NationStates Jolt Archive

“As for you,” Dicey continued, doing that pinning-with-the-eyes thing that witches do, “Bast il-Hrrvt nan-Mrrrouwr-hahhcht, since when are you an Elvophobe?”

“I’m not!” protested Bast, wincing at the sound of his full name. “I . . . ”

Dicey folded her arms. “If it looks like an Elvophobe and it quacks like an Elvophobe …”

“I didn’t! I don’t! It’s just . . .”

Dicey tapped her foot. “It looks to me as if we’re about to get our first Cat President of Ardchoille.”

“But Cats never do anything that stupid!”

Dicey raised one eyebrow. “Look at it from my point of view. One: you’re friends with Shawl. Two: Shawl says he’s an Elf. Three: you’re not friends with Shawl.”

Full name, folded arms, foot tapping, raised eyebrow. Bast reviewed his options: zilch. Sigh. “Uh, Shawl, mate … are you doing anything Saturday night? See, there’s this Cat-Sing ...”

-several rounds later-

PM: "No! You are both wrong... the only way to kill the secretary-general is with a panda strapped to explosives!"

She guzzled down her last drink, and getting up, stumbled towards the exit. The FM and ambassador were engaged in a violent drunken brawl, attempting to stab one another with lapel pins.

Stephanie stood at the door to the bar, musing to herself.

"So that's what happens when you go and work on a proposal."

Brother Timothy was holding his breath. The Ennish delegate had disappeared for a bit -- shy, no doubt -- but now she was back. Would she, would she go to that ceilidh with him?

Of course, he was only doing this for his country.

Stephanie turned to Brother Timothy.

"Well, I certainly can't recall anything in my schedule for Saturday night. What do you have in mind?"

Shawl Sighed, picked the bullet that had until recently been in his leg up off the Bar and put it in his pocket, before reaching underneath his shirt to pull out a flattened disk of metal; the remains of the Panda's second bullet that had been stopped by the Kevlar Jacket he'd been wearing.

"Thats Three now... What am I, Magnetic?" he muttered, rubbing his bruised ribs. Lucky that Panda had only been wielding a pistol...

"So... Whats this about elvephobes? I must confess, I wasnt paying too much attention, what with being Shot and everything..."

He paused, taking in what Bast just said,

"does it involve copious amounts of alcohol?" he said, grinning.

"you realy shouldnt drink so much, you know" Childed Dicey.

"I'll have you know, I have the Liver of a 2500 year old" Shawl said, sipping his pint.

* The Rep of Komokom, taking virtually no notice of events, possibly even for once because he was alseep, finally made the point where his head finally over-powers the thin pastry crust it was resting against on the upper right side of his chair.

" ... zzz .... "

P L O P !

* And so, from under the creamy yellow surface two simple words are heard by those near-by,

" Oh ... Bollocks. "

* With two more words tagging along behind,

" Mmmm, yum ... "

* Nuff said I suppose ... :rolleyes:

...

* Grrr, I'm my puppet. Bloody siren call of the forum button ...

This, Brother Timothy supposed, was where he was supposed to practice Duplicity. Because what he had in mind . . .

A wee bit of slap'n'tickle in the dark at the back of the coconut shy, with maybe icecreams and a couple of frothy pints somewhere along the way. And lying in the heather looking up at the stars, and maybe as it gets light being so quiet we can watch the hares come out to play ...

Brother Timothy noticed an odd expression on Stephanie's face.

"Ummm ... did I say something?' he asked. "Aloud, sort of?"

Ignoring Dicey's comments, both the one about drinking less and the one about the liver ("Yeah, pickled!!"), Bast grinned back (as much as a cat's face can).

"Copious!" he assured Shawl. "You probably won't even notice the bagpipes. Oh, and you'd better wear something you don't mind blood on. There's often a bit of, you know, just a friendly brawl."

Dicey snorted. Was it possible that all males of all races were somehow descended from the Nic Mac Fleegle?

Deciding to leave Brother Timothy's unintended comments for the moment, Stephanie turned to the Bar in general with an announcement.

"Everyone, in honour of the fact that Habeas Corpus has officially reached quorum, you are all entitled to a free Ennish Shandy!"

* The Rep of Komokom, cleaning off the last marks of creamy yellow custard, has time enough to raise the glass of Ennish Shandy before him and proclaim,

" Huzzah ! Huzzah ! Jolly good, and about time too ! Huzzah ! "

* He then notices a few stares directed at his fore-head, and a quick glance into the gilt mirror running behind the bar reveals ...

" Garg. A custard uni-brow ... "

* Which only heralds further furious face polishing.

"The Nac mac Feegle... Right, I rember them..." Shawl shifted uneasly on his Barstool

Dicey raised an eyebrow.

"We didnt do it on Purpose, Okay..."

Dicey Raised the other eyebrow.

"Well, me and the Lads (Gil-Gahlad, Legolas, Elrond and that Arwen Chick) were on the way back from the pub one night and we happend to stumble onto these little Blue Dudes and on a whim, we kinda made them intelegent, and more than a little violent..."

Dicey chocked on her drink.

"Are you telling me that the most hard drinking, violent sentient beings to ever riot on the face of the earth were created by a bunch of Elves on the Piss?"

"Well, Kinda..."

With a series of clicks, whirrs and thumps Walther moves towards the Ennish delegate.

"-Shandy? What is that? I have not heard of that before. Is it anything like beer?"

Dicey took a deep breath, obviously about to denounce Shawl, Elves, the Sidhe, the Fey and possibly even the Mods, when suddenly a small, satisfied smirk settled on her features.

"I never did trust that Arwen, " she said. "Too good to be true, I always thought. So she drinks a bit, does she?"

Settling in for a good gossip, she took a long draught of the Ennish Shandy. Her eyes widened. "A touch of cinnamon ... there's some cream in there somewhere ... could that be sweet potatoes? ... I wonder if this stuff travels ... "

She slid off the barstool, deserting Bast and Shawl, and headed purposefully towards the Ennish delegate. Sex, liquor, fame, fortune, nothing could equal the ancient passion that now had Dicey in its grip. She was Going Shopping.

Of course, on the expense account she'd call it Trade Talks.

Stephanie turned to Walther.

"Well, in other countries, shandy is used to refer to a mixture of beer and lemonade. In Enn, it goes above and beyond this simple list of ingredients. The official recipe's a state secret, and many, many people in many countries have attempted to re-create it, to no avail. Our largest export, particularly since I was made Ambassador to the UN."

"Oh, she's fine, when she's sober, but get a drink in her and... Hey, where're you going?"

He Sighed, and turned to Bast.

"She's not going to be happy when she finds out that most magical creatures were created after an Elf (Elrond, most of the time) had one too many..."

Varia was sat at the Bar nursing an espresso-liqueur mix, wishing it was Ecopoeian kavajava, when she received the news that another old ally had fallen by the wayside. She cursed, threw back the bitter drink and left her seat to return to work, her mood thoroughly depressed.

The Peaceful Tribes of Collaboration were gone.

The Peaceful Tribes of Collaboration were gone.

On hearing the news, Comrade Guevara weeps a single, bitter tear. Thankfully for his mental health, it misses his pint.

Sir Albert briefly considers the merit of introducing the glorious comrade Guevara to a pint of good old fashioned Northern Bitter, wi' t'head an all. then decides, he'd appreciate it better hiiself and downs it quickly....

Walther stands by the Ennish delegate with a shandy in his hand. He has obviously tasted it and has a rather puzzled look on his face.

"-Hmm... This thing tastes kind of funny, but I do think I enjoy it. Nothing beats my dear mothers moonshine thou, but this came close."

Leader Kumquat of Kimchi Jong Il sniffs his cup of Ennish shandy.

"Ennish shandy, rhymes with Fennish brandy. Hmm... Perhaps Kimchi needs her own national drink. So many to choose from... We need concentrated Kimchi strain..."

Kuper sat at the bar, studiously avoiding the blubbering of his ACA comrades and attempting unsuccessfully to avoid the gaze of the figment of his imagination which was floating in front of his welcomed Shandy in the form of an 18pound pair of Fluffy Dice named Sigmar... wait 18 pounds?

Sigmar looked like 'he'd' grown a bit.

Kuper's red-rimmed eyes found a monitor that he'd never noticed behind the bar before and observed the fancy looking graphs that were plotting the Ennish UN proposals' meteoric rise.

After his banishment from the Shiree Council, Tomi's awareness of international politics had been dulled by the various alcoholic beverages of the world, but he was able to see far enough through the mental cotton wool to comprehend the current proposals meaning.

Avoiding Sigmar's antics he smiled weakly at Stephanie.

"I don't think she'd mind, actually," Bast said. "Dicey rather approves of people who get magically creative when they're drunk. It's what she does herself. In fact, that's why she's stuck with being co-President of Ardchoille. Last time she got drunk ... well, it wasn't so much what she created as what she un-created. Think Miss Universe's skirt. Think mass wardrobe malfunction. The entire diplomatic corps ..."

"I never heard the details of that," Shawl said hopefully, leaning closer.

" ... Twelve Severing of Relations. Eleven Embassies closed. Ten stiff Notes. Nine Called to Account. Eight Please Explains. Seven trade barriers. Six serious sanctions. Five boycotts. Four sports tours rejected. Three complaints to the International Court. Two crossed us off the A-list. And, of course, one declaration of war, but we said we were too busy."

"Don't forget the curses and the excommunications," said Dicey, with a touch of pride, returning from her Trade Mission.

Sir Albert downs another pint....belches loudly....followed by "aay oop Comrade Guevara, no belching in t'front o't lasses..."

Quickly staggers o'er t'bar and 'opes 'e getten away wi' it.

Brother Timothy, thwarted in love (or at least, in his plans to celebrate the Lady in proper Celtic fashion) gazed glumly into his glass of Ennish Shandy and listened to the noise about him.

"Sho I shaid to Elrond, I shaid ... "

Further down from that conversation was a bunch of people blubbering into their assorted drinks. The odd man with the fez appeared to be quarrelling with something invisible directly in front of his eyes. The Man Who Clanks was standing far too close to Stephanie (Brother Timothy tentatively explored the dramatic possibilities of that one, then decided not to touch it with a 40-foot pole) and the Man Who Sleeps In Custard was scrubbing obsessively at his forehead.

Brother Timothy cheered up. Embittered by experience, he would henceforth devote his life to others, taking up Pastoral Care and possibly even Outreach. To start off with, he would save this pathetic bunch of drunks, drying them out and maybe even forming them into a championship-winning softball team ...

* The Rep of Komokom finishes scrubbing his face clean of sweet creamy yellow detrius and returns to the occasional sip of the occasional high octane beverage in his hand ...

" grumble, grumble, bloody great black thunder storm, grumble grumble ... "

* The Rep of Komokom too sheds a moments tear for the great Collaborator, lost, but not forgotten.

Leader Kumquat walks down the bar to Brother Timothy. "You look different from most people here. New, I suppose? And are you a priest? You look like one."

He drains his glass of Ennish shandy and blinks somewhat drunkenly at Brother Timothy.

Walking back in to the bar Lydia felt a certain sense of triumph over the policy ideas of some members in the Telidian government. “It really would do us no good to withdraw membership” she thought to herself. Looking round Lydia remembered the feelings she had when she first walked in to the bar. How strange that in only a few months it would have changed so much, that now she felt completely at home and looking forward to catching up with her colleagues.

“Neville, have you seen Jerry?” she asked the barman who by now is probably more famous than the various diplomats he has served drinks to. “He’s taken some leave Ma’am. I understand he will be back next week. I hope so at least, we’ve been trying to procure another new and fascinating beverage” he replied with a glee that Lydia understood all too well. “Oh God, now you know what happened last time” subtly trying to remind the barman the havoc one of their previous concoctions brought. “Not to worry Ma’am, you know we will only get the best” trying his best to reassure the young Telidian. “Yes well, I’m sure of that, but the question is really whether any of us will still know who we are after sampling it” she replied with warm smile and a wink. Whereupon Neville being the excellent barman he is understood exactly what the young lady was after. “Double” he enquired and for moment Lydia thought no, but then changed her mind, after all she is celebrating today. “Yes, why not!”

Brother Timothy almost yelped with excitement. Only seconds since his resolution, and already the Goddess had sent him a brand to snatch from the burning (Or was it a lamb to lead to the slaughter? Mental note to self: look that up.)

"Yea, verily," saith Brother Timothy unto him. Then, realising that if he kept on like this his chances of being understood were minimal and his chances of being chucked out exponentially high, changed it to, "Uh, yeah. I'm a monk from the Abbey of Findhorn. Findhorn is a very small nation of wandering Celts who got sore feet and stopped. The Abbey is up on top of a rock and it's about all there is on Findhorn, apart from Town. Which is also small. Very, very small. Not worth, heh-heh, invading," he babbled, hoping his nervous laugh didn't sound in the least like a nervous laugh.

"Er, ever played softball?" he continued, wrenching the conversation away from the ominous turn his thoughts had suddenly taken. "Cricket? Rugby? Any form of healthy physical exercise useful in dissipating aggressive tendencies?"

Varia Yefremova looks up at the new arrival. Her face breaks out into a broad smile, eyes shining with pleasure.

"Lydia! So good to see you again, how are you?"

Before the young Telidian has a chance to reply, Varia pours her a glass of wine from the bottle she has been nursing. She turns to the bar residents and exclaims "Delegates, this is a happy day. I propose a toast to the safe return of our friend from her..." a quick glance at the Telidian, "...her journeys."

Flushed with excitement and somewhat surprised at the strength of her reaction, Varia turns back to Lydia and raises her glass.

OOC: Welcome back, glad to see you here!

“Varia! Indeed its good to be back. It is amazing how quickly one misses this place if you have been away for a while” replied Lydia with obvious warmth whilst trying to hide a little embarrassment as the whole bar’s attention begin to focus on her. “It’s been a long tough road to convince my government that Telidia’s place is here, but I’m thankful to say the the elements who wished this xenophobia are now in the minority”.

Looking at Varia and her fellow colleagues Lydia felt compelled to say something in response to Varia’s warm welcome. Standing up Lydia replies. “Thank you so very much Varia, but in addition to your toast I would like to add another. To old and dear friends” looking over at Varia, raising her glass towards her and other familiar faces, “and to absent friends, but never forgotten” turning and raising her glass to the various empty seats occupied in the past by so many worthy nations.

Comrade Guevara looks up with a start from the booth in the corner where he was nursing a half-empty bottle of rum. If it isn't that delightful young Lydia... we were getting on so well before she had to go away... and that Rehochipean swine isn't around to spoil my fun...

He swaggers over to the new arrival, sleaze oozing from every pore.

[OOC: Great to see you back, Telidia.]

Dicey watched in awe as the room frothed with welcome for the returned Telidian delegate. Behind her, Neville the Barlord ceremoniously polished the pewter tankard he had set aside so many weeks ago, breathing gently on the engraved "Telidia" before giving it a final loving swipe with his sleeve. With a grand gesture he flicked a (previously secret) switch, setting the bar-lights flashing in rainbow sequence.

"I wonder if we'd get a welcome-back like that?" Dicey asked Bast, a little wistfully.

"If you want to be welcomed back, first you've got to leave," said her fellow delegate, pointedly.

Stephanie looked at Lydia, and said to no-one in particular, "Let's see... Comrade Guevara, Rep. of Komokom, Lydia, Varia, references to the Nic Mac Feegle, Sir Albert... the old gang's back."

She then did an about take. "Except for Desdemona. Where has she gone?"

HI this is discombobulatia's delegate.
You can call me Mx or Sub
I just wanted to say this place is so cool!!!!!!!!
But can you belive that

*The UN Delegate for UNIverseVERSE wander in and takes off his hat, straightening his hair he walks into the room and asks for a glass of champagne. Seating himself at a table, he watches the goings on with interest*

"So who's up for a game of Chess?" *he says, while opening a laptop computer, an Apple one, and producing a Chessboard*

* The Rep of Komokom stands up and makes a motion for a brief silence if you would,

" Friends, delegates, representatives, random plebs who have little or no reason to be here but come because of frequent free beverages, I say to you, recently in conversation on the love of the U.N. the commentary turned to mild jibes about poetry, and gosh - dang if I did not have a crack, and so, I give to you from my fuzzy black capitalist heart :

^ ^ ^ 0d3 70 73h 1 W0rld0rz ^ ^ ^

* By T.R. Kom.

" Some roses are Red, ( But like most U.N. members, not completely communist / socialist scum, mind you ! )

[violets] are Admin, ( When they had that wise orange glow )

I love the freeking N.S.U.N,

Because its not completely " SAVE TEH OMFG TREES " you know ! "

* The Rep of Komokom returns to his seat..

*applauds and buys Kom a drink*

whenever did you think that one up?

* The Rep of Komokom sips at the gifted beverage then replies,

" Act for the moment thought - jumble when I saw the "official" I love the U.N. thread dropping down a bit ... "

* The Rep of Komokom takes another sip, and adds with a smile :

" Thought I'd do my civic duty and all that jazz, old boy ... "

Comrade Guevara looks suitably moved and hands the Rep of Komokom a single rose. It is deepest red, like the workers' blood.

Brother Timothy was awed. He was used to displays of bardic briliance -- who could forget Mother Mirrim's version of Am I Not Pretty Enough? at the last Eisteddfodd -- but this! Totally impromptu! The language -- how colourful! The rhythm -- how compelling! The metaphors -- how subtle! Tempted beyond bearing, he sidled up to the bar.

"Excuse me, sir ... the liquid that fuelled that pyrotechnic display -- I must have some of it! Please! Oh, and can you make it a double?"

* The Rep of Komokom takes the rose from the good comrade, and sniffs it gently, faintly glad it does not smell of the workers sweat.

I'mlooking for friends I'm all lonley by myself in my own reigon anyone want to join, ps everyone should be forced to vote

Shawl Laughed at Diceys skills in the field of international incidents before frantic "Shhh's" from Bast made him realise that she was stood behind him.

"Oooops" he grinned at the look of slight indignation she had before buying her a drink.

It was some minuites later before something crossed Shawls mind.

"Hang on a min... Why did you vanish Miss world's Skirt in the first place? Besides drink, of course..."

Leader Kumquat watches Brother Timothy run off to grab a glass of alcohol. Shaking his head, he says, "I was never a teetotaller, but surely there is no need for such desperation. In the first place, what's a monk doing in a bar?"

Downing huge glasses of orange juice voting should be compolsury says the Delegate for deep thought

Two suited bodyguards enter the bar, checking the place thoroughly. Despite wearing sunglasses, they make it very clear that everyone in the room is on the receiving end of a suspicious gaze. One speaks into a communicator attached to his wrist. "Send her in"

A flurry of activity at the door as a woman enters. All that is visible at first is a bit of teased blonde hair in the middle of a sea of managers, agents, advisors, and various other hangers-on. A babble of voices rings off the walls, interrupted by a single "Ex-cuse me!". The sea parts to reveal a woman in her early 20's, rather attractive in a mass-marketed sort of way. She wears a pink sparkly pleather top and tight pants. A UN delegate's badge hangs from a gold chain around her neck.

"Out," she says to the masses with a single wave of her hand. "This place is like, so totally restricted" As one, the entourage files out of the room, followed closely by the bodyguards.

"So, hey, I'm Her Totally Awesome Highness Princess Britney" she says to no one in particular between pops of her gum. "And I could so totally use a drink right now. Oh, and you," She points at Komokon. "Awesome poem. Tell you what, I get someone in the industry to put it to music, pop it on my new album about how hard it is to be rich and powerful, and we'll totally make bank. Get your peeps with mine and have 'em work it out". She turns to the bar and orders a bottle of overpriced champagne.

“Ah Comrade, I wondered when you might appear. I trust matters are well in East Hackney?” said Lydia as the Ambassador slid on a stool next to her. “Still drinking, let me think what was it again, ah yes. Barman, a pint of Heart of Darkness with a double shot of rum please. That is correct is it not Sir?” asked Lydia not revealing she had later found out about the double shot of rum from another colleague after their first meeting. 'Lets see how you enjoy it my dear Comrade' she thought smiling to herself full knowing that the combination of two beverages was not very appetising.

Walther watched the activity by the door while he was sipping on his second Ennish shandy. A few sparks flew off the end off the broken power conduit as he grabbed it and lit another cigerette with it. The internal servos of his reinforced exosuit whirred and clicked as he shifted his weight. He adjusted the chainsword hanging by his hip and took a pull of his newly lit cigarette.

His battledamaged REXO had a dull gleam in the softly lit bar, and it's massive bulk made Walther look rather menacing standing nearly 210 cm tall. Walther walked towards the restrooms, leaving his shandy on the barcounter, and with every step he took a series of mechanical whirrs was heard followed by a heavy thump every time he put his foot down.

As he walked he mumbled something about "a bunch of tree-hugging hippie crap", something along the lines of "mainstream goddamn corporatemade crap music" and something about "Pink friggin ballerina, would not know anything about life if it came slapping her on top of her head".

Upon reaching the door to the restroom Walther had some trouble fitting his massive bulk through the door, but he dissapeared after ripping a small piece of the doorpost along with him on his way in. Walther's muffled voice was heard from the other side of the door, sounding rather annoyed and exusing the slight destruction of Nevilles bar.

“Ah Comrade, I wondered when you might appear. I trust matters are well in East Hackney?” said Lydia as the Ambassador slid on a stool next to her. “Still drinking, let me think what was it again, ah yes. Barman, a pint of Heart of Darkness with a double shot of rum please. That is correct is it not Sir?” asked Lydia not revealing she had later found out about the double shot of rum from another colleague after their first meeting. 'Lets see how you enjoy it my dear Comrade' she thought smiling to herself full knowing that the combination of two beverages was not very appetising.

There was no way a hardened liver-abuser like Guevara was going to miss a trick like that, and he smelt the powerful Hackneyite rum fumes coming off the pint before it even reached his lips. He flashed a guilty smile at Lydia and put the drink down untouched.

"Ah... erm... ahem... that is to say... err, just my little joke, you realise..." He gave up, and wandered off in search of easier prey.

For reasons known only to himself, Guevara settled on the delegate from Ardchoille, apparently oblivious to the gigantic black-and-white cat with which she was bickering. He swaggered up and introduced himself with a lecherous grin.

"Dicey Reilly, isn't it? I heard a song about you and," he glanced down at the drink in her hand, "I see at least half of it's true. Now" - Guevara winked suggestively - "how about the other half?"

Brother Timothy waited for the rush of inspiration that would surely follow from this wonderful liquid. Tentatively he tried out rhymes in his head -- cat, mat, bat, fat, hat -- no, dammit! He wasn't supposed to be writing a children's primer, he wanted to come up with grand, brilliant poetry. That's what Celts were noted for, after all (along with a tendency to fall into the clutches of the drink, the Creature, the good stuff, the lovely, lovely ... ahem!).

No, the words wouldn't come. He needed something more. He needed ...

A Muse! And there she was! Pretty in pink, on my knees before you I sink ... Britney, oh Britney, I beg you, don't spit on me ... yes, it was working! O Goddess, what a woman! The very incarnation of the feminine, and well you could see it, thanks to her superb clothes sense! How beautifully they could worship the Lady together!

Dicey did her best little-girl dimpled smile. "Oooh, how nice to meet someone old enough to remember Grandmother!" she cooed. "She used to love that song, drunk or sober. One hoor was worthy of the name, one woman put them all to shame, and the name of that dame was Dicey Reilly," she sang.

"Actually, though, she preferred to be called a courtesan, but that's the devil to get into a decent rhyme," she added thoughtfully. She glanced at Shawl's bemused expression.

"Skirt," said Bast helpfully. "Miss World's skirt."

"Oh, yes. But that wasn't me that did that," she explained. "No, what I did was, I magicked everyone's top layers of clothes off. You'd be surprised how many diplomats didn't listen to their mothers' advice about clean undies. And you should have seen what one prissy old duck had on underneath. Not to mention how many hadn't any. But it was all good clean fun, especially after they turned on the overhead sprinklers and the Cats got the cream ... I don't care if they made me President, I still think it was worth it."

The princess sips casually at her champagne, somewhat put out at not having more looky-loos to be annoyed by. Where are the peasant fans? The papparazzi? The lackeys and toadys? Nothing. Only one jellus-lookin' guy stumbling drunkenly into another room, and some skeevy man over in the corner looking at her and wordlessly moving her lips. Like the Grammys all over again. She sighs deeply, picking the best of a bad lot.

"So," she says, grabbing the glass and bottle and wandering over to Brother Timothy. "Wassup, Diplo-guy? What's fun to do around here?"

Stephanie listened with half an ear to Dicey's story about Miss Universe's skirt, while the rest of her concentration was focussed upon her would-be wooer, Brother Timothy. Specifically, she noticed his elation at coming to the notice of the pink and blonde thing that had only just walked in the door.

"Well, not one to lick his wounds for long. Wonder what he's about to say in response?" she muttered under her breath.

Brother Timothy was shell-shocked. Here was the object of his (current) admiration swimming into his ken, and all he could do was remain silent, like the bloke upon the peak in Darien.

"Ummm -- at the hostel where I'm staying, we do Gregorian chants every Wednesday from 4am to 6am," he finally offered. "And I believe they've got a very good Gilbert and Sullivan society going down the road at UNESCO ..." he trailed off. Fortunately, a still, small voice reminded him of the wise words of Brother Aneurin: When all else fails, tell the truth.

"Actually," he announced with real animation, "this is the fun thing to do. I haven't been here long, but I've met a man who sleeps in custard, and another one who rows around with four frying-pans under his chair, and a giant Panda, and the floor's dissolved, and -- oh, I know! Just the thing!"

Breathless with excitement, he turned to Stephanie. "Ah -- do you think we could have another go at Twister?"

"Ah, I'm not so old as that, my dear Dicey. I learnt that song on my grandfather's knee, although..." - Guevara's brow wrinkles - "it never occurred to me to wonder how he knew it, or whether my dear grandmother approved."

Shawl Sighed. trying to get sense out of Dicey was sometimes like a broken pencil; pointless.

"So, what ryhme is this? surely your not that old, if his grandfather knew it..." he said, admittedly only paying half attention to the conversation. the rest was fixed on his cup of tea, which had annoyangly gone cold. "Bleugh... Disgusting..." he muttered to himself.

Ah ha...

He leaned over and carefully balanced his cuppa on top of Brother Timothys head. shortly, it began to Boil.

Brother Timothy just quietly gibbered as the Elf removed his drink and sipped it. Excelent, Piping hot.

He looked at the astonished Faces of Dicey, Bast and Guevara.

"What? I may Be Elvish, But i'm also as English as the Day is long"

Comrade Guevara took a hearty quaff of the pure and began, unaccountably, to wax Oirish.

"Ahh, Dicey Reilly, 'tis a fine ballad from the auld country (http://celtic-lyrics.com/lyrics/165) concerning a legendary drunken hoor o'Dublin," he quavered in an appalling attempt at an Irish accent. "'Tis a tragic tale, really, and brings a tear to me eye, so it does."

He dabbed unconvincingly at the corners of his eyes and took another pull at his pint.

A few muffled thumps was heard from inside the restroom in wich Walther now was and suddenly the door and doorframe was displaced from the wall in wich both had been fitted in. Walther stumbled out from the restroom and looked rather annoyed and pretty surprised by what had just happened to the door. He quickly picked the door and the doorframe with some wall still attached to it and tried to put the whole thing back into place, wich resulted in a door and a doorframe with pieces of wall still hanging onto it standing lobsided and ankwardly in a big hole in the wall.

"-Ehrm... Eh... I am terribly sorry about that folks, the door was kind of... Sticky..." Walther said after he had retuned the door to almost where it stood in the first place. He looked embarreced and walked back to the place where he had put his Shandy, only to find that it was not there anymore.

"Neville, do you have some coffe, I'd rather not get drunk as it is a really bad thing to get while you are wearing this thing." He gestured at his REXO while he ended his sentance.

"-I will send after some of my best engineers to fix that door for you, I am terribly sorry for the inconvinience Neville."

Walther spoke into the small microphone that was fitted in his REXO and ordered some engineers to his location.

"Well, Grandmother never thought it was tragic," huffed Dicey. "She always said it was wonderful publicity, having a song written about her. That's why she insisted Dadda name me Dicey, too -- she thought I could cash in on her reputation. But she didn't pass on her talents along with her name. Anyway, the Trade's been sadly devalued these days. Too many amateurs." Dicey stared morosely into her flagon.
"But even if you can't be a tart with a heart of gold, Dicey, you're still a very good witch," said Bast hastily, patting her shoulder awkwardly. Anything rather than have a maudlin Celt on his paws.
Dicey paid no attention. She was too busy being outraged by what Shawl had just done.
"I just hope that wasn't Earl Grey in that cup!" she said indignantly. "You should know better, Shawl! That's a terrible way to treat a good brew! You never, never re-heat! It scalds the milk!"
A sudden thought struck her. "You do take milk, don't you?" she queried. "Weak, two sugars? I mean, you did say you were English."

* The Rep of Komokom sat back in his chair by the fire, saying nothing, but looking proud.

(OOC: As well he might!)

Brother Timothy felt extrememly sophisticated. He knew so many celebrities here. "Look," he said with pride to the Pink Princess, "Over there, see, by the fire? That's The Man Who Organised The Past!"

"Earl grey? dont touch the Stuff, i'm afraid. its a bit... well, Odd... I suppose. Traditional English Breakfast, as Breakfast is all I realy have time for nowadays..."
He paused, sipping the tea. Dicey was right, of course, the stuff had been ruined, but some things had to be done for purposes of style. Finishing the Cuppa, he leant over to Sir Nevile.

"Another English Breakfast, NATO standard please"

More Puzzled looks.

"Loads of Milk, Two sugars"

He sipped the Cuppa. Ah, thats the stuff.

Wait a sec...

"You can get tea without milk now? My gods, what a world..."

Despite his pleasure in being so near his (current) earthly goddess, Brother Timothy was getting a pounding headache.
It could have been the noise from the team of workers who were repairing one of the walls -- there seemed to be a high level of turnover for the fittings, furniture and even foundations of this place.
It might also have something to do with having a cup of tea warmed up on his head, though when you were as far down the food chain as Bro Tim, such events were fairly commonplace.
Possibly the Ennish delegate had something to do with it, too. She hadn't answered his suggestion. She hadn't needed to. "Twister" was a concept that should have been kept sacrosanct, unmarred by such as he.
"I am a worm," mourned Brother Timothy. "I am unworthy. I am dust. I am ..."
" ... terribly, terribly self absorbed," said one of a pair of fluffy dice.
"Such vanity!" sniffed the other.
Brother Timothy moaned. Even his hallucinations were second-hand! Rolling himself up in the towelling bar-mat, he made an inglorious exit.
He'd managed to whip the mat out from under without upsetting a single drink. Appreciating such thoughtfulness, Neville resolved not to double its cost when totting up Findhorn's bar bill.

* The Rep of Komokom lifted an eye lid at the mention of being " The Man Who Organised The Past " ... but had to admit, it had a rather nice ring to it ...

" Neville, the bill for that good ... "

* The Rep of Komokom looks mildly confused, being of a liberal atheist nationality and history, he would not know his Bishop from his Battle-Ship when it comes down to it ...

" Errr, monk, be so kind as to place it on my tab, one must have a heart for the innocents who walk amoung us ... rather then rip it out and devour it as per-standard practice ... "

* He says with a mildly shark look on his face ... then proceeds to swirl his glass of distilled mango juice and proceeds to add The Man Who Organised The Past to his resume ...

" My, that ... vision in pink is certainly ... a ... well, a vision certainly, in pink, mind you, too ... I wonder if I should have put rights to my work ... those music industry people are always sharp as tacks under the glitter .. "

* Still, The Rep of Komokom, The Man Who Organised The Past, makes a note to call his people to call her people to work something out ...

Kuper snickered as he heard Sigmar direct its' rolling insults at someone else for a change and then....

DELIGHT!

As Brother Timothy left the Bar... Sigmar followed him!

By all that is goodness! Tomi exclaimed to himself. that was a close thing... I thought I'd be trapped in here with that ... that THING forever...

Thanking his lucky steers* Tomi silently resolved to leave the booze alone for a while. Sigmars rolling had shaken him up alright... a brush with insanity that had seemed unfixable. Well - whatever - Sigmars absence was cause for celebration. To hell with the papaya juice - with those fluffy dice out of the way, Kuper could have whatever he pleased!

Feeling quite the ticket (Alcohol vouchers provided by the Shiree Council were liberally secreted in most of Kupers robe... pocket.. things) he waved one at Neville

"A Cuba Libre young man!" Tomi smiled and surveyed the room as Neville crushed the ice, and brought the Hackneyite rum back down off its shelf.

Returning to face the bar however, the Shiree Professors' expression dropped, and his grillpiece drained of colour..

"WHat teh Fax yor Problem?" shouted the Sabre-toothed Lime, that was sitting infront of him on the bar.





*The Shiree 'Aquinass' are very much like horses, with the added bonus of being incredibly lucky. Whether this is because the superstitious Shiree treat them with a great deal of respect - due to their said powers over chance, or simply because they haven't lost at poker yet (being unable to play cards) is a moot point - rather like the question of the egg and the chicken. Except without the eggs... ahem*

* The Rep of Komokom sits in his favourite wing-backed chair by the fire, and looks about the bar ... in nostalgia, for a self indulgent moment, then then he stands, takes his customary cut crystal tumbler to the bar for Neville to keep good and polished while he is away, bows in fair-well to those assembled, slips into his jacket, and, with a final ( for now ) glance about the place and all the good people who frequent there, steps out of the bar and the U.N. itself, and into ...

The wider world of N.S. itself.

< FER-SPOOT > <- ( Umbrella going up )

* He puts up his umbrealla, steps out into the silver rain, and walks off down the cobbled street, quitely humming a few bars under his breath ...

" May weee meet again, some sunnnnny dayyy ... "

Waves goodbye to Komokom

Mathieu Vergniaud looks up, shakes his head sorrowfully and returns to the task at hand; namely, drinking until he can't remember anything.

"Hmm... getting a bit lonely around here, what with all these people leaving," Stephanie mused to herself. "First dear Brother Timothy, now the Rep. of Komokom. Who next?"

Edward walks over to the bar and asks for a bottle of the infamous Imperial Brandy from Clearwater and a shot glass. The bartender looks at him in surprise, then shrugs, shuffling to the storeroom behind the bar and retrieves the alcoholic beverage that is outlawed in at least eight nations. He places it on the bar and takes the money Edward gives him. Edward walks over to an empty table and begins pouring.

*Sigh!* That "dear" would have meant a lot to Brother Timothy. But he wasn't there to hear it, being stretched out on his unsatisfactory folding bed at the hostel reading the latest in a series of mildly reproving missives from his immediate superior, Brother Rhys.

"I know you're a truly devoted follower of the Goddess," Rhys wrote, "but even She Herself knows there's a limit to the amount of houghmagandie one person can enjoy, and from what we've been hearing ... "

Well, what they'd been hearing was obviously a lot more fun than what he'd been doing, Tim though sulkily. He considered going back to the bar again, but Rhys had had words to say on that subject, too. Apparently they all thought he should go and actually listen to a few UN debates, maybe weigh in with "that devastating logic we all admire so much".

Tim snorted a sophisticated snort. Anyone who could keep a straight face while using the words "United Nations" and "logic" in the same sentence had obviously been out of touch for the past 500 years. Which, come to think of it, Findhorn had.

Besides, how could he attend debates when these fluffy dice were following him everywhere?

What a jolly fine idea, all the best ideas are made over some quality alcohol, with quality folk, in quality settings. Now, do we let those 'women' into this old boys club?
Sir Albert Threllfall Ambassador to Bahgum

Good Evening, Mr. Ambassador. Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Sarah, the Grand Duchess of Pyronicadia, and I am most delighted to make your acquaintance. :)

Overwatching the last of the restoration of the restroom door Walther notices the new arrival on his HUD and makes his way back to the bar. His augmented hearing helped him hear the Grand Duchess of Pyronicadias own introduction. The internal servos of his REXO whirred and whined as he moved over to the Duchess and streched his right armoured hand towards her. Walther's enormous bulk cast a menacing shadow over the Duchess who looked like a small child in comparison to the armoured leader of the Armed republic of Walther Brandl. Walther's face, wich looked like it was carved in stone, suddenly split up in a wide smile as his hand was right in front of the Duchess.

"-Good evening to you, I am Walther Brandl, leader of the Armed republic of Walther Brandl. It is my most exquisit honour to welcome you to this establishment"

the door opens slightly and a rather worried looking head hovers round the corner.
"Ah, this has got to be it then...."

Walking with a nervous quickness over to the bar and seating himself slightly away from everyone else, he calls over the barman

"Errr, i am right in thinking that this is the, er´, Strangers Bar, is it not? Sorry i've only just joined and its all a little overwhelming. Is there anybody you would reccommend who would show me the ropes as it were?"

"And a decent bourbon would be appreciated as well!"

Looking about, Maelwys Gwyddno, UN representative from Isvevia, takes a seat in a corner of the club. He's not interested in politics tonight, (well, that's a lie; but politics are not in the forefront of his thoughts.) He orders a scotch, and tells the waiter to keep them coming. Something had to drown the pain...

OOC: Hi. I'm new to this whole concept-world thingy, so I'd appreciate someone RP'ing to me to give me ideas. I'm creative, and eager to have a good time on this. Thanks!

(OOC: I know Bro Tim's wandered off, but this doesn't actually need a spokesman, anway, and the opportunity's too good to misssssss ...)

Throughout the bar, invisible antennae quested, sensitive noses scented, sharp teeth gleamed a little whiter. Powerful fins turned lazily in the new social current; a certain awareness spread among certain clientele ...

An innocent newcomer! Two innocent newcomers! Three, even, and one of them an aristocrat!

Packs of cards; thimbles and peas; impressive-looking documents requiring just a signature and umpty-thousand monetary exchange units; all were drawn from pockets, waistbands, cleavages. A subtle movement began, an in-drawing ...

And Neville the Barlord ripped open his shirt, displaying yet again that envied restrained-yet-hairy torso and, more to the point, allowing all to see the "UN/NS Peace Marshall" tattoo that pulsed iridescently on his manly chest.

Maelwys looks up from his melancholia. With blurred vision, he notices someone with a UN/NS tattoo on his chest. Shaking his head, he leaves money on the table and begins his stumble back to the embassy.

OOC: Who is this Neville the Barlord?

(OOC: In the Strangers' Bar, Neville the Barlord has the power of Life, of Death, of the High Justice and the Low; and, most importantly, of Dispensing the Drinks. He's the barman. He is multi-talented, multi-faceted and just generally multi.

Other barmen are sometimes rostered on, but I'd have to go back pages and pages to find out their names, because I haven't been here from the start. Besides, I'm too lazy. I think there's a James or a Jeremy. One of them flirts somewhat with the Ennish delegate (not that I'm one to gossip).

In practice, whose shift it is as barman depends on who's writing the post. Lots of people just say 'the barman', but I like to know who it is that's chucking me out.)

Sam Palleel, drenched by the driving rain without the United Nations Stranger's Bar and weary from the burdens of a trouble democratic system, stumbled into the Bar only with a slight realization of where he is. The weight of the struggle which now took place only a short distance away, inside the UN building, beats upon his features with greater intensity than the water diving from the clouds did as he crossed the street. He felt purged of sensation, numb. And with good reason, he had been without rest for at least thirty five hours.

There had been times like this in the past, where the difficulty of the work, being misunderstood, and a lack of support in the UN had driven Sam to pitched fervors for large periods of time, something of this magnitude had not been displayed since the public relations debacle with the represenatitives from Mattikistan, which he'd had to clean up after. And that situation, like the current troubles in the UN, hadn't been his fault. It was only after that mess that Sam was first appointed chief UN representative for the Powerhungry Chipmunks, the previous hot-headed chief representative handing him a fiasco of national image. He had to draft so many press releases and make so many phone calls in efforts to restore credibility to his office that his hands were often shaking and numb when he'd finally retire for the night. If he'd retire at all.

Stumbling towards an empty booth Sam considered his options. He knew there were many finely refined liquors present in the establishment, and that there might be some solace found in drenching himself in alchohol as well as rain. But, he had a 6 o'clock meeting the next day and couldn't afford to miss it. Sam just needed to feel that somewhere was home since the UN building was turning into a more and more hostile--and empty--place. He just wanted to rest his head somewhere for a few hours. Not in any of the city's fine hotels or to his appointed apartment building as he would only be alone within them. To doze softly with the quiet din of other UN representatives in the background would at least make an attempt at restoring normalcy to his life. Being alone would only force him to realize the dismal outlook of the coming weeks.

So, he ordered some peanuts, took off his coat, and settled down for what he anticipated would be the remainder of the evening.

Watching a human-sized cat dry licking himself dry after being out in the rain is not something most drinkers want to do.

Thus there was an invisible no-go area around Dicey Riley and Bast, respectively Co-President and Presidential Feline Advisor of Ardchoille, when they hurried back into the bar after attending the devastating Komokom farewell press conference.

This was highly annoying to Dicey, whose soul craved the warmth of friendly banter and whose stomach craved the warmth of alcohol, friendly or not. The latter was easily achievable: a flutter of eyelashes at Neville the Barlord (fetchingly topless; hmmmm!) was sufficient to bring two steaming toddies to hand and paw.

But companionship ... no sign of Shawl of Mausland, recently self-revealed as an Elf, who had probably decided on yet another creative night with Elrond, Arwen et Al. Professor Tomi Kuper was having an intense conversation with something no-one else could see, and even the fetchingly sleazy delegate from East Hackney had oiled off somewhere. Just a few melancholy babies around. Ah, well, needs must when the devil drives ...

"Hello, my name is Dicey," she said to the coatless man eating peanuts, stopping herself before force of stay-at-Uni part-time-job habit made her add, "and I'm your hostess for tonight."
"Tell me, how do you feel about a game of billiards? Or," she hurried on, before her victim could answer, or, indeed, even focus on her, "how do you feel about that marvellous Good Samaritan proposal? Or, failing shop talk, how do you feel about mind/body dualism?"
Mindless persistence was one of Dicey's many bad points. She admitted as much to herself, and tried again.
"Do you know, I don't care if it's its or it's?" she offered.
If that didn't get this bloke talking, it might at least lead to a raid by the Grammar Police, or even the crack Apostrophe Squad.
Which would finally liven the place up and, by allowing everyone a bit of biffo with those bookish bounders, lead to a release of tension, tinny piano music, dirty dancing, smoky singing and a fine collection of hungover headaches to shorten tomorrow's debates. Ah, what a girl did for the dear old UN!

Scot J. Hafhron walked into the Strangers Bar, needing somewhere to forget the shocking news he had just recieved.

"I have lost the regional delegacy, what am I going to do now?" thought Scot, as he walked up to the bar. "Justice Nocpol will surely have my head!"

Scot needed something very powerful tonight. "Hey, barkeep!" he said to the man with the "UN/NS Peace Marshall" tatoo on his chest. (OOC: :confused: )
"Double whiskey on the rocks, please. And keep them coming!"

The drink was offered, and Scot quickly gulped it down. The warmth of the liquor burned his throat, but he didn't care. Scot just wanted to forget the events of the day, even if it meant having to be carried out of the bar.

The sound of Rioutous Partying, Shouting, fighting (and for some reason, Quaking) was gradualy Growing louder outside the bar. Cries in a strange yet beutifull tounge wafted in, and yet they seemed to convay the fact that the owners were drunk. Very drunk.

At this point, the door to the Bar left its hinges and flew acros the room. There was a very good reason for this, they had been hit quite hard with an Elf. Repeatedly.

Shawl groaned, and picked himself off the floor, decided that trying to fight gravity was a wasted effort, and gave up with a muffled "Ow". Presently, the brawl outside progressed inside, taking out the ocasional peice of furniture with a crash as it was used as either a weapon or a sheild. Presently, one group of fighters decided that enough was enough, and fled.

Shawl groaned again and picked himself off the floor, leaning on his swagger stick. Holding onto a pair of rather trashed Elf maidens who were singing a Lovely song about the seasons in a horribly out of tune manner, he limped over towards Bast, Dicey and someone who was jelously gaurding a large bowl of peanuts.

"Ow... Hi, everyone, dont mind me, mind the Mess..."

"Had a good time?" Quiered Bast.

"Dont rember too much of it" replied Shawl siting down, before rapidly standing back up again amid a flury of feathers, Quacks and Curses. "Ah, of course... This is Juliet... She's a Duck"

More Quacks.

"My apologies, She's a member of the Clan of Sqya, And their first UN Delegate..."

"Shawl?"

"Yes?"

"What the hell is going on?"

"Well, the people we were fighting were the Grammer police, they got all upity when Galadriel called the English language a throat disease... The Sqya are Elronds doing I'm afraid, we're showing them a good time" he said waving in the genral direction of Elrond, who was buisy chatting up a hapless UN Delegate. "Hey, wait a sec... Where's Juliet?"

Bast guiltily whiped a feather away from his mouth.

Hi i would like to ask could someone endorse me because i would like to post some ideas for the UN resolutions but i cant. which sucks cos to see one of my resolutions make it there would be proof that i have created enough friction with my braincells to burn a small water biscuit.

if what i just said is a bit random for the forum i am sorry it is all too confusing

Sam looked up at the new face. He had just botten into his sixth peanut and the salt was starting to make him forget about nations leaving and goons coming in.

Actually Sam had been so occupied with the peanuts, finding how many ways he could open them, that he hadn't even understood what she had said to him. So he gave his standard response the one used when he didn't understand someone in the UN

"huh?"

He looked at this person again, and suddenly it jumped out at him that this person had fur. If this were any normal day Sam might've jumped out of his chair, as his home nation is fairly isolated from any region without strictly humans as sentient beings. But This wasn'ta normal day. Today was full of change. There were new things brewing in the wind, specifically, several kegs of heavy liqour. So, in the spirit of the UN, Sam offered this newfound acquaintance a seat across from him. Somewhat hoping that this might lead to some drinks being bought.

"I would just like you to know," said Bast, leaning forward and fixing Sam with the most sincere gaze he could muster, "that I would never, never eat a fellow delegate. Not even one with whom I disagreed on sincerely-held matters of principle. Have a drink."

His listener appeared to be trying to focus his eyes.

"And I am sure my colleague Dicey would support me on this," Bast continued.

"Sure, give him a drink," agreed Dicey amiably. She was cooing over something bundled in a shawl, and looking up at the capital-letter Shawl with shining eyes. If it had been any closer to Christmas, their image would have been snapped up by the Messrs Hallmark.

"Who's a cute widdle ducky-wucky den?" the young witch continued. "Did um naughty puddy-tat give um Big Fwight, diddum?"

"Oh. My. God," said Bast, awed. "I think Dicey's biological clock just struck midnight."

Stephanie entered the Bar, possibly for the last time. She turned to the many people, and announced:

"Well, everyone, it looks like Enn is leaving the UN. And while I do understand the reasons for this, I don't want to go. I've had an absolute ball with all of you here for so long. I'll miss you all."

She turned to go, then stopped, remembering something. She turned back.

"Oh, I've heard news from Enn that there will be a new position of UN 'Observer', who will take part in UN affairs. While we do not envisage rejoining the UN in the near future, we do want to keep up with this organisation. I doubt that I will be taking the Observer's role though. I need a break from international diplomacy.
"Goodbye, thank you all, and I hope I will see you in the future!"

Tomi's fear-fuelled drinking had reached saturation point. Recognising one of the more familiar blurry silhouettes making a speech, the Professor attempted to listen.

As the Ennish Representative bade them well, Kuper shook his head.

"'The future'?.... what the hell was 'The Future' anyway?. In this portal of alcohol the past and present seemed frequently to repeat... or at least regurgitate themselves... Tomi's train of thought veered past its correct destination and found a comfortable siding. Fighting hard to ignore the sabre-toothed lime that was pulling faces at him from the bartop, the Shiree raised his pint of iced Martini towards Stephanie...

"Well, there you go" he said.

The two Ecopoeians were in a shadowy booth in one corner of the Bar. They listened to Stephanie's announcement then smiled wanly at her. The same thought passed through both their minds:

Who next?

5 double whiskey on the rocks later, Scot finds himself feeling good. The room is nice and warm, as he sits by the fireplace. A chime in the background provides a delightful tone, as he relaxes the day away...

"Sir," says the barkeep, shaking Legalese's UN Delegate. "Your phone is ringing, sir. You may want to answer that."

Scot jumps to a startle, realizing that he had fallen asleep at the bar. "Damn, I gotta quit drinking," he thinks to himself. "Yeah, right... what's that sound?"

Realising what the bartender just said, Scot reaches for his phone, to see the word "ELIZA" on his display. "Ah, the secretary... what does she want at this hour?" He flips the phone open. "Yes, beautiful?"

"Oh, boss," comes the reply on the other end. "Out drinking again?"

"You surprised, with the kind of day I had?"

"Actually, that's what I'm calling about. apparently, a snafu in the Secretariat was the problem. You still are the delegate for the Union of Random Nations, sir. Congrats"

"Why thank you, dear. Let's drink about this when I'm not talk, alrighty?"

"Sir, need a cab?"

"No, I'll find my way back to the embassy. But thank you, love."

"Oh, boss, you need to stop drinking. You don't want to be the UN lush, after all..."

"Relax, Eliza," said Scot, in a huff. "We've got it under control. Have a wonderful evening."

"Goodnight, sir... do be careful," replied Eliza, who promptly hung up.

Scot flipped his phone shut, and looked at his watch. Realizing that he couldn't see the time, he knew it was time to leave. He reached into his money clip, pulled out a few Legalese bills, dropped them on the bar, and stepped off his stool. From there, he promptly hit the floor.

Tomi didn't know what time it was either, but the subdued lighting and Tom Waits selection on the jukebox seemed to suggest it was too late.
Tomi decided to stretch his legs and unstuck himself from the bar stool.

hmmm.... this walking malarky wasn't as tricky as the carpet of fallen delegates had led him to believe

Tomi placed his glass on the cigarette machine and bent down to help the legalese ambassador... not to rifle through his pockets oh no!. Certainly not to inject the man with a serum of his own devising... true it hadn't been thoroughly tested but...

Shawl watched with a mild sense of horror as Elves descended upon the bar, with Ducks in tow. Gods, but life in the undying lands had been boring...

Indignant Quacks were coming from Juliet's genral direction as Dicey continued to create another International incident by dressing the poor creature up in baby clothes.

Shawl Sighed, and went back to his drink.

Varia stared morosely at her pager as the news scrolled across it. One of Ecopoeia's closest, longest-standing allies had ceased to exist. The loss of Collaboration and Peripheral Boundary had been crushing blows but this was the worst yet.

Berkylvania.

"Barman, a very large Ochayeopoeian 12-year and some tissues, please."

Her eyes moistened...

Edward was sipping the brandy from Clearwater when the message arrived. Berkylvania was gone. He raised his glass in a silent toast and then went on sipping.

Tomi didn't know what time it was either, but the subdued lighting and Tom Waits selection on the jukebox seemed to suggest it was too late.
Tomi decided to stretch his legs and unstuck himself from the bar stool.

hmmm.... this walking malarky wasn't as tricky as the carpet of fallen delegates had led him to believe

Tomi placed his glass on the cigarette machine and bent down to help the legalese ambassador... not to rifle through his pockets oh no!. Certainly not to inject the man with a serum of his own devising... true it hadn't been thoroughly tested but...

With a start, Scot re-entered the world of consciousness. Mumbling, he looked up at the figure, saw the shiny needle, and said the first thing that came to mind:

"What the stick did you heck me with?"

There was a great deal too much moist-eyed-ness going on in the bar, thought Brother Timothy crossly. He was still moist-eyed himself from the drama of the Komokom exit, and didn't relish the competition.

However, a few rather sharp words from Neville the Barlord explained a lot; Neville was obviously not all that wrapt in a Stephanie-less future. Nor was Tim, come to that, although it never had come to that, in his case, though he was none too sure about Neville's. Nevertheless ...

"To the fallen," he toasted, saluting a number of faces on the bar-room floor. "Also to the dear departed. Neville, couldn't you put something more cheerful on? Leonard Cohen, perhaps?"

Not that there was much to be cheerful about, what with All Hallows' Eve approaching so rapidly and all those unquiet souls getting set to go wandering about like lost ducks in a thunderstorm, and speaking of ducks, not to mention thunderstorms, there appeared to be a convergence of the twain somewhere over there in the middle of the room.

"Ice!" begged Brother Timothy. "Big lumps of it!" If he numbed his tastebuds he might be able to get through an entire flagon of this stuff Neville had mistakenly served him. What person in their right mind would drink something called a Fluffy Duck? Fluffy Dice would be much nicer, he assured his imaginary little friends.

Hi :)

*Hodgelett walks in shaking of her maroon leather trench.*
I'd forgotten how much in rained over here, One month across the Atlantic makes you think its sunny all the time.
*notices that most of the members are men and were probably thinking 'who let her in here?'* Guess I'd better introduce myself. I'm the current, and so far only, delegate to the relatively new region known as Runescape Hall. Can't see how we're getting along seeing some of us are far left, others right, one psychotic dictator, and a couple of us left near the middle. And I, the girl, am the endorsed one.
*Nods at the barman* Malibu and coke, not too much ice please.
*Smiles over her glass* I've been a little out of touch, fill me in on all the world goss.

*Gesing walks in, and orders the bar a round*

I'm new here, from the RIA, and I hope we can all work together to get some important things done.

*Orders the bar another round, puts down enough money for one more round and leaves*

Kuper gratefully juggled the three pints of Martini and an 'Ice Cold Fotie' while trying to help Scot up from the floor.

"Don't worry Compañero, the serum is non-toxic...uhhhh... well, in the sense that it won't cause your frontal lobes too much permanent damage.. oh wait.. uhhh actually that one may have been in a different pocket...umm"

Scots' vision began to shift and blur as he watched the foolish old man in the fez and long white robe sort through various of his pockets. He felt elated... possibly even excited...

"Ahhh there it is... m'pretty sure I've got an antidote for that... ahhh somehwere"

The Legalese Delegate wafted his hand slowly in front of his dilated pupils and grinned.

"Wow, everything is clear again! I must thank you good sir, let me buy you a drink. What name do you go by, and where are you from?"

Tomi (http://www.benovision.co.uk/NS/TomiKuper01-1.jpg)'s eyes light up, and he quickly wolfs down the drinks from the overly generous, if absent Gesingi(?).

"I'll have a pint of Martini please, ... ah, this must be yours"
*handing over Scot's wallet*
"My name is Tomi Kuper and I am a Professor of Avatarism from Muzzlecombe, in Watfordshire... lovely place"

Scot looks vacant but smiles encouragingly, so Kuper continues, silently marvelling at his luck... Scot was alive and conscious, despite having had two random administrations of unlicensed Shiree Pharmaceuticals.

"I was ..ahem...banished to this place after getting elected to the United Nations Space Council. Something about orbital platforms. Anyway, I'd maintained that our technology was way ahead of uhhh ...where it actually is.

It all looked good on paper, but hadn't really got out of the sketchbook...umm. Politicians are pretty unforgiving when it comes to exaggeration on such an international scale. The fact is, I made an embarrassment of my people, (and my people are rarely embarrassed... by anything really)"

Tomi realises he is waffling, but feels quite pleased with himself having managed to string together several sentences of conversation with someone who wasn't merely an imaginary figment of his pickled lobes.

"How about you?..." Tomi asked as he beckoned to Neville..
"... where is Legalesey anyway?"

Despite the newly discovered clarity, and the graciousness of the Avaristic professor, Scot could not get over the vibrant outfit of Tomi. It was so bright, he nearly had to shield his eyes from him. Furthermore, his sub-conscious said, "This man just gave you some drug that you don't even know what it will do! Why are you buying him drinks?"

Scot pushed the thought out of his head, looked directly at Tomi ("wow, the brightness doesn't hurt my eyes, that's interesting..."), and responded to his inquiry. "First, it's "Legalese... the last e is silent," he said with a friendly smile. "We're a pretty small nation, randomly placed somewhere in the world. Our government has deviated from the usual democratic forms, instead placing our Supreme Court at the top of the foodchain, with a Senate to handle most of the domestic matters. I'm the delegate for Legalese, and am new to the job. I just thought I'd check this place..."

Scot paused, as his mind raced. He started sweating profusely, and turning red. His heart starting thumping, his vision blurring, yet Scot decided to continue his sentence.

"... out."

What happened next certainly made things at the Stranger's Bar a little more interesting.

Varia groaned again.

"The Black New World 'swell? I'm gon'ta f'nish th's bottle soon..."

Sir Albert staggers into the bar, perhaps the UN revolution will be today, he can feel it in his bones, but he feels the revolution is here every day....now..who will be first up against the wall....there;s a thought which needs a strong drink to help clear the mind......

Walther stomped around in his newly found corner of the bar talking into his REXO's built-in communication system.

"-Affirmative... Roger that... What?... Negatory... Roger... Thats a positive... Aknowledged, over and out."

With the last word spoken into the microphone Walther strolled over to the bar itself and ordered himself some coffe.

With an aire about him that was far less of a traditional delegate, despite his quasi-militaristic uniform and rather ringed eyes, "The Voice of Lokuru," as the Khar Carrere had called him, strolled into the tavern. He was tired of being away from his mountainous, inhospitable, and recently less-than-opressed nation; he was tired of being followed around by an "aide" who was really more of a spy to make sure he wasn't going to do or say anything stupid; and he was -very- tired of handing out statements from Carrere himself. Taking an overly-long swig from his Flask of Alexandrian vodka, the local drink of choice, the haggard delegate could only smirk when the thought of, "Doesn't that braggardly idiot have anything better to do than micromanage his country into the dirt?"

He quietly and rather grumpily plodded his way to the nearest chair and table and plopped down with a slight shake to his head. His nametag and ID badge had long since been unclipped from his pocket, leaving the Lokuran military symbol of the hammer and anvil free for anyone to see, which was a new freedom for the delegate. With a slight shake to the head, he took another drink of his vodka, replaced it in his pocket, and leaned forward with his eyes in his hands, the day had been long, and was not yet over.

Even though he -really- wanted it to be.

Dumping the formerly-favoured duck delegate on the bar without a second thought -- a move which caused Neville to "Tch!" reproachfully and offer the poor creature some peanuts -- Dicey turned to watch what was happening to the chemically-enhanced victim of Professor Kuper's virtuosity.

There was no doubt about it. With a soft rip, the back seam of his coat parted and two magnificent, creamy, rose-tipped wings appeared. Towering above him, the angelic appendages swept the floor, then spread gently.

Beyond question, these powerful new attributes could overcome all the nonsensical objections of conventional physics to the notion of human flight. They would lift, they would bear weight, there would be nothing but glory in their untroubled ascension.

With envy in every heart, the denizens of the bar waited for their newly feathered friend to do what every one of them had dreamed of.

(OOC: And should this be deemed "god-moding", surely it will only be necessary for the Legalese delegate to say, "I don't believe it!" Wings will not withstand disbelief.)

OOC: I love it... the wings stay. I'll post in full from Scot's POV later.

Scot looked on his back, to see his newly formed appendages. "I can fly!" he thought to himself. "I, I, I'm..."

At that moment, Scot burst out into song, a beaming smile on his face:

I feel pretty,
Oh, so pretty,
I feel pretty and witty and bright!
And I pity
Anyone who isn't me tonight.

I feel charming,
Oh, so charming
It's alarming how charming I feel!
And so pretty
That I hardly can believe I'm real.


Yes, Scot was having a grand old time, and decided "Now, I test my wings!" He leaped into the air, and started flapping.

Scot rose and rose, as he reached the cathedral-style ceiling of the bar (OOC: Ok, so I'm taking some liberties with the architecture here, gimme a break). He swooped down, ripping the fez off of Tomi's head, whooshing to his next destination. Scot flew to the top again, continuing with another dive, not only replacing the fez on the dome of its owner, but in succeeding to snag a drink from the waitress.

And so Scot flew around, screaming and hollering with sheer enthusiasm, until he decided to make a dive at the bar. He came in a tad low, knocking drinks everywhere, and nearly decapitating Neville, who finally had enough.

He reached at the flying delegate, grabbing his wing, and using it to twirl him around. Scot screamed, as he lost control of his next destination, which would be to crash right in front of the fireplace, collecting an empty table in the process.

"This is the East side of town", shouted Neville. "If you want to sing 'West Side' show tunes, cross the street."

"Uh, Neville," said Tomi nervously. "That probably wasn't a good place to put him, you see, one of the possible side effects to my serum is..."

Scot prepared to stand up, collecting himself from the wreckage. As he did, a buildup of methane gas in his posterior was released. Unfortunately for the soon-to-be former Legalese delegate, his back was to the fireplace. The fireball proceeded to launch Scot like a missile towards the door.

Meanwhile, outside the Strangers Bar, Eliza Conderceo, Scot's Assistant, glanced at her GPS reader. Scot's failure to answer his last three calls worried her, resulting in her use of the GPS system to track Scot's phone, leading her to this place. Oddly enough, Scot's signal was intensifying at an alarming rate...

The doors blew off of the bar, and a figure shot into the street. Eliza ran over to the formerly suited body, which appeared to be human, excepting the pair of wings.

"Are you alright, sir?" she asked. No response was given. Eliza turned the body over, seeing the face of her boss.

"Scot! What has happened to you?" she checked for a pulse, and found one. Scot's chest rose and fell, indicating an ability to breathe.

Eliza stormed into the bar. "Alright, you brutes!" she said to the onlooking crowd. "Which one of you is responsible for this?"

It was like walking into a choking, gasping first-year science class and demanding, "Who did this?" Nobody knew anything; nobody knew anybody. A row of variously-clothed backs communicated uncommunicativeness.

"See, that's a Rhetorical Question," muttered Dicey to Shawl, with whom she had been having one of those intermittently-upright arguments one does have after drinking just a little and maybe just a little more and whatthehell, gimme 'nuther, to take away the taste of having been visited by the Grammar Police.

Having received no response from the drunks, Eliza did the only thing she could think of doing next: calling Justice Nocpol. As Justice for International Matters, and Scot's boss, William E. Nocpol clearly needed to know of the night's events, little as Eliza did know.

Eliza dialed the number, pressing three additional keys following the number of the Justice. This activated two features, one of which secured the line.

"Yes?" came the solemn voice of Justice William E. Nocpol on the line.

"Sir- Conderceo reporting in. It appears as if some horrifying things have happened to Scot at the Strangers Bar."

"Is he alright?"

"I can't tell, sir. He is alive, but unconscious, and sprouting wings."

"Wings? I thought the people at Red Bull were only kidding" commented the Justice. "Eliza, summon the support team, and have them take Scot back to the complex, so we can figure this out. As for you, you're in charge over there. Stick around, and find out what you can for us."

"Right on it, sir." responded Eliza. "I'm not sure how cooperative the fellow inhabitants will be, but I'll sniff around."

"Good girl. Keep me updated."

"Yes, sir. Goodnight"

"Goodnight, Eliza." The Justice hung up.

"So, Hafhron's out of commission?" said the new voice on the line.

"As I just told the Justice, boss." responed Eliza, to her true boss.

back in Legalese City, Rovel K. Minosili, Director of Shady Operations, smiled. Scot's loss was sad for Legalese, but good for him, as his girl was now the lead at the UN. "Well, be sure to do what the Justice told you, and find out anything you can over there, alright?"

"Of course, boss." Eliza hung up, and re-entered the bar. Who should I talk to first? she thought.

Then she spied the man with the red fez, and figured he'd be a good choice.

Shawl looked up from his drink. Meh, wings, He'd seen more impresive stuff in the second age, wings were no biggie. Dicey and Bast, however, were transfixed.

He sighed, and unwrapped Juliet from the baby clothes Dicey had wraped her in.

"Quack."

"No, I dont think they're that impressive either."

"Quack?"

"You're right. You want a drink?"

"Quack!"

"Nevile! a pint of turbots, and a Bicardi and pondwater please!"

Seeing the newly found flying abilities of the Legalese ambassador Walther thougt to himself "Well, wings are good, but if you get shot in one of them, you are grounded and hurting a lot and you can't really put armour on them without ruinig their aerodynamics." He took a sip of his coffe and went over to the passed out ambassador.

"-Excuse me laidies and gentlemen."

Walther did a quick examination of the winged ambassador, then produced a small vial from a compartment in his battlearmour, broke it in two and held the pieces under the ambassadors nose. The ambassadors eyes flickered open and his hands sprung to his nose while he let out a scream of agony.

"-Well, that seemed to wake him up at least." Walther said and returned to his coffe.

Suddenly a Sir Albert leaps onto a table (wobbles a bit) and claps his hands for attention.

Lasses, lads, n' those who reckon they are summat else. Bahgum has moved from it's two country region and has now regained them there UN stamps. We'd like to announce that the Glory that is Bahgum will soon be writing UN resolutions. We hope that them 'as can remember em, will look forward to reading em, and those who don't, well tha'll get em to see anyroad.

With that Sir Albert sits down, orders a pint for everyone for interrupting and gets back to writing resolutions on traditional Bahgumian matters of World interest, of the none mainstream kind......

"I hadn't realised there were multiple Sir Alberts. How incredibly convenient," mused Bast.

But he resolved not to mention his insight to Dicey or Shawl, on the grounds that even one of each was far more than enough.

The duck Juliet, however, seemed a sensible little creature.

"Quack? Wak-wak-wak," Bast suggested, and, on receiving an approving nod, poured a packet of Duckie-Treets into an accessible saucer.

the current UN proposal is listed under moral decency - that's wrong.
establishing a Red Cross Organisation would be a good thing - but under the Human Rights category. Establishing a RCO should promote Human and Civil Rights, no? Definitely not inhibit them...

Things had been moving a little quick for Tomi. He certainly couldn't explain Scot's extra appendages to the Legaleses' rather keen replacement - true - the flatulence could probably be accounted for, but wings ...hmmm.

The Shiree Professor attempted to explain multi-dimensional compaction and Silly Thread Theory while trying to politely buy Eliza a drink, but (as any Shiree Diva will tell you) it is only the female of the species who can manage three things at the same time, and Tomi ended up silently gurning like a speedfreak goldfish until Ms. Conderco gave an infuriated snort and turned her back to him.

Kuper nursed his drink and guiltily wished some snafu apon some other Shiree Herald, who the Council could banish here in his place.

His focus returned to Scot and he signalled Neville to call a couple of medics, before administering the only resusitation technique he was familiar with - the 'Bucket of Cold Water'.

Hodgelett shook herself and gave a startled laugh. "Who said life wasn't interesting?" Catching sight of someone throwing a bucket of water over the poor man she decided to intervene. "Come on out of the way. I knew taking the Bronze Medallion Lifesaving course had to be good for something."
Tipping his head back she prevented the tongue from lolling back and blocking his passage way. There were signs of swallowing, so he was not dead yet. "Right. Breathing." Trying to kneel close enough to watch for chest movement was difficult because of the huge singed wings lying in the way. Folding them seemed to be taking forever, "Someone give me a hand please!" Not looking up, she noted that someone had managed to move a wing out of the way. "Yep, he's breathing too. I just think he's in Shock, and cold water really is not going to help that, " she said looking accusingly at the gentleman concerned. "Do something useful and get me a blanket, or better two, and something like a stool or a box. Now!"

Laws have been enacted to bring the Kingdom of London E4 into compliance with the United Nations resolution "The Nuclear Terrorism Act".

Do I have to do anything? Bomb Geneva perhaps?

Did everyone receive this?

(OOC: If someone did not notice, I woke the guy up already with the use of ammonia as I reckoned he was just nocked out cold...)

Walther emptied his cup and stomped over to the winged man and the Randomean delegate who was currently nursing him.

"-You needed a hand Miss?"

Walther knelt down beside the Randomean delegate and a compartment opened in his massive battlearmour, from wich he produced a silvery heat reflectant first aid blanket and a inflatable cusion wich he handed over to the woman nusing the winged man.

OOC: Sorry I've been away... it's been a busy time for me. Assume that Scot's in a comatose-like trance until I get a full post on the issue in. Thanks for the recussication efforts, by the way :)

P.S. Treat him however you want... I'm not sure if I'll keep him or Eliza around.

(OOC: If someone did not notice, I woke the guy up already with the use of ammonia as I reckoned he was just nocked out cold...)


ooc: wups - sorry WB. I had read your post of course. Just assume Tomi is a bit of an idiot.

ic:

Tomi wasn't sure how he'd managed to avoid noticing Walther, but Hodglett's strident instruction and the imposingly eponymous figurehead dressed in what Tomi imagined a small car must look like, had upset the banished Herald.

Slinking away, Kuper attempted to alleviate his dejection and nagging sense of incapability with ... hmmm what would it be....

ahhh! time to hit the Ochayeopoean.

(OOC: If someone did not notice, I woke the guy up already with the use of ammonia as I reckoned he was just nocked out cold...)

ooc: I also had noticed, which is why I confirmed he was not dead, nor not breathing.

ic: Attemptng to hide her astonishment at the unusually dressed gentleman she took the blanket and cushion. "Thank you, um, sir. Well lets get this man sorted. Right, grab hold of his side and roll him on to his side while I lay the blanket underneath him. That's right. Now roll him slowly onto his back again. Good. Now I'll just place his feet on the cushion. It's a little too low still, need to be more solid." So saying she espied the nearest chair and placed both cushion and feet on the bar that ran between the back legs. "Let's just leave him to it until the paramedics come. Someone did call an ambulance didn't they?"

"Yes," responded Eliza. "I have a team from my embassy on its way. I'll handle it from here."

Eliza came close to Scot, re-checking his vitals, for her own sake. Meanwhile, she concealed the vial in her hand, whose contents she would slip in Scot's mouth. That should take place just in time for my escape, thought Eliza. Now it was time to do some research. Sensing the interest taken in her by the bumbling delegate with the bright red fez, she walked up to the bar, hoping to distract Tomi from his new diversion.

Brother Timothy knew how to respond to masterful women. He stripped off his robe.

The handspun woollen garment looked odd combined with the high-tech rescue aids the competent Mr Brandl had supplied. Nonetheless, it did the job of adding warmth to the imperilled Legalese high-flyer.

Unfortunately, this meant that nothing was left to do the robe's previous job. Brother Timothy's tartan trews were revealed to a not-noticeably-interested world.

What the tartan was will not be revealed, even if the world should summon up a smidgin of curiosity. The Grigalach are a vengeful clan who might take amiss Bro Tim's innocent appropriation of their ancient garb.

You lot are all assholes.

[belch]

Konut

Walther patiently listened to the woman he had just given the supplies to and realized that she did not understand that even the most basic medical care was every warriors duty to learn as soon as possible. Walther, on the other hand, had more than just the basic training due to the fact that he had led countless military campaigns, not only as leader, but also as a regular soldier.
Walther adjusted the wool garment that brother Timothy had put over the patient and his HUD showed green across the board as for vital signs of the patient.

"-I knew he was not dead. I saw that even when you started helping him. I would not endanger an innocent mans life just because I wanted to wake him up."

With the last words spoken, Walther reached out and pushed a small button on the cushions auto-inflator. The cushion turned a bit darker green as it seemed to become more rigid.

"-There, that's more like it."

Upon hearing the words spoken by the delegate from Konutland Walther looked a bit irritated.

"-If you'll excuse me for a brief moment ladies and gentlemen."

Walther rose to his feet and took a few steps away from the group of people that had gathered around the winged man, then with a deafening roar and whoosh of hot air the jump jets on the back of Walthers REXO fired sending him across the room in an incredible speed. Walther stopped a short distance from the Konutland delegate, only that in the split second it took to traverse the distance Walther had produced his chainsword and a helmet now was fitted on his head. The tip of the sword was pointed a few millimetres away from the neck of the Konutlandian and a mechanical whine emanated from the sword, raising in pitch as the chain of the blade began to move faster than the eye could see. A metallic voice boomed from the massive, menacing form of Walther.

“-While I do not take offence by such small and insignificant creatures trying to make a statement as you, I am fairly certain that the highly esteemed ladies currently occupying the premises are not as fond of foul language and insults.”

Kuper winked at Eliza.
"My £Bones are on the fellow dressed in the car"

Eliza laughed, "Oh, Professor! I do apologize for walking away earlier. Care for a drink?" Before he could respond, Eliza turned to Neville and shouted, "Barkeep, a bottle of tequila! Oh, and a lime as well, please."

Even in the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the Strangers' Bar, a defrocked monk -- however temporary the defrocking -- feels a little conspicuous. Brother Timothy sought protective colouration.

Standing beside Bast and Juliet would be the best solution, he decided. With a human-sized Ardchoille Cat and a Delegate Duck to gaze on, who'd pay attention to a small (though perfectly formed) Celt? He pondered inviting the red-fezzed one to join him, but, noting that the Professor was being inveigled by (possibly) a Beautiful Woman Spy, decided against it.

"So, is it true that a duck's quack doesn't echo?" he demanded.

The outburst of quacking that this provoked resolved itself as words in Brother Timothy's head: "I don't know. Why don't we find out?" it said. "Where can you find an echo round here?"

The answer to that one being self-evident, Bast, Juliet and Brother Timothy headed for an inconspicuous door down the hallway. Ever since the multi-talented Walther had carried out repairs, the Gents had had an admirable echo.

Realising that everyone in the bar was quackers, Bahgum's esteemed ambassador Sir Albert felt more relaxed than usual. Although he was still a little irked that Bahgums re-emergence into resolution writing had only gained one reply on the UN message board, surely all those repeal proposals aren't THAT interesting. He briefly considers bribing everyone with a pint, to go and read Bahgums thread, then decides that's against his ethics and simply buys everyone a pint so that they stay as rat-arsed as he is.

Despite her attempts to engage the professor in conversation, it appeared he would not bite. Damn, thought Eliza, So much for that plan. It was time for her to concede defeat, and get Scot back to the Embassy, for what would likely be the return trip home. It was a shame leaving the bar unhabited by someone from the delegation, but for now, she had no choice.

ahem excuse me where might a fellow get a good stiff drink

i say this is a rather nice place

Eliza saw the newcomer walk into the bar, and figured she'd have a little fun on her way out.

"Looking for a drink?" She said, "The Bar is that way. The shirtless guy with the tattoo is the bartender."

"But if you're looking for something with a little more kick," added Eliza, "Check out the guy with the red fez."

After realizing that the Konutlandian delegate probably suffered a mild shock from Walther's treatment and probably will not hassle anyone anymore, Walther stands down and replaces his chainsword. He leaves his helmet on thou, and takes a few steps back, then proceeds back to the winged man in a regular manner.

"-His vitalsigns is still A-ok across the board." Walther says after looking at the winged man. "The wings look rather odd on the scope, but they seem to be all right too, maybe a little bruised, but still all right."

With some trepidation, Dicey Reilly ushered her two visiting firemen into the bar. Not that they were firemen, exactly, but she understood that that was the way professional politicians referred to visitors from back home, and Dicey was trying to be professional. This week, anyway.

With a relieved sigh, she noted that Shawl and his Elvish playmates were apparently otherwise occupied. The probable developments if someone like Elrond met these two was not something she cared to imagine.

"Edith, Marlena, meet Neville. Neville is the mainstay of the Strangers' Bar," she explained. "These two ladies are the president and secretary of the Smoky-Voiced Torch Singers' Association -- Edith Dietrich and Marlena Piaf," she continued. "They've come to make a submission about the Bahgummian resolution. Perhaps you could set them up with something special, Neville?" She tried to signal with her eyebrows: And I don't mean Professor Tomi Kuper.

Neville, who spoke fluent Eyebrow, immediately produced two slightly fizzy pale blue drinks tinkling with ice and crowded with a small flotilla of paper umbrellas, plastic cocktail stirrers and toothpicks with curly bits of cellophane attached skewering pieces of unidentifiable pink and yellow fruit.

"Lor' luv a duck!" said Edith, awed.

After realizing that the Konutlandian delegate probably suffered a mild shock from Walther's treatment and probably will not hassle anyone anymore, Walther stands down and replaces his chainsword. He leaves his helmet on thou, and takes a few steps back, then proceeds back to the winged man in a regular manner.

"-His vitalsigns is still A-ok across the board." Walther says after looking at the winged man. "The wings look rather odd on the scope, but they seem to be all right too, maybe a little bruised, but still all right."

OOC: Sorry, maybe that wasn't the most clear... Eliza took Scot with her, so the winged man is gone. FYI :)

ah the guy with the fez you say..... me thinks i will deal with the tatooed bartender thank you all the same, i say good sir i'll be having a double cutty
neat please... leaning on the bar...this is a very nice spot to set up shop.

An unidentified delegate with an urgent expression came puffing up to the bar.

"There's a half-naked Scot, a duck and a giant cat in the Men's and they're all quacking!" he told Neville.

"Heard it," said Neville, nonchalantly. "It's the same punchline as the one about the panda."

An unidentified delegate with an urgent expression came puffing up to the bar.

"There's a half-naked Scot, a duck and a giant cat in the Men's and they're all quacking!" he told Neville.

"Heard it," said Neville, nonchalantly. "It's the same punchline as the one about the panda."

lol

A half naked Scot? Is that one without a beard?

We have come upon a grave matter my fellow nations...there are hardly any dictators in existence (at least that I can find)! We need more brave and exteme controlling people such as yourselves to stand up against political freedoms, civil rights, and especially democracy!!!!!!!!

A half naked Scot? Is that one without a beard?

Ay-oop, lad, if he keeps his chin sunk in his hairy chest, how could you tell?

AH HA

I am so into the dictatorship thing, my country being a psychotic dictatorship on the verge of outlawing just about every single freedom in existance....oh well, the people still don't seem to mind. :sniper:


Your caring neighborhood dictator

Why is it that your dictatorship subjects are happier than mine that get almost any Government handout they want? Along with good voting etc. They're just too fussy.

Well now, this is an unexpected, yet most welcomed spot for a club, i desire a bloody Mary and Momosa, and maybe a bahama mamma as well, with 3 tablets of VIKIDIN! i'll be in the dark booth in the corner, let me know when my order is ready :D :fluffle: :sniper: :headbang: :mp5: :gundge:

Here to us
Who's like us
Damm few
and their all dead! ;)

Aww, how nice it is to sit down and grab a beer. *An old man sits down* I am Walter Walthorn, the UN ambassador of Fiskenes.

Upon the Fiskenes delegate uttering his name Walther looks over to his table and notices the elderly man sitting there. Walther stomps over there with the usual whirring, clicking and thumping and streches out his armoured fist to the man.

"-Good evening sir, my name is Walther Brandl and I am the leader of The armed republic of Walther Brandl. It is nice to meet you."

DOWN WITH THE UN!!!!

Does anyone realize that EVERY UN resolution has passed!!!

It's a conspiracy!!

DOWN WITH THE UN!!

How exactly did you enter this club if you yourself are not a member?
I believe that you will find that before the last three resolutions a proposal was not in fact passed. As I was not my country's representative before then I'm afraid I am unable to comment on any previous proposals. For a strange reason the proposals that failed to become resolutions at the voting stage are not kept in a database for research into the world's interest on certain issues for re-phrasing of the proposals, thus the only evidence of the UN's actions are those that became resolutions.
*catches the wiff of alcohol on Dymaxion's breath.*
And you're drunk.

Um I really don't know...I mean they are suppose to be smart, I was only ranked 9000th in the world for that. :sniper:




Your friendly neighborhood dictator

DOWN WITH THE UN!!!!

Does anyone realize that EVERY UN resolution has passed!!!

It's a conspiracy!!

DOWN WITH THE UN!!

Your failure to understand the UN is only surpassed by your inability to control your shift key.

Not every UN Resolution has passed, it is simply that the UN only keeps track of those that do pass. I've seen quite a few fail miserably in the past year and a half.

I'll buy a drink for anyone who is tired of the repeal resolutions and I will give a bottle of the finest vodka my country makes to anyone who can make a cool proposal that makes me laugh.

feel free to drop me a telegram if you have any ideas.

Right, now time to get absolutely plasted at this pub.

Dicey leaned back with both elbows on the bar and surveyed the room. Vaguely she wondered what it was she most envied in the delegate from Randomea: her cool competence, her cooler put-downs, or her terminally cool maroon leather trenchcoat.

Probably it was her name. If you had parents kind enough to name you something like Hodgelett, no doubt from there on in everything just fell into place. Whereas if they named you Dicey, things just fell apart ... speaking of falling apart ...

"Leave him ALONE!" she ordered. "Put him DOWN! You can't do that-there here!" But it was too late.

Mesdames Edith Dietrich and Marlene Piaf had not needed any further invitation from the delegate from Kiwipeso. The proposals they were whispering in his ear were evidently very cool. They were assuredly making him laugh (though that may have been just that the whispering tickled). And the level of vodka in the bottle they all now shared was dropping visibly.

Rebelliously, Dicey decided to let them do their worst. She'd looked after them while they made their submission to the UN, but she wasn't their baby-sitter. She was going to sit down and have a nice quiet drink with Walther and Walter, and that was one resolution no-one was going to repeal.

Excuse me, barkeep, but may I have a glass of skim milk? Thank you.

I'll buy a drink for anyone who is tired of the repeal resolutions and I will give a bottle of the finest vodka my country makes to anyone who can make a cool proposal that makes me laugh.

feel free to drop me a telegram if you have any ideas.

Right, now time to get absolutely plasted at this pub.

Hodgelett picked up the battered folder in the corner and had been reading through it until she came upon a failed proposal referring to Garden gnomes.
"Seems your wish has been granted," she said as she thrust the document under his nose. Raising an eyebrow at the two women sharing a bottle of vodka with him, she rolled her eyes heavenwards and said "I see you're pleased with yourself. I'm sure this really furthers the cause of encouraging resolutions of interest."

Lee, the chosen represenitive of The Rogue Nation of Lemiden, enters the bar. Sitting on a bar stool, he listens to the rumor about the good resolution offer. As he orders a glass of water, he looks through his files, muttering "I know I saw one somewhere here...".

Your failure to understand the UN is only surpassed by your inability to control your shift key.

Not every UN Resolution has passed, it is simply that the UN only keeps track of those that do pass. I've seen quite a few fail miserably in the past year and a half.

OOC: Anyway, most will pass because they have had to gain enough support to become resolutions!!!

IC: Cher, Mouth of Imperator Meatloaf of BOttaH, sat down with the mysterious member from the Anti-Capitalist People. They left plenty of room at their table so others could join the discussion (subtle hint).

"I think that there should be some resolutions on extradition. It should be outlawed, and proposals made to allow people to be tried in any nation for crimes committed in another country. I think that this is the only way to get around the current death penalty levels. They provide little deterrent (see RL USA) and mean that the condemned have had the right to life removed from them. They are seen as less than human in that situation. Look at BOttaH. There is almost no crime, due to the strength of our Hand of the Light police forces, and we have no death penalty. People don't break laws because they cannot get away with it, and imprisionment is seen as sufficient deterrent. What do you and others think?"

OOC: I would be honoured if some other people joined, as they debate will become much more interesting (A-C ppl share very similar view to ours on this)

IC: looking for anyone who will listen to my proposal to repeal 'legalize prostitution' and not start to walk away as soon as I start


OOC: last chance Esteemed Delegates, I have proposed a repeal of the Legalize Prostitution Act. (page 2 on the proposal listings)

Whether you agree with legal prostitution or not, it is not my wish to debate this issue. The reason for my proposal is to ensure that member countries do not lose their power to govern freely. If we let a proposal like this stand, where will the UN draw the line? I believe that this is an issue best left to individual members. If you agree with me, please vote to strike down this proposal. Thank you for your time.

Shocked by the outbreak of serious discussion in the Strangers' Bar, the one place where weary Heads can lay their weary heads, Dicey signals Neville to turn up the Musak.

Neville, however, is deeply depressed, having been asked to dispense such wussy beverages as skim milk and (shudder) water, something no professional Barlord should be asked to even contemplate. Glowering, he chooses the "Greatest Hits of Classical Music" CD.

Fortunately, this includes Can-Can. Inspired, Mesdames Dietrich and Piaf mount the bar and give a highly successful performance thereof.

The co-President of Ardchoille beams happily upon her fellow citizens, realising at last why these two excellent party people are constantly re-elected to their powerful positions at the head of the Smoky-Voiced Torch Singers' Association.

Having done a turn on the bar table, high kicking and twirling, the UN delegate from Bahgum, Sir Albert smiles that lunacy is restored to the bar. Having just perused the proposal list, it is depressing to note that there are no proposals written in a humourful witty fashion, and so Bahgum has not seen fit to vote for any of them.
Perhaps it is time to dust down the free trade in camels proposal, and no we are not talking about cigarettes.....

The UN delegate of Deutsch - Rheinland, Wilhelm von Essling, enters the room. He looks around, trying to get an initial feeling for the atmosphere since it is his first visit. It is warm, but not hot. Single faints of cigar smoke are hanging below the ceiling. He walks over to the bar to order a brandy. He sits down in one of those old leather armchairs, relaxing yet still penetrating the room with his examining view. This promises to be an interesting time. The unofficial atmosphere will enable him to talk to other nations as people, not as politicians. Yes, this will be interesting, indeed.

Earl, esteemed fearless leader of The Most Serene Republic of Funk Lord Toe Jam enters the bar. She looks from side to side and notices many people looking through files of various sizes. The cigar smoke bothers her lungs and she coughs. After wiping her nose on her sleeve, she mutters "Screw this.". Turning around, she walks right out of the bar, and enters the Chipotle located next door.

"mmm...delicious fajita burrito...." *drools*

I just said I wanted the join the un but now I don't. Can I get kicked out, without being mean?

Lucretian Nephilim!

Cap'n Scallion, Onion Pirates legate enters.

He is de facto delegate of everything for Onion Pirates, since all other eligibles are interested only in booty.

er, "loot, plunder".

He sees the can can dancers, smells the smoke appreciatively, and sits by a Germanic looking sort.

"Avast matey! Where's the rum, ay? Not the sissy clear stuff, but nice an' dark. Arrrr!"

He slaps the other delegate rambunctiously on the shoulder. It is meant as a friendly gesture. Whether it is received that way remains to be seen....

Out of the angle of his eye, Wilhelm von Essling watched a pirate sit down on the chair next to his. He was not sure what to do. Most of all, he was irritated by this awkward parrot on his shoulder. Even before Wilhelm got a chance to introduce himself, he heard the pirate's loud voice scream into his ear, penetrating the silence. He was asked where there was some good rum in this establishment? Then he was punched on the shoulder. Even more irritated, Wilhelm stuttered: "I...I...do..don't know. W...Why don't you aks the bartender?" Wilhelm was unsure if that was the right thing to say. This pirate guy looked intimidating yet friendly.

Hodgelett espied Herr von Essling looking a little uncomfortable. She attempted to recall all she had studied about the Brethren of the Coast and sidled over to Neville.
"psst! I think you'd better get some seaman's grog for the new feller, that's one part dark rum to three parts water and a dash of lime. Fruit for the parrot too. I'm surprised you let him keep the cutlass in here."

Sir Albert spots the pirates, and remembers fondly Bahgums proposal to Talk like a Pirate, which although it failed in the UN was taken up for a day in the UN bar, and followed by a talk like an Irishman. Perhaps Bahgum should table a similar proposal again......

Walther overhears a little somthing about the Randomean delegates concerne about the piraty mates cutlass. Walther reaches down to feel if his chainsword is still hanging by his side, and when he is content that it actually does he orders another cup of coffe and strolls over to the pirate and the "germanic looking" gentleman.

OOC: Heh, a German, a pirate and a guy dressed in a small car entered a bar... I have a slight difficulty imagining this picture, but this should turn out to be interesting.

The duck-quack-echo question was never going to be solved, Brother Tim concluded. The experiment in the Men's had failed miserably, owing to the fact that Juliette the Duck Delegate got the giggles every time she was asked to quack. Duck giggles echo, but that wasn't what it was all about.

Mentally slotting the whole issue somewhere next to the file on cats, buttered toast and white carpets, he and Bast returned to the bar while Juliette, pleading an impending vital vote, flapped off to the Assembly.

Neville, though busy rising to the severe professional challenge of supplying grog Just Right and inoffensively de-cutlassing a pirate (Just Wrong), had time to toss the little monk the robe he had left behind to warm the injured carcass of that winged, downed and now, apparently, former, delegate.

It was a relief to Brother Tim to don the anonymous brown homespun. He feared that too many people had had an opportunity to see, and be offended by, his unjustified use (as satin underdrawers) of the tartan belonging to the Clan that is Nameless by Day.

Lee, the chosen represinitive of The Rogue Nation of Lemiden, finally find the resolution in his breifcase. He reads the title aloud, and places the proposal on the table.

"Closing the Gap"
http://www.nationstates.net/cgi-bin/index.cgi

ooc: you have the wrong link...

(This is the right one (http://www.nationstates.net/cgi-bin/index.cgi/-1/page=UN_proposal/start=92))

*Wanders into bar and sits at a booth*
*Orders a coke and watches all the going ons*

*Walks into bar and sees suseck's representatave sitting alone*
*Sits next to said representative, orders a Mt. Dew, and starts a conversation...*

"So, are you new to the UN? I am"

whats up mother fucka

undefinedundefined :sniper: wasssssup

Yeah, I'm new to the UN. So how goes things in your nation?

Well, some quacks trying to promote "Chicken's rights" just stopped a truckload of chickens bound for foodstuffs. What about you?

Our national penguins are attacking people. *shrugs* They want to hunt them, but I outlawed that.

Hah, our national animal isn't an animal at all:

go Zepplins!!!

I'm Dictator S. Ed and the J-Yo-Mama is the best animal... ever, it should be nationstates official animal its just so damn good :) I dictate over Eds Land of Things and am in my beautiful region of Felicitas, latin for success, happiness, and good fortune.

Ahoy, hicc!
(stumbles into strangers bar late at night after a long day of searching for a whale)

hicc,
are there any pirates here? Does anyone have any hic loot to donate to a socially responsible pirate?

(stumbles back out)

Could I join this if I am not the delegate but me and the delegate work together to rule the region?

I think it's a great idea,whoever came up with it Kudos!

Dicey Reilly, who had spent far too much time in her formative years singing in the back of school buses, smiled warmly at the representative from Jjuulliiaann and warbled, "Young folk, old folk, everybody come/ To our little Strangers' Bar and have a spot of rum ... "

"I don't see why you shouldn't," she said. "I'm not the delegate from my region, I'm just the rep for my nation. Anyway, it's a bar. Everybody's welcome in a bar."

The barlord on duty (it was Jerry, Neville was having a night off) glowered darkly and began a mental list of everybody who was not welcome in his bar. Starting with people who sang and going on from there to pirates, of whom there had been far too many lately. (It was, he admitted, a life not bad for a hardy lad, though surely not a high lot.)

Maybe if he imported one of those Attack Penguins from Suseck it would help keep the riff-raff in line ...

*Saunters over to Jerry*

"You know," Suseck said, "I think I could hook you up with one of our attack penguins, if you really wanted one. Some of my citizens have been calling for some action to be taken."

Great place!

manhattan on the rocks!

Sir Albert looks up and smiles. 'ere lad. tha can join t'bar wi'owt bein' t'delegate...and mines a pint...ta greatly.

Grand........

“Ah, Sir Albert good see you again” Lydia stated, greeting the delegate with a warm smile. “I noted one of your staff made a rather quick exist from one of the debates today. Came in, was about speak, then just left without saying a word. Quite curios” she continued, nodding to the barman for her usual beverage.

wht is the point of this whoever agrees with me please write so

Ah the point my dear friend?
I agree you have a fine question there for asking the point of anything often leads to profound and deep discussion. What useful purpose to the world is your existence? Why of all places do you stumble here? What possible point could there be in that? What is the point of asking a silly question, is it any more or less than a serious one? What is the point in the rethorical if we must use it so much?
But like many such questions you already know the answer, and I have spent much pointful time revealing the point of your life.

Ah, that'd be bahgum rep fer coal, Lydia. He don't get owt much, wi' being down t'pit all day & that. E' probably got a bit flustered, poor lad.....

Good idea i need a beer miller lite yawn yawn.







*walks over to a near by chess table :mp5: :sniper:

The place sure needs dusting.

No one's been by for almost a year!

Does the 21+ law apply like everywhere else?

Mind if I light a J?

Does the 21+ law apply like everywhere else?

Of course it doesn't. Silly, silly... Hee hee!

*orders up another coke*

Mind if I light a J?

"-Please define what you mean with a "J"."

Walther seems to become a bit agitated by the Druggachusetts delegate and stands up from his seat.

.... okay I really have nothing to say. Just wanted to walk into the bar and look at the clientele. But it looks like the druggy dude is the only one left.

Anyone want to talk about being downsized into a crappy entry level job?

Easy now Walther...

Is there any one left here?
(sips gently on a brandy and lights a finest twigdom havana)

:sniper:
Greetings and peace be with all inside the spacious confines of this "Gentlemen's Club". I've have ordered some Cold Gin when gave the servant my empty bottle of Harps. And I now am thinking that I should have ordered a salty dog, oh well, maybe next round. Anyway, I have a poker deck, anybody interested? Maybe we could discuss a trade deal, our maybe our Information Science business sectors can work together to forge a new "enterprise". Let us see what this time could bring us.
All Hail the Mighty Patrick Shogunate"
Pat
The One Royale of Dinnertime

21+ rule? like everywhere else? Sir Albert splutters into his umpteenth pint and reminds the bar that in Bahgum drinking is compulsorary from the age of 12. He then politely suggests that anyone who lives in a nation with a drinking age of 21 seriously thinks about travelling the world to widen their views , especially before they reach 21, preferably to the many, many nations with lower drinking ages.....

"I quite agree Sir Albert" said Hodgelett as she passed him a napkin, "drinking is a matter of taste not laws. Alcohol is an aquired taste and many don't like it early on, nature has given an age. These '21+' rules encourage binge drinking and wild parties. Alcohol's nothing special.
To my knowledge only one country has this law anyway."

i think this bar is a bad idea

"-And we others think your smart remark was an even worse idéa." Walther filled in.

Long Island Iced Tea thanks.

*sits in a corner to watch the unfolding events unnoticed*

Barkeep, a bourbon & cola please, heavy on the cola.

*shuffling*

Never mind me, boys, just consulting my cards on the current state of affairs...

Hey guys, I'm new to the game and all. Saw this too be an introduction forum so I'm just saying hi. I'm always open to talking. I was wondering myself though how you become a UN delegate or even get endorsments to make proposals.

To become a delegate, you need to get the most endorsements from other UN members in your region.

listening to all the warbling going on to my left, starting to get a bit annoyed at it but it seems that those warblers are just trying to get a rise out of someone. isettle back and sip my drink contemplating my next serious move... blast it man can you please shut those warblers up.

ah excuse me, noticing everyone in the bar looking in my direction, it's not that they are annoying it's well i'm ah just alittle frazzled at the momment .....sinking further into the corner of my booth wishing i had a cloak of invisability.......

ooc: try seperating your actions from your speech, and that from your thoughts, it makes it easier to know what we can 'know' about your reactions.

Feeling playful (and in the absence of Bast, her feline adviser and moneynagger), Dicey Reilly resolves to buy everyone a drink appropriate to their character. Some are easy: for Hodgelett, the classic tang of gin and vermouth, cool and astringent; for Sir Albert, the smoothest, deepest double-malt (tough luck if he'd prefer a Newcastle Old); Walther, obviously, the best of German lager, served chilled, in a stein -- or should it be an Irn Bru? A sneaky alcoholic Ardchoille cider for Brother Timothy -- that should shake him to his sandals. And when she comes back, I'll get Lydia one of those frou-frou things with fruit salad and paper umbrellas; it's so exactly the opposite of her image.

Tarocchi, Twigdom, Dinner Time and Phenylketonurica, though -- well, I don't know them well enough yet, but they've all asked for their preferences, so I'll just get them another of the same, she decided. Suseck ... vodka on ice, to give the penguins somewhere to play. For that poor hassled delegate from Mdn, something medicinal; wonder if there's any Mausland brandy under the counter?

And the newcomer has made life really easy: national animal the cobra, voluntarily lives in a Mystical Fog, what else could it be but that thing that's bottled with a worm in it ... tequila? No, that's salt, or is it margharitas ... mescalin? Damn, I can't remember ... but serve up whatever it is, Jerry me ol' barlord; and one for yourself, and a double on the rocks for me, and another for Auld Lang Syne.

"And possibly a triple intravenous caffeine," suggested Bast, returning just in time to facilitate the smooth descent to the floor of the sleepy and now insolvent co-President of Ardchoille.

Thank you kindly for the drink, Lord Reilly. Trade you a card for it?

*shuffles*

Ah, the Ace of Wands, reversed. Bit of a stagnant period for you, friend? Don't let waiting for the next proposal get you down, there'll be one along soon enough.

Speaking of which, a toast. *raises glass* To the nuclear weapons ban, may it finally rest in peace - or in pieces, perhaps.

---
OOC: I really do study tarot, and that's the card I drew.

*raises glass to Reilly*
Much thanks...
My penguins thank you too. *penguins wave to Reilly*

Tarocchi, could I trouble you to draw a card for me?

Hodgelett tasted the concoction ordered up for her. With raised eyebrows she said aloud "It's, um, interesting." Turning to Bast with a smile, she said "Tell your friend thank you. I hope she recovers soon." She added with a concerned look.

"-Excellent choise!"

Walther takes a sip of his beer.

"-Yes, truly excellent!"

Walther raises his glass in recognition to the kind gesture of Ms. Reilly.

Tarocchi, could I trouble you to draw a card for me?

Certainly, did you have a question in mind? Or just something open-ended?

Open ended, if you please. :)

A general card it is, then, Suseck.

*shuffles, then holds deck out for the nearest penguin to draw a card*

The Fool, reversed. Time to watch where you're walking, and look before you leap. Take a few extra moments to carefully consider your next issue before accepting any of the debates, your choice may not be as obvious as it seems. Our personal instincts aren't always the best ones for our people.

Duly noted, Tarrochi. Thank you.

*Walks in to the bar, orders a beer, as he don't know anyone, he sits down at an empty table, looking at the crowd*

Dicey opened one eye, considered reciting The Face on the Bar-room Floor, rejected the idea (coherence issues), considered Tarocchi's helpful advice, accepted it and went back to sleep. Some days, weeks, months, even whole glacial epochs, are better slept through.

Bast, gently sliding a couple of coasters under his colleague's head to cushion it, lost himself in speculation about the mysterious "physics" religion that so many humans round here seemed to believe in. It was so irrational. Like that Newton bod: letting himself be hit on the head by a nasty hard apple because telekinesis was supposed to be "forbidden" or "impossible" or some such. Honestly, how could you argue with people like that?

"Next thing you know they'll be telling me I don't exist!" he told Jerry.

The young barlord, used to gnomic comments from his customers, slid the Cat a bowl of milk and resumed his fantasies, which, involving as they did large numbers of entirely respectable delegates, might also be dismissed as "forbidden" and "impossible", though not in conflict with any laws of "physics".

sitting in the booth,"ah thanks for the drink" peering around to see who sent it over....

Striding into the bar Dictator Evelyn, refered to as Ev by the people she liked enough to allow it, looked around and chose a seat in the back where she could observe everyone. Sighing she thought about how much she regretted the fact that she didn't trust anyone else in the nation to do this. Oh well atleast a good drink could come out of it....

noticing a well dressed lady enter the bar... hmm thinking myself no i don't believe it was her......"i say" speaking to the waitress,"do you know who might have sent this drink to me" eyeing the drink with suspisicion as it is boiling over and giving off a foul odor......

Suddenly Walther listens to his armours built in communication system, puts down his lager and stands a sharp attention as he recites a litany with a deep and strong voice.

"-I am His Sword of Retribution
I am His Vessel of Wrath
Though I am but weak and mortal flesh,
the spirit of His Divine Will fills and strengthens me."

After reciting the litany Walther stood still for a good ten minutes mumbling litanies of war, but he stood in a thight attention all of the time he recited the litanies.

After a while he stood still and quiet, only to suddenly draw his chainsword, raise it high into the air as he proclaimed in a voice that did not sound like him at all, it sounded like the words he spoke were from an ancient being of great authority and power.

"-For the glory of the Empire!"

With these words the lights in the bar went out momentarily and Walthers chainsword began to glow violently and blue lightnings played along the lenght of it, lashing out to his powerarmour and casting an eeiry light over the bar and it's occupants. Walthers eyes glowed in much the same manner as his chainsword. Formerly unseen runes and symbols appeared all over Walthers equipment, glowing bright green and his face was also covered in runes and symbols wich glowed like superheated steel. A gust of wind crossed the room, dragging with it napkins and papers not attached to anything heavy and suddenly it all was over. The lights returned, Walther returned his chainsword to it's sheat, picked up his lager and took a swig of it.

Startled back to the real world by what was obviously a man of a different nature, Evelyn watched with interest as the lights went off and the man began to glow. It was over momentarily, and as neither he nor anyone else in the place seemed duly upset she turned her attention to the rest of the room.

There didn't seem to be too much going, perhaps this was due to the fact that currently there wasn't much to deal with in the UN. Her attention became caught by an individual in the corner who seemed to be debating over whether or not to drink what was set on the table. Recognizing it as a drink made by the commoners in her nation, she began to mentally argue with herself as to whether or not to go over and explain that the drink was very potent and had the ability to knock a person out in moments if not taken in small increments.

"Ahem miss i didn't know there was a floor show going on this evening."

as i sit debating on the concept of drinking the drink, not that i'd let it be known that i'm not interested in drinking it,i am just starting to get the feeling that it's watching my every move so i look to the waitress and suggest that she should throw it in the plant next to me......
"Excuse me miss i say that plant looks a
little pale and malnourished. you really ought to give the drink to it."


she looks at me as if i am in need of some serious mental help.....seeing her reaction i readily whisk the drink up and proceed to pour it in the pot that the plant is currently residing in.
"There now that thats taken care of may i order another gin and tonic?"
" I say miss has that plant always had arms?"

"Miss?"

*Stands up and cheers*
Free drinks for everyone. I'm buying! Or *coughs* the tax payers of my beautiful country is paying, but who cares! :D

Just got promoted as the U.N delegate for my region.

And by free drinks, i mean ONE free drink per person. (And, no. A bottle of champagne is not one drink!)

Grenz0 Lord of Evil Omni-divintivists walks in,
Tall, Dark haired Caucasian with the expresion that most phycopaths have when shown on the news.
"Greetings, a round of drinks for everyone, Barkeep any beer from Evil Omni-divintivists? No, I geuss my chanceller hasn't got round to filing the export order. fine. I'll have a pint of somthing expencive."

*Walks over to the billard tables*

"Anyone up for a game, play for drinks"

*picks up her coke*

"I'll play you. I have to warn you though... I'm not very good."

*on her way to the billard table, stops next to Nieder Ostland and extends her congratulations, then continues on*

"Ready to play?"

Good idea. I think I'll have a nice large iguana before engaging in an interesting discourse with fellow Honorable Members.

Love the bar idea, however, we can't let any muslims in because they'll strap themselves with explosives. K? K.

This was the last words of the Bshurian delegate.

Moments after the words were spoken the only sounds heard in the bar was the highpitched whine of Walther's chainsword, a wet thud of a decapitated head hitting the floor and the sound of a body slumping to the floor without control.

Walther stood a meter away from the body, his chainsword drawn and his helmet fitted and splattered with the blood of the heretic.

The whine of Walther's chainsword died out as he deactivated it, blue lightning of his Emperors wrath still playing along it's blade. Walther sheated his sword, removed his bloodsplattered helmet and directed his attention to his communication system.

"-Send a cleanup team, we have a tainted body here." Walther said to the person on the reciveing end.

Walther looked around him, seeing the other occupants of the bar stare at him and what he just did.

"-Beware the alien, the mutant, the heretic."

He seemed to adress noone in particular and he continued;

"-There is no such thing as innocence, only degrees of guilt."

After he had spoken these words, he returned to his lager and emptied it.

Walther sat down and studied his bloodsplattered helmet. He opened a compartment on his massive powerarmour, took a rag out and started to wipe the blood of his equipment, reciting incantations and litanies softly to himself as he did so.

"-Neville, a cup of coffe please." Walther said and returned to restoring his equipment to a more unbloody state.

OOC: I am aware of the plain fact that I am not a moderator of this forum, but I do not approve of racist posts. Regardless of beliefs, race and sex a human being has it's right to belive whatever they wish as long as they do not hurt others mentally or physically while doing so. If the moderators wish to delete my post as well as BSHUR's, please do so.

Tally ho chaps!

Such a Jim-Cracking-Dandy idea to make our perverted delights possible.
As well as this is a great chance indeed to prove my superiority in pool, anyone up for a game?

capers and earl grey on me!

The UN is a bad orgnization I think we should have the EN (evil nations) becuse I am evil?

The Randomean representative looked curiously at the center of the room. A male, who seemed to have excessively sampled the club's specialities, stood chattering away to himself, uncaring about the world around him.
"Lunatic" she commented to her neighbour.

Walther, who now had wiped his equipment clean and saw the Inquisitorial cleanupteam take care of the body went over to the Randomean delegate.

"-I totally agree, I wonder what he ate this morning?"

"One thing's for sure," Suseck murmured, joining their conversation, "It certainly wasn't his Wheaties."

The Koznekian delegate walks up to the bar and ask for a screw driver, downs the drink at once and prepares for a long day of drinking and merry making.

Neville, resuming his shift after his day off, huffed in exasperation. Jimmy knew very well what was expected of a good Barlord -- why, he'd been a year ahead of Neville at the University of Barlording -- yet he'd left this ridiculous mess behind him! A decapitated body, an aimlessly muttering new customer and an uncomfortable regular (because Walther, despite his undoubted justification, didn't seem entirely comfortable; a good, Modfearing boy like that just didn't go in for slay'n'play).

Well, said Neville to himself, looks like little Cinders gets stuck with the dirty dishes -- again. But he rolled up his sleeves and set to relatively cheerfully.

Right: first, the Acme Body 'n' Soul Reintegrator. Neville rather liked operating this gimmick. He was the one who'd talked the UN into buying it, and though it wasn't used often, it was worth it, just to keep the reputation of the Bar intact. (Deaths had such a bad effect on custom!) The blue glow appeared outlining where the body had lain, Neville whispered, "Beam me up, Scotty!" to himself, and somewhere a timeline untwisted from the temporal loop that had taken it into the bar and an unpleasant customer discovered he had an unpleasant headache and no memory of where he'd been.

Next: Walther. A little note on his monthly account would do it: Add customer death tax, 10%. That way the dear lad would feel he had suffered slightly for his impulsiveness, without getting the impression that anyone seriously disapproved. Some personalities actually needed a little discipline, Neville thought, a reminiscent smile curving his sensitive lips.

Finally, the chattering man. Ah, but the customers were already taking care of that. Such a lovely group they were, really, despite the occasional tanties. Neville beamed a welcome at the delegate from KosneK.

hows it going barlord? looks like you have quite the establishment here.

"I would return your greeting, but that gesture is considered obscene in my country, on a par with the reversed 'V' with your fingers and hiding your eyes with the back of your hands, so I am afraid I can only say 'Good evening.'" She produced her pda from out of her pocket. "I am, however, teaching myself Finnish, perhaps 'Hyvaa iltaa' would be more interesting?"
She returned to the bar, "How was your holiday? Here, take this," she said as she handed over a folded note,"I think a lot was left to sort out, people undervalue you." She said with a wink, then drifted away.