fulton.

As Walther is about to empty his beer, he notices that it already is empty.

"-Barlord! One more of those please! And would you please stop whimpering behind the bar, he's gone already!" Walther shouts to the barkeep as he holds up his empty beerglass with one hand and points at it with the other to underline what he means when he asked for an additional beer.

(OOC: It can't be Neville whimpering. Neville is absolutely unflappable. It must have been . . . )
Dicey, having stopped whimpering behind the bar, now started whimpering in front of it.
"I can't wake him up," she wailed. "I've even used Granny's Never-Fail Smelling Salts (Pat. Pendg.) and he's still out!"
Suddenly, a patron in one of the darker parts of the bar stood up and began gesturing with his glass.
"Of course!" said Bast, and dashed a bottle of Turbot's Very Odd in Shawl's face.
"Why did you do that?" demanded Dicey.
"Because the very astute gentleman in the very, very dark part of the bar must have realised what the problem was," Bast said. "Obviously, poor Shawl was unconscious from lack of suitable air -- he's not used to breathing anything that isn't at least 25% alcohol!"

"Well, we usually don't have outright violence in here," Stephanie responded.

She then added, "Except during Twister. Then, anything goes."

Mathieu Vergniaud gaped at the painful awakening of East Hackney's most notorious diplomatic ligger. Sweet Jesus, he is going to be our region's delegate?

"Bartender, a large Glenpincoe, please. Um, better leave the bottle with me."

Having watched for considerable time after Mr Barton left the bar and the UN, coldly amused by Shaw's injury...

Ven's phone rings.
"Sanders?... Master Sanders?"... "Yes, I understand that" "I'm well aware he shot him in the leg" ... ... "Really?" .... "Then I can?.." "Excellent, thankyou Master Sanders".

Standing up from his stool he approaches Shawl, his fellow delagate from the R5 Massive. "Well, It's nice to see you're sobering up eneough over the past couple days to be able to understand what I'm saying"... When Shaw looks at him, and slowly focuses his eyes to meet Ven's... "good".

In a single fluid motion Ven draws his sword and severs Shawl's leg from the shin down, buys another drink, adding to to Shawl's tab cleans his sword on a still-clean part of Shawl's suit and then sheathes his sword.

"Have little doubt, Shawl that I was both authorised to do that, and am Authorised to cut it off again should you somehow seek sufficient medical attention to allow your leg to be re-attached... and I will"

Drawing his sword once more and examing the edge to see if it was marked or dulled at all. "Ya know, this sword has never ceased to amaze me. It's called the 'White Tiger' you know, named after the ivory hilt engraved with Tigers. The blade was forged with diamounds and I've never been able to so much as dull the blade slightly, Let alone dent it's edge... It really is quite my favourite sword."

"Goodbye, Shawl, back soon everybody"...

"Oh, Barman. He's had eneough, serve him again and my goverment will be displeased... as Will I" :mad:

Neville the barlord placed Walther's new beer on the table and got the empty glass from it.

"-Thank you Neville."

Walther lifted his glass and contemplated it's contents for a few seconds before he took a swig of it's contents and continued speaking.

"-I have not been around here for long, but it seems to me like there is quite a lot of violence to go around, even if it is not twister-time."

The sudden apperance of yet another man at Mr. Shawl's table got Walthers attention, and the apperance of a sword cutting Mr. Shawl's leg off in said man's hand further intrigued him. Walther saw the man clean his sword, sheath it and then he held a small monolouge about how much he liked his sword and how good it supposedly was. Walther turned his attention to Ms. Fulton again.

"-See what I mean?"

He then stroked his beard once again and lit another ciggarette.

"Dammit, It's not working! Bast, Grab me another pint, will you?" the witch ordered. "Come on Shawl, we need to get you to a hospital..."

Dicey Waved the pint of Turbots under Shawl's Nose.

"I'm awake!" he said, standing up with a rare amount of energy. Sadly, this condition of verticalness rapidly turned into a position of horizontalness.

"Ow! Damn lucky that table was there to break my fall..." he looked around as he casualy took the pint from Diceys unresisting hand, wondering why he had difficulty standing up. Must be all that Beer.
"what are you all looking so shocked about?" he asked the bar in general, the entire population looking at him with wide eyes. "never seen someone shot before? its just a flesh wound, anyway."

He sipped the pint, and decided that the shattered remains of the table were actualy quite comfortable.

"i'd have been done for if it hadnt have been for that Soldier chap who whacked a feild dressing on the wound." he told Dicey and bast, who still seemed to not be talking.

He paused.

"Ha... you know what, that over there looks just like one of my suit trowser legs... ond one of my socks... and my left shoe... and... large amounts of Blood... "

He pauses.

He thinks.

Well, I can feel the bullet in my thigh... But I cant feel anything below the knee...

Ven had his Sword, Didnt He? And his methods of first aid always seemed... Sharp....

Oh Dear.

He sudenley turns very pale.

A stream of Old Maous swearwords and profanitys filled the Bar.

"For Talturny's Sake, I was shot in the thigh, and that CALT chops off my Schmetznag Leg Below the Knee!" he screamed as the Paramedics carried him off on a streacher, a stream of insults disapearing of into the audibale distance.

"Well, he seems annoyed" remarked Bast.
"He'll live" remarked Walther, sipping his drink.
"How d'you know that?" asked Dicey, who none the less felt relived that her first aid had done something, if only to wake Shawl up so that he could be annoyed with the world in general, with sword weilding diplomats in particular.
"Shouting like that? He's too pissed off to die" chuckeld Walther into his drink.

Bast's sharp ears had caught the earlier exchange between Stephanie and Walther.
"Er . . . I believe I heard you say you don't usually have much outright violence in here?" he asked.
The Ennish delegate nodded politely.
"That's, um, really good," Bast continued. "So what I'd like to know is -- I mean, you seem to have been here a while -- how do you avoid it? With all these . . . (he lowered his voice) military types . . . around? Is it something in the water?"
Stephanie leaned toward him confidentially . . .
Dicey, meanwhile, was trying to think about six things at once and, as usual, failing. If she could coax Shawl to visit Ardchoille so he could get his leg back . . . if she persuade this bearded man to stop smoking so she could think . . . if she could do either of these things without offending anyone . . .
"Here you go, lass," said Neville, pouring her a stiff Rotgut. "You need it."
*He's SO nice* thought Dicey. *Now, if I could persuade HIM . . .*

Walther finished his beer and took a last puff of his cigarette as he gazed over the shattered remains of the table upon wich Mr. Shawl took a short rest right before the paramedics carried him off to the ambulance. He put the glass down on the table and rose up.

"-Well, it has been a pleasure chatting with you Ms. Fulton, but I have some business I have to attend to, so if you would excuse me for now I will be back later."

Walther nodded in Mr. Bast's and Ms. Dicey's direction and headed up to Neville the barlord.

"-What do I owe you?"

Neville said wrote a figure on a tab and presented it to Walther, and Walther paid.

"-Keep the change. I will be seeing you, I like the atmosphere in here so I'll be back."

After exchangeing a few plesantries with Neville Walther adjusted his battlesuit, lit a new cigarette and then he headed for the door.

The utterly exhausted delegate from Covis disenchantingly burst into the dingy bar like a unthawed snail, and announced his entrance with a unforgettable silence that caught absolutely no one's attention. The oh so familiar anonymity crept into the neurons of the delegate, there was only only one possible thing he could do... conceptualize and encapsulate the sheer essence of gibberish...

"Barkeep, a beer, no wine, no wait... what do you have that's hard... don't be gross. I've had a long day and night, and I'm not in the mood. Wouldn't mind a bit of Scotch and a glass of fizzle pop... what? Never heard of fizzle pop? Latest and greatest, half the carbs but twice as fattening. Off with ya. See to it... Gloat if you want, but I'm still not buying that piece of art. Luigi Da Vinci may have the genes but his work is crap... its crap I tell ya... You don't believe me, just take a look at these shoes of mine. These loafers are of the finest hog's ass this side of the Thames."

To which the barkeep so aptly replied,

"I say, are those Margaret Thatcher's signature 'Prime Time' crotchless panties on your head?"

Stephanie leaned toward him confidentially . . .
"Quite simple, really," Stephanie whispered. "When I first arrived, in the company of my former colleague Hannah, we bought everyone drinks. Shouting the bar leaves everyone happy.
"That, combined with my close friendship with the frying pan-wielding Rep. of Komokom, and my ability to defend myself easily with a billiard que, has led to me being practically untouched in my time here at the bar."

"Actually no there not the Thatcher line, but they are edible and quite tasty, if I do say so myself."

"So those ARE underpants, eh?" queried the bartender. "We're not really into under garments even if they from former Prime Ministers."

To which the delegate from Covis replied, "Well this isn't much of a bar, is it?"

"Well it just so happens that there are people in this world who think a pub should be just that, and not a brothel," defened the barkeep.

"A little bit of naughtiness here and there never bothered the average bloke... besides... what would Covis tabloids have to print if there politico didn't delve a bit in a little bit of the ole macho bravado with some of the more fun loving patrons?" argued the delegate from Covis.

The barkeep decided to lay down the law. "Just mind your ps and qs there gov'na. Randy as you might be, that's not what is deemed necessary in these parts."

"But of course! But of course! Bottoms up, ole chippity chap!" And so the drinking began... and so Covis policy molds.

* Notes a drop of blood on his table ...

" ... "

* The Rep of Komokom develops a facial tick ...

" Right, that is it, next person to walk in, act like they own the place, and remove a limb of a person, a most un-diplomatic act mind you, will get hit on the head by my frying-pan, good and true. Let that be a warning to the next " Look at me, sharp thing ! " individual we face ... "

* He flicks the drop onto the floor ...

" I mean really, carpet is carpet, but this is a 500 year old chess-come-drinks table, honestly, no respect for fine ... "

Bast ploughed his way back to the bar -- he could have sworn there was someone there, but then, nothing -- and grabbed Dicey's elbow.
"We have to shout a round and then make friends with Komokom," he told her urgently.
"Not a program any reasonable being could argue with," agreed Dicey, "but is there any particular reason for doing it?"
"The Ennish delegate says it'll make them all stop taking each other apart."
"I thought that's what the United Nations was for? OK, OK, fine, if that's what you want. But why do we have to make friends with Komokom? Not that anyone wouldn't want to, of course," she added hurriedly.
"He's got frypans," confided Bast. "And Stephanie Fulton's got one of those stick thingies you push the coloured balls with."
Dicey wondered if she should start worrying about her colleague. On the other hand, he made just as much sense as anyone else she'd encountered since she came here.
"Right. Drinks on us," she sighed.

A Pair of Paramedics rushed into the Bar. One dashed over to the shattered table and, after a short search, found Shawls leg. He chucked it in a bucket of ice and legged it towards the waiting abmulance.

The other meanwhile, hurried to the Bar.

"Get me fifteen Pints of Turbots, Stat!"

Anyone for a game of cribbage?

Nusku, sunk in a reverie and a large gin, surfaced briefly in order to sneer at the swordplay.

"...christ, how indescribably vulgar. At least in Rehochipe we know how to use the damn things..."

Her face darkened. "Not that that'll last if Sable's got anything to do with it. Neville! I need more alcohol. Something that'll dissolve my limbic system."

Stephanie chuckled at what she had unleashed.

"Well, you can't exactly say I lied, can you?" she said to Desdemona. "I just... skipped the part about Twister. And being a contortionist while playing that game."

"HERE I AM!... oops sorry about the exclaimation... I is a likkle unused to directin meself... I'll start again: Here I am: Professor Tomi Kuper, in the UN Stooges Bar - purgatorised by the Shiree Council for technology that didn't exist... and YOU! *ahem* YOU! err...some Ecopoeian fellow, dare sip a large Glenpincoe without offering a single dram to a fellow ACAian! I.. I mean: Didn't you see my eyes go all twinkly when Neville poured it? no?
Damn! my Narrator must not be working properly...well, at this point I shall of course sidle next to you.. at the bar, strange I should have to mention it it is true, but I seem compelled to commentate each mundane manouvre I make...

and (where was I?) ah yes. See how I gaze longingly at the girly-drink from your fair islands?... well that's what I'm doing now."

Anyone for a game of cribbage?

Tomi Kuper's ears pricked up at the mention of the match-stick-based sport.

"My fellow delegates," Stephanie announced to the Bar in general. "It has just come to my attention that the Council of Enn has requested my presence for the next week on a pressing matter, and as such Enn's involvement in the UN will be minimal until I return.
"See you in a week, then, and try not to pass any idiotic resolutions."

Well, it was all well and good to be the leader of a liberal country. Even better to be an extremely anti-social one. And so it was that Salissia's leader, Sara, found herself in the 'New People Bar' watching two others talk about cribbage. Dear me. She wondered why she had to be here again, in her experience social appearances didn't really matter (at least that's what she kept telling herself) but you know how that goes. Besides, her advisor's could be pains if they didn't get their way.

[[OOC: Hello, I'm new to StateNations and this is my first post. =) I really couldn't take it upon myself to read all 62 pages, so I hope my post is in the right time/place/setting/thing. =P I hope to talk with you all soon, I'll be back, it's just that it's past midnight and I need my beauty sleep. Ta.]]

The door to the outside world is suddenly pushed open and a ragged figure emerges throug it with powerful strides.

The rather ragged figure turns out to be Walther Brandl, leader of the Armed republic of Walther Brandl and he is still wearing the same battlearmour he had about a week ago when he left.

Those with a keen eye notices that the battlearmour now has changed a bit as it has parts added and eminates soft humming noises and series of clicks every time Walther moves. On the left side of the armour there is a contraption wich looks like a crossbreed between a sword and a chainsaw and on the armours left shoulderguard there seem to have been some kind of weapon attached, but it looks like it might have been destroyed or removed by force somehow. The backpack now attached to the armour has an powerfeed wich looks like it might have been attached to whatever it was that were attached to the left shoulderguard and it also ha some kind of nozzles protuding from it. The armour is most notably covered in battlescars and it's darkgray paintjob is mostly ruined, revealing the material under it. The damages done to the armour is ranging from scratches apparently made from some kind of bladed weapon to bulletholes. From the loose powerfeed there is a few wires are hanging out, sending sparks flying everytime they connect with eachother and a thin smoke is eminating from the powerfeed itself.

Walther's face has a ravaged look and is covered small cuts and bruises, some of wich is still bleeding. In the corner of his mouth is a ciggarette, wich looks like it's been to hell and back, but it is lit and seems to do what it is supposed to. Walther looks around the bar and a wide grin appears on his lips.

"-There is nothing like a cold beer and a cigarette after a week of combat exercise. Neville, a beer please, pick me a good one!"

Walther heads over to the bar and takes a pull of his cigarette and strokes his beard with his gauntletclad hand. Neville put's the beer down in front of Walther and Walther picks it up and turns around so he is facing the room again. He then raises his glass.

"-Well, cheers laidies and gentlemen."

" . . . stupid nitpicking about Komokom's perfectly sensible resolution," Dicey was saying, rather forcefully, when the ceiling rolled back like the lid of a sardine can. A vast light shone forth and a Voice spoke unto them, or at least unto two of them, saying, "TIME TO GO HOME NOW, KIDDIES," in tones of unarguable authority.

"I told you not to set the alarm," hissed Bast.

"That's not the alarm, that's the ATM," said Dicey. "I guess that last round of drinks for all took us past our daily withdrawal limit.
"Sorry, folks," she continued, "and especially sorry, Walther, I'd love to stay and hear the story of every last scratch and abrasion, not to mention the missing bits of equipment. We don't mean to be rude, but you know how it is when the higher-ups get uppity. Ours not to reason why, and all that."

Whereat they exited, stage left.

* The Rep of Komokom raises his glass at the pair from Ardchoille, and takes a sip, noting that after just over a year of existence in N.S. and the N.S.U.N. on and off, he has finally gotten off his ass and gotten something official down in the books of international law.

" And bloody well time too, now I have to get cracking on the rest ... "

* The rest being the paper-work on his desk relating to several of his future projects in international law ... the stack being quite high ... high ... to the point of swaying so even in a gentle breeze of an office ceiling fan ...

" Maybe I should make two stacks instead, occupational health and safety requirements ... "

* Yes, so when they both build back up to the original point they can collapse, killing you AND one of your staff ...

" Oh heck no, that will never happen, now I'm finally making the Komokom treasury loose'n the rusty purse strings, their getting me that lovely new lap-top to play Home Wor ... Work, I mean work, yes, and not from home, of course. Hey, fancy a drink ? "

* I'm not corporeal you nonce. Nor am I so easily distracted.

" Game of checkers then ? "

* I give up.

" Look, ( shakes keys ) Shiny thing !

* (face->palm)

*walks into the bar*

*finds a stool and sits down, amidst stares from numerous delegates...*

"I'll have a Pepsi, please bartender."

*the room stares incredulously*

"Um... yes, well my name is James Marvolo... I am the UN representative from the Rogue Nation of Odela... hello everyone."

*the room continues to stare...*

"Oh, I don't drink alcohol... but I'm a rabid caffeine addict! ;)"

*the room: ...*

A figuire limps in, suporting his weight on a swagger stick. (His left leg just wasn't what it used to be) One look at his face would tell you all you need to know, he is genuinly pissed off with the whole world; and with one sword weilding "Ambasador" in particular.

His name is Shawl, He has returned, with all his limbs this time, and is a little annoyed, to say the least, not to mention a little drunk...

"A Pint of turbots realy odd please barkeep"

He supped his drink, settled down, and waited.

Bloody hell, but his leg hurt.

* The Rep of Komokom buys himself a drink and sits in his favourite chair by the now re-lit fire ...

" ( drink - sip ) "

* The Rep of Komokom notes his proposal is now a passed resolution ...

" ( drink - sip ) "

* The Rep of Komokom allows himself a smile at this fact ...

" :D "

* The Rep of Komokom rests back in his chair ...

"HERE I AM!... oops sorry about the exclaimation... I is a likkle unused to directin meself... I'll start again: Here I am: Professor Tomi Kuper, in the UN Stooges Bar - purgatorised by the Shiree Council for technology that didn't exist... and YOU! *ahem* YOU! err...some Ecopoeian fellow, dare sip a large Glenpincoe without offering a single dram to a fellow ACAian! I.. I mean: Didn't you see my eyes go all twinkly when Neville poured it? no?
Damn! my Narrator must not be working properly...well, at this point I shall of course sidle next to you.. at the bar, strange I should have to mention it it is true, but I seem compelled to commentate each mundane manouvre I make...

and (where was I?) ah yes. See how I gaze longingly at the girly-drink from your fair islands?... well that's what I'm doing now."
Mathieu was confused. "Um... I was confused, but nonetheless passed Señor Kuper the bottle of whisky. I took in the aroma from my own glass and savoured the sweet, grassy fumes of Ecopoeia's most fragrant and delicate single malt."

"Ah, so you're the rep. from Komokom huh? Which resolution was yours, the Sexes Rights Law? I actually voted against that, but congratulations."

'Beautiful morning!' sang Dicey to herself, as she paused to enjoy the only patch of sunlight she had ever seen in the Strangers' Bar. Cheerily she eyed the clientele.

"If she says, 'Top o' the mornin' to ya!' then I. Am. Going. To. Kill. Her," said a female voice from the shadows. "Fake Irish is bad enough, but bounciness before midday -- eeughh!"

Ignoring this, Dicey gave forth a merry, "Good morrow, gentles all!" and continued her survey. Suddenly, "SHAWL!" she shrieked. "You're back!"
She hurtled across the room to hug the wounded warrior.

It was unfortunate, it was really, really unfortunate, that in her enthusiasm she perched on his left knee.

Too late to do much but observe the disaster, the Ardchoille Cat Bast rehearsed what he would say in his role as Feline Advisor to Co-President Dicey Reilly.
"That was your second Diplomatic Incident," he would point out.
Dicey, he imagined, would say, "Yes?" in a very small voice.
"At this rate, you'll be made President for Life," he would warn. "Sole president, at that. No Co-President."
Dicey, of course, would sniffle something like, "'Tisn't fair!" But he would be adamant.
"It's perfectly fair," he would say. "You know the law. The Parliament of Ardchoille has ruled that people who do stupid things get made President. The more stupid, the longer the term. It's your own fault ..."
Bast would have liked to pursue his imaginings, possibly leading up to a scene in which he proved yet again how inferior humans were, compared to Cats. But his reflections were interrupted by a well-hurled frypan.

"Owowgodsdamnyes, I'm Back", He smiled, trying his hardest not to scream. "the legs a Teensy bit sore, so, If you dont mind, the right knee please... they only just reatached the damn thing, I dont want to lose it again"

He paused, as Bast slowly crumpled to the floor.

"Whats up with him?"

He paused again, something wrong with the narative.

"Wounded Warrior?" he laughed "Good lords, I wouldnt call myself that..."

Kuper *swug* at the single malt and thanked Mathieu with a nod that forgot to take the return flight - ending up with the Shiree's forehead pressed against the Ecopoeian's shoulder.

"Itsh good to shee a facely friend in thish hellhole" Kuper sssshed into his companions sleeve ".... everyone elsh in here sheemsh to be either hopeleshly shychotic, or..." as he paused the Professor gestured at the Kokomonian Ambassador by the fireplace "....shimply shmug".

Mathieu wiped the whisky from his front and nodded half-heartedly, while Tomi made a series of pathetic attempts to retrieve his false teeth from the floor.

'Red wine barlord. Too much proposal defending and not enough bar visits makes Des a dull boy… er… girl.'

Bast stood up groggily and shook his head. Where had that come from? As far as he could see the only known frypan-wielder, the rep from Komokom, was fast asleep in the corner with his head pillowed on a large custard pastry confection.

"Possibly it came from nowhere and went to nowhere, like a bird flying across a lighted cathedral," mused the feline. "Possibly frypans are integral to the atmosphere of this place. Possibly I am going to get clobbered again. There is only one thing to do ... May I buy you another, Lady Desdemona?"

After all, nobody would dare let anything happen near that formidable lady.

* The Rep of Komokom slumbers in the corner like King Arthur, to awaken and return when this place needs him most, or he could actually think of something to say, until then, he dreams an enchanted sleep of custard filled goodies, though having no idea why ...

" ... zzz ... "

* Lazy bastard.

Walther sips his beer and notices that the man who got his leg cut off has returned. With a series of clicks and whirrs from his powered exoskeleton Walther makes his over to the mans table.

"-Hello sir, I did not think I would be seeing you here so soon, how is the leg?"

Walther then produces a packet of cigarettes from a compartment on his armour, puts one in the corner of his mouth, lights it on the broken powercoupling and then offers a cigarette to Mr. Shawl.

Stephanie stepped into the Bar, and mused to herself.

"Let's see... Komokom's asleep in the corner, Bast is taking my advice by buying drinks and Shawl's back, with leg attached."

She moved over to her normal seat, and ordered an Ennish Shandy. After thoughtfully sipping her drink for several minutes, she stood up, and said clearly to the Bar:

"We really need something to cheer everyone up with. Anyone for Twister?"

"Twister, that'd be reet grand lass" slurs Sir Albert as he falls back in through the door, fresh from his recent brewing factfinding mission Ooop North. "Ere, get a drop of blue Bahgumian Brandy down yon neck and lubricate those fetching little limbs of yours!"

The word "twister" floats into Walther's brain and looks for something to connect with...

"Mhmm, no thanks, I dont" remarked Shawl at the profered cigarette, carefully removing the Witch from his leg in the process. "The leg could be better, and they couldnt find the Bullet, and they replaced my entire Shin and knee with a titanium thingy... I cant go through Airport metal detectors now without setting the damned thing off"

He sipped his Drink.

"but apart from that, I'm fine"

Shawl noticed the twister set coming out. He groaned and did what he always did when he knew there was going to be trouble, an action shared by the representatives from all Nuetral countries all over the world.

He climbed under the table, put his fingers in his ears and started humming.

"Twister?" Dicey pondered. "Twister?" Well, if it was anything like the game of the same name played back home, it would involve laughing, falling down and lots and lots of bodily contact. And that wonderful Sir Albert, that suave gentleman, so sophisticated, wise and intelligent, not to mention loads of fun, had just come back ... and if he wouldn't play, surely Neville the barlord would want to encourage lightness of heart among the clientele ... or maybe Walther would unbend a bit, or that nice shy non-drinker, or ... "I'm game!" she chirruped.

Bast, with a feline's surer instinct and a lot of sensitive tail to protect, leapt up to sit beside the un-nameable, inexplicable things on the Trophy Shelf. He applauded Shawl's sense in disappearing under a table, but tables can be overturned. Besides, he wanted to see what happened.

"No, it gets a lot more violent here!" Shawl yelled at Dicey from under his table. "hey, Walther, Can I borrow that Kevlar Helmet and Flack Jacket? You can't be too carefull..."

Looking a bit dazed Walther seems to be thinking about somethin until he heard a request for some armor.

"Well, I think I might have something in my APC parked outside, what size do you got?"

Before the answer comes, the doors to the bar opens, and in walks a new stranger. The new guy looks like a hippe, with sunglasses and everything. And the big silly smile on his lips, from which hangs a suspicious looking pipe.
-My old friend! he exclaims with open arms and approaches Walther. "Long time no see!"

Nusku sighed nostalgically at the suggestion of Twister. "I'm always up for a game if you're playing, Stephanie dear."

"Martin! What are you doing here? I thought you were busy partying at home?"

With a series of whirrs and clicks Walther approaches the person that just entered the room and shouts to the barlord.

"Neville, get this man something to drink, and you'd better make it a strong one!"

Walther shakes his friends hand and offers him a cigarette.

"You are just in time for a game of twister, wich is supposed to be something really special here by what I'm told."

"Ah..." Stephanie sighed, after making yet another opponent lose his balance.
"Despite all you're doing, Nusku dear, it just isn't the same without Hannah around. And since when did you need armour to play Twister?"

After receiving the drink and taking a sip, Martin raises the glass towards the barkeep in a gesture of approval.

"This is good! A little blend maybe, but considering what I'm used to, what can you expect, right?" he says and smiles. "So, Walther, how are you? Twister, did you say? I've heard that can get really violent at times... is it fun? Do you have an extra armor for me?"

Brother Timothy peeked around the doors again. His superiors had warned him that life outside the Abbey would sometimes surprise him, but he had not really expected to be this surprised. Possibly he was misunderstanding the situation, though. It probably wasn't what he thought at all. No, it couldn't be, it wasn't even Midsummer.

Mentally chastising himself for ignoble thoughts, he hitched his rope girdle tighter, took a deep breath and pattered into the bar.

"The blessings of Herself upon this house and all within," he greeted the writhing mass before him, "and may I trouble you for a glass of water?"

Assorted human limbs seemed to be trying to upset his balance, but his bare feet clung determinedly to the floor.

"Would this be one of those corporate bonding exercises?" he inquired.

leaving a broad swathe of saliva across Mathieus' lapel, Tomi Kuper sidled over to the freshfaced new arrival. Had he attempted to sidle on a nice flat, stationary surface, the inebriated Shiree Herald would have struggled to get further than two paces, but thanks to the fortuitous writhing of the carpet of twister players, Kuper managed to arrive at Brother Timothy's side in a relatively vertical state.

"and the bleshings of my shelf be upon you too, my young fren.... pssst. hey! psst. c'mere.... do you have any food? any food? eh? any spare food?"

Shawl peered out from behind his fingers. So far everyone still had all their limbs, but there was a witch playing... it was only a matter of time.

A flicker of an elbow, and...
he grimaced as someone "acadently" Slipped and broke something.

It was only a matter of time before the first bottle was thrown...

Noting the worry of impending violence, Sir Albert places a quick call to the Bahgumian embassy. Shortly after a security detail of the feared Bahgumian Mother in Law Squad appears in the bar, standing menacingly at all exits. Relieved that all attempts at trouble are now futile Sir Albert buys a round for everyone (a nice advantage of a strong economy and a generous expenses budget, to calm folks nerves.

At the twister gameboard Walther notices the sudden appearence of multiple members of an appearent "security sqad" and wonders to himself why anyone would bother now that he is here? "Sure, my REXO (Reinforced exosuit) has suffered some slight damage, but it is still operational except for my shouldercannon" he thinks for himself and continues to play the game with the other participants.

"Even thou it's kind of hard to move properly in this thing, it sure is handy to have all these servos to help me stay in these rather ankward positions. I wonder if this is cheating? Nah, I do not think so, afterall I do lack some mobility with this thing on" He adds to his train of thoughts.

The spinner stops on right hand, red and Walther makes an effort to move his right hand but fails completly and tumbles off the twisterboard with a rather impressive chrash.

"-Well, how about that drink someone mentioned?"

Walther keeps a trained eye out for any sign of trouble as he gets up and approaches the bar. He leans on the bar, strokes his beard and lights another cigarette.

Martin, sitting at the bar sipping his gazillionth drink, is starting to droop more and more. But as Walther approaches he straightens himself up (as much as someone who is totally pissed can) and smiles.

"Gee, don't you think it's unfair to play twister with your REXO on?"

In response to his friends rather slurred question Walther replies:

"-Well, yes and no. Yes because it offers me more stamina and strength than the average Joe and no because it limits my mobility to a degree, even thou I wear it pretty much all the time and I am thereby used to it. So, in other words I do not think it is unfair."

Walther sips his drink and takes a pull of his cigarette as he contemplates the taste of the drink for a while before he continues,

"-Besides, It is really quite a task to get out of this thing, especially when you do not have anybody who knows how the REXO works to help you, so I rather stay in it. And you know I do like to wear it."

* The Rep of Komokom, still fast asleep in his usual chair by the fire, dreams of the blue gas giant his country has taken in the Lyra system ...

" ... zzz ... mmm ... "

* And notes that it tastes of custard. May-haps this is related to the over-size pastry his head is resting on ...

" ... mmm ... zzz ... "

* Then again, this is the man who could only relate his theory of the infinite nature of reality and matter v.s. anti-matter with large amouts of coca-cola ...

Martin sort of looks at Walther, up and down almost as if he were a good looking girl, and then finally says, "Yeah, it looks good on you man. Barkeep! Pour me and my friend another drink!"

Shawl Cautiously climbed out from underneath his table before deciding that the danger had evidently disapeared before liming over to the Bar where Dicey was standing.

"Isn't there something in the rules against grevious bodily Harm?" he calmly asked as he ordered his drink.

He paused, before looking up.

"You can come down now, your tail is no longer in danger"

The word "tail" obviously triggers something in Martins mind, because he immediately looks up when he hears it. What he is expecting to see is a whole other story though...

"I'll have you know I was not in the least bit worried," said Bast, stiffly. "I was simply observing."
He jumped down from the Trophy Shelf, landing neatly but nevertheless overturning Shawl's drink. This at least had the virtue of waking up Dicey, who had been standing there with a silly smile on her face.
"Wasn't he wonderful?" she said. "Did you see how skillfully he dealt with the situation? Ordering in those guards like that ... so protective! So (sigh) masculine!"
Sir Albert began to look a little hunted. Stephanie and Nusku began to look a little nauseated. Brother Timothy set down his glass of water.
"Let me through, I'm a doctor," he ordered. "Hmmm -- has she been reading a lot of books with pink covers? Or ones with embossed gold lettering on the front? You don't often see a case this advanced -- quick! Hand me a John Grisham novel! Or a Matthew Reilly -- ah, thanks. Here, lass, turn the pages ... slowly, now, you're not well ... Shame on those Romance Writers, they don't know how much misery they cause," he added.

Walther overheard some of the conversation the Ardchoille delegates had and turns to his friend Martin.

"-Protective? I would rather say provoking. I have been here all along, and I should be able to deal with pretty much anything besides a full scale invasion..."

"well, i wouldnt say that I dealt with them single handedley" remarked Shawl with a trace of pride in is voice "it was more..."

His voice trailed off as he followed Diceys gaze towards Sir Albert, who rolled his eyes.

Shawl Sighed, reached over towards Dicey and carefully prised the Jane Austin novel from her fingers. A brief moments search in his Briefcase, and...

"There we go! The Lord of the Rings by Tolkein... That ought to snap her out of it"

He ordered himself a Dr Pepper, sat down and waited. After about a minuite, Dicey nonchantaly turned the page, her brow furrowed as the main charicter seemed to have suddenly been replaced by a hobbit...

"That was harsh, and you know it" Bast grinned.
"well, at the worst she might now try to chuck him in a volcano. whats the worst that could happen?"

Brother Timothy leaned shakily against the bar. For several moments there he seemed to have been taken over by an entity that walked, talked and acted for him. He'd never felt like that before and he never wanted to again.
"Here, lad," said the barman, pouring him a hefty brandy. "Drink up now, it's medicinal. And don't worry, it happens to everyone from time to time in here. So, are you really a doctor?"

"N-no, I'm a ... " Assorted views of his life flashed through the little monk's mind. Him scrubbing floors. Him spreading manure. Him peeling potatoes. "I'm .. ahh ... multi-talented," he said carefully.

"Well, whatever, it seems to have worked," said the barman approvingly.

A person walks in and sits down at the bar. As the person walks into the light you can clearly see that the person is a female. "Um... Hi?" She says with a nervous laugh, and sits.

(OOC: Sorry, Findhorn, you were hit by a blast of Narrative Necessity. Let the brother run free!)
"Thanks, guys, I needed that," Dicey croaked. She began to totter towards the door, her arms loaded with the volumes her rescuers had pressed on her.
"You want someone to come with you?" asked Bast anxiously.
"No, thanks," she said gravely. "You know I'm not religious, but at times like this ... well, I thought I might just go have a private word with St Germaine Greer."
"At the Church of The Enlightened Pankhurst?"
"That's the one. I think they run meetings of Romantics Anonymous there."
***** ***** *****
Bast would have spent some time contemplating his colleague's problems, but a person of the female persuasion was addressing the pair.
"Hi," he returned warmly. "I'm Bast; I'm an Ardchoille Domestic Cat. This is Shawl. He's ..." Suddenly words failed him. What WAS Shawl, after all? " ... not the Ringbearer," he finished, helpfully.

Martin looks at his friend and smiles.

"Full scale invasion you say? Boy, that brings back some memories, don't it? Remember back when we were Mercs? Those were the days. Nowadays there's so much responsibility, you know? Decisions has to be made. Running a country is fun, but only half as much fun as it was taking it over!"

He realizes he is sluddering and returns to his drink for a sip, then suddenly raises his glass.

"Here's to FREEDOM!"

* The Rep of Komokom awakes if only for a moment, and lifting his head from the danger of the bending in-ward-custard-holding pastry crust, remains lucid enough to call upon the bar-tend to fetch the good Brother a glass of Old K Humble Cider, and continues to mimic regular brain activity long enough to ask if he does wish so to sit with him by the fire to sit a spell after his travel here ...

" ... zzz ... "

* Of course, sloth that he is, he goes right back into a ... shall we say light drift ... as soon as such hospitality is offered ...

Wanders (well staggers actually,...more like stumbles...with a little dribbling, a few collisions and a veritable dictionary of expletives) back into the bar. 'By eck, this ere bar is t'reason I wrote that thread as t'how we all love t'UN.

"FRRRREEDOM!" o

Stephanie skillfully extricated herself from the maze of body parts, walked over to the bar, and ordered an Ennish Shandy. She then noticed the distraught man who had acted as a doctor just before.

"Well, hello there. My name is Stephanie Fulton, and that game of Twister is entirely my fault. But it certainly can be enjoyable to play. And you are?"

"B-brother Timothy," gulped Brother Timothy, taking in as much of the Ennish delegate's appearance as he could, considering that his glasses had steamed up. "They -- I -- we're coming out," he explained.

A raised eyebrow was enough encouragement for him to stumble on, "My nation, that is. Findhorn. We've been a bit of a backwater these past 500 years."

Stephanie smiled. It was only the polite 40-watt smile, not the 100-watt professional quality Super Distracto, but it had its effect.

"Umm, that dozy gentleman over there asked me to sit down by the fire," Tim ploughed on. "Perhaps you'd care to join us?"

This was not the suave Brother Timothy whom he had practised being in every mirror at every inn between here and Findhorn. Still, at least he had secured the attention of a UN delegate. Now he had to start questioning her subtly so he could trick her into giving away Vital Information, while revealing nothing himself. That's what Brother Aneurin said he was there for, anyway.

"Ahh -- has your nation got any Weapons of Mass Distract -- I mean, Destruction?" he asked.

"Dozy gentleman? Oh, that's the Rep. of Komokom. Famed in the Bar, mainly for his ability to use a frying pan as an offensive weapon. Yes, I suppose I will join you.
"But..." Stephanie paused. "Weapons of Mass Destruction? Well, not anything most people would consider 'weapons'. No bombs, or anything. In fact, our only physical form of national security is our IGNORE cannon. But... there have always been... rumours... that the Council can call upon... power of some kind. Probably why the Council has kept order for so long, and without any apparant changes to its make up. But we don't have to worry about that here."

Sorry. I just wanted to make an announcement. Our country is holding a fund-raising dance for our military and if you want to come it's being held next Saturday from 7pm to 11pm. There'll be free chips and Freshie and it's only 5 Taxitals to get in. You can get your hand stamped if you have to go out and want to come back in. You can bring your own records to play - just make sure you put your name on the jacket to we can return it to you at the end of the evening! There's a door prize, too. But it's a surprise! (Hint: it's a new comic book about three guys and a girl - and they're Fantastic!) :eek:

-------------------------------------
UN HQ, Knootian chambers
-------------------------------------

Aram Koopman, the rookie Knootian representative charged with the pro-business resolutions scheme walked casually into his new office. With his black top hat and red bowtie he looked like a typical incarnation of the Knootian upper class. He was greeted by one of his co-workers, Gamal, who was dressed appropriately with a brown top hat

“Hey Aram, can you review Beriah´s report for me today? I´m too tired to go into work.”

“Sure thing,” the Knootian replied with an uncharacteristically friendly tone. After a cup of coffee and a newspaper the Knootian turned to a side-room where incoming proposals for resolutions were being reviewed. Many curses had been uttered in this room, but still the young man who worked the proposals and wrote the report remained enthusiastic. This was probably more due to his naivety and the excitement of his UN job then due to any realistic appraisal of the draft-resolutions he was supposed to write reports about, at least this is what the rest of the staff considered. This never stopped Beriah from seeing the possibilities of a resolution.

Aram grabbed the report he was supposed to review off the desk, and scanned it quickly. “Hmm... yes. This looks like valuable information”, he muttered. He quickly eyed the younger man and continued:

“To nobody.
Ever.
In any possible situation.”

The shredder on Beriahs desk hummed and added more material to a huge pile of paper snippets at the feet of the desk. Aram looked very serious. “See me shredding the papers? It is the only humane thing to deal with them. Like putting a dog to sleep instead of letting it run around with a tumour in its brain.”

Beriahs face was sad, and he looked at the ground. “Is that why Scruffy’s gone?”

”No. That dog was just ugly.”

((OOC: since I am blatantly ripping off a character it seemed just as well to introduce it. Original comic see here: right here (http://www.meninhats.com/d/20040802.html)

-------------------------------------
United Nations Strangers' Bar
-------------------------------------

Aram entered the bar, looked around and observed the delegates going about their business. He coughed softly.

”May I have your attention please?”

No response. Everyone was already engaged in conversation. Casually, the Knootian took a small silvery coloured whistle from his pocket. He slowly took it to his mouth and blew it. Hard. The high-pitched piercing sound, designed it seemed to be extremely annoying, was sustained for a second and a half.

“Ladies and gentlemen, people with no defined gender, may I have your attention please.” He said again, somewhat louder. ”The DDR is having a brainstorm session on pro-business resolutions and you are all invited to contribute (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=352950). For this occasion, the Knootian chambers in the UN buildings will not levy an entrance fee except for those individuals over 65 who will pay 3,50. Also, I want a drink.”

He eyed the room, awaiting questions and someone to buy him that drink. Drinks are, after all, quite expensive.

http://www.meninhats.com/images/aram.gif
Aram Koopman, Knootian UN representative

"-What is this, a bar or a circus?"

Walther ask anyone who may, or may not have heard him...

"Ow! my ears, Dammit!" complained Shawl as the sound from the megaoctave thunderwhistle assaulted his ears.

"Wha'?"

His long, pointy ears.

"Elvish, now you mention it Bast; We're too lazy to be ringbearers, why bother when you can get some mortal to do it for you?" he smiled, Brushing his long hair behind his ears.

"Hmmm?"

"there's not that many of us left in the world, and hardly any left in politics... I've had enough experiance to stick around these past couple of millenia... I'm older than I look you know"

"Say Wha'?"

Shawl sighed. The only problem, he supposed, with being feline was that every time someone blew a whistle loudly was that you spent the next hour deaf as a post.

he turned to Bast and the new woman they had been talking to.

"Come on, I'll buy you a drink"

Bast undestood That.

'a circus' where? Sir Albert looks around in vain for a troupe of high wire artists and expert jugglers.

'Well, better sort this out' and with that leaves to quickly return with a collection of clowns, acrobats and magicians...and drops a large box of party hats in the middle of the bar..........

It was the swallowing, rather than the drink, that un-fuzzed Bast's hearing a bit. He stood there stunned, hoping his ears had deceived him but knowing they hadn't. Elvish? Shawl was an ELF?

Bast's species owed a deep debt to the Elves. They were the ones who had helped his race to full intelligence: their Patrons. If they hadn't done it (even if it was a whim, which it probably was, knowing Elves), the Ardchoille Cats would never have survived when humans arrived.

But a Client species owed its Patrons respect, deference, obedience. Which was why most reasonably feisty Clients tended to dislike their Patrons. And he'd been getting to LIKE Shawl. He'd been planning to invite him to come to the Cat-Sing next time the moon was full. Sitting on a wall, yowling away, passing the whisky, what more could friends ask?

Now, though . . . Bast's ears flattened and his tail began to switch to and fro.

Brother Timothy had been wishing for a concealed microphone or tape or something suitably sneaky. He was getting on so well with this nice Ennish person, and she was definitely spilling the beans, though what sort of beans he wasn't too sure -- she seemed to be hinting at Weapons of Mass Delusion. When the whistle blew, though, he was glad he had been forced to rely on his Bardic training to memorise the conversation. The feedback from electronic equipment would have been horrendous. Look at those stunned-mullet expressions all round the room ...
With an effort, he wrenched his mind back to the matter in hand. Somebody else had been saying something. Ah, yes, that pleasant little delegate with the name-tag: Aunzadia. They were having some kind of ceilidh, weren't they? It sounded like fun, just like the Friday night dances at home, except not Friday, of course. Maybe there'd even be somebody who could play guitar chords so people could sing folk songs. He could almost hear the old crowd singing Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore.
"Umm, are you doing anything Saturday night?" he asked Stephanie confidently, knowing that girls always washed their hair on Friday nights.

The Prime Minister of JRV, flanked by the JRVian UN Ambassador and Foreign Minister, strided in. Glancing around the room at the various other patrons, they strutted over to a bar counter and ordered several drinks between them.

Prime Minister Clarke: "Three whiskys, straight!"

"Harrrr! Nobody wants to toast to freedom, eh? Bloody communists the lot of you! I'll be moving on now..."

Martin stood up, turned towards the exit and started staggering along.

"Get outta my way!" he yelled to anyone in his way.

"Walther! I'll come back later..." then, mumbling to himself, "probably better bring a few guns and armour, too..."

The strapping young delegate stands from his leather bound chair; cigar in one hand and a copy of "Eats, Shoots and Leaves" in the other. He looks around to see a number of female eyes following his gaze - so he smiles. The yellow, the tanned, and the pale all redden upon realising that their gaze has been detected. Being young and innocent: whilst needing to protect the honour of these ladies, of course; he says the only thing that comes to mind, "How many of you ladies fancy a shag then?"

A Giant panda walks into the Bar and orders a Bowl of bamboo. After munching his way through the contents of the Bowl he gets up, Pulls out a small handgun and snaps off a couple of rounds in the genral direction of the nearest Delegate (One Elf who is rapidly becoming a magnet for Metal) and then, as any poor nature book will tell you, leaves.

Literature has an unfortionate effect upon reality within the Bar, one's reading material should be monitred closely. Such events are therefore commonplace around here...

"Not Again!" groaned Shawl as he slipped of his barstool backwards onto the floor.

Noting the Panda event, Sir Albert hastily puts down his book titled 'Travels through the Khyber Pass', and orders a stiff drink.............

Noting what the Bahgum delegate does after the panda incident, Walther decides to do the same, althou he puts his pack of ciggarettes down, not a book...

The JRV delegates proceeded to drink heavily, while discussing ways of dealing with radical religious fundamentalists.

Varia Yefremova delivers a frosty smile at the Jaffakingcole delegate.

"I'm alright for shags. Thanks." She glanced over at Nusku as she returned from the ladies'. No, too cruel. Nusku would eat him alive. She returned her attention to her whisky and the enormous sheaf of proposals to sift through.

"Nooooo!" shouted Dicey. Rushing in, she knelt by the recumbent Shawl and pulled from her robes a copy of The Time Machine, which she hastily began to read aloud, backwards.

Bemused, Shawl watched the bullet burrow out of his leg, his flesh seal seamlessly behind it and himself rise slowly to his former position on the barstool.

"Thank Goddess it worked!" said Dicey. "I really didn't fancy trying that trick with A La Recherche Des Temps Perdus."

Supplying the silent Elf with a medicinal jerboam of Very Old Peculiar, or possibly Very Peculiar Old, she resumed, "Now, as for you . . ."

Bast tried very hard to convince himself that his fellow delegate was about to address that reprobate from Jaffakingcole.

Despite the fresh eruption of Panda-spewed lead that had found its way through the upper section of Tomi Kuper's fez; the Shiree Professor hadn't budged an inch as his fellow barflys had smoothly hit the deck.

Instead, Kuper sat motionless, staring into the space that occupied the bar in front of him, next to his pint of Dry Martini and ice, occassionally scribbling tiny notes.

A careful observer of Kuper would notice his lips moving and expression subtlely change, as if he were in conversation with himself.

Tomi stared into what he assumed were the eyes of the beast that was gently hovering between him and his drink. It was difficult to tell whether or not they truly were the beasts eyes - or rather some other of its inevitable orifices.... indeed, whether or not large sapient fluffy dice had eyes at all was a matter of speculation to Kuper, but the fact that it was preventing him from reaching his drink had begun to become an issue.

"Who... who are you?" Tomi whispered to the fluffy dice.

The dice levitated thoughtfully for a minute before rolling a three.

"You're name is 'Three'?"

The fluffy dice made a discernable 'shake' of it's 'head(s)'

With a rare spark of insight, Tomi wrote the alphabet's of the five or six languages he was competent in, on one of Neville's inexhaustible napkin collection - and made notes of the numbers the fluffy dice rolled, as he asked it various questions.

The answers given made no sense in Eugenian, or Xikuangese...
Tomi's eyes widened as the dice's message made some kind of vaguely pornographic suggestion in Knootian before lapsing beack into nonsense.

It was when Tomi switched to Celdonian, that the notes began to make some kind of sense.

"So.... you're name is 'Sigmar'?"

The dice 'nodded'

"and you weigh 18 pounds?"

The dice nodded again and seemed to 'flex' itself happily.

"but, *ahem* Sigmar... I'm confused! tell me again, what the goodness you are doing here!... and why you won't let me have.." Tomi made a sudden feint to the left and a grab for his drink to the right... but Sigmar had it covered. The Shiree Professor sighed... "...my drink?"

The fluffy dice made a large series of complex rolls so that Tomi had to scribble furiously to keep up. When he had deciphered the larger part Tomi sighed again

"Okay err. Sigmar - Let's get this straight, you're an 'alcohol-induced amalgamation of various different addresses from what you term 'a users favourite bookmarks' which - due to the literal disruption created by the pan-dimensional space that the Stranger's Bar occupies...err... and in some cases overlaps..." Tomi rubbed his eyes. "Look Sigmar, I don't pretend to understand this gobbledy-gook... just tell me why you won't let me have my drink... please?"

Sigmar gestured at the bottom of Tomi's scribblings with the lower left spot of one of his 'Sixes'

Tomi translated the section and his eyes' narrowed

His face changed to one of indignant fury as he hissed

"When I've had enough to drink, Sigmar.... I'll be the one to let YOU know...okay?"