Redoubtable Downtown Space Abbey - The Leviathan Club

[Bows deeply, before pulling a pocketwatch from his waistcoat. He clicks a button on the side of the watch, shimmers, then disappears. His voice can be heard only by Duchess Gummibuns.]

Madam, please forgive my intrusion upon your person, and I realize it is quite impertinent of me to forget my place and speak to someone who is so obviously above my station… and I only have but a moment, as I must rush off on an errand…

I feel I must warn you about my master, who is craving an introduction to you. He’s not quite the creature he presents himself to be in public. Just… be careful, please.

Here’s my card, Madam. Please feel free to call on me should you need anything.

Anything at all.

[A card materializes seemingly from thin air, and floats towards the Duchess’s hand.]

[The Leviathan Club’s front door opens, then closes.]


[ Duchess Gummibuns examines the proffered card, eggshell she thinks, possibly from the famous Space Dragon Print shop, in the last system. And gives it a flick. Sturdy stuff. ]

Oh hey, that’s like pretty globbin’–

[ Impressed, Duchess Gummibuns starts to thank the young ward for the warning, but when she looks up, she finds herself quite alone. ]

–hmm. Sweet trick.

[ She shrugs. Duchess Gummibuns floats over to the new notice that’s appeared, and the ward that seems to be successfully melding into the shadows. ]

Hey, kiddo! Yes, you, um Tom (@Tom_Ratchetcrank), right? Do you wanna play some cards? This fresh purple lump, just scored an invitation!


Imperceptibly stiffening for just an instant, the lad looks to have suddenly remembered he is late for an important appointment. Rising while avoiding all eye contact he briskly makes for the door… at that portal momentarily pausing to cast a glance back, locking eyes with the coal-black lumps suspended in purple lumps of lumpiness, before disappearing into the street.


Giving her a curt nod, the gentleman turns away and starts walking towards Mr. Franksenketchup

Ah, St-Pootrick-Hardbraken @nimelennar , I believe? Eh, what’s that? St-Patrick-Hartbrooke. Yes, well, no matter. I take no offense at your correction. Well met, my fine fellow.

[Heartily slaps St-Patrick-Hartbrooke on the back]

I raise a glass of vinegar to you sir!

Rumpthwaite, another libation for my new friend here!

You, Sir, are a magnificent specimen, I do say. You are the first of your particular species I’ve even had the acquaintance of. This is indeed a day. A day that I shall note in my journal as most remarkable. What a great honor for me.

Now, I have a proposition. Quite possibly a profitable, yes, yes, highly profitable proposition for you. Your genetic make-up is most unique and I desire nothing more than a small sample of it from you. Nothing so degrading as a blood draw, a simple swab of your cheek is all I require, and I offer to you in return… What do I offer? Yes. A ROYALTY. A royalty on your own DNA. Any biologic creations I design from it, I will pay you 5% of sales. The traditional rate is 3%, but as you are a unique and magnificent creation of the universe, you should be content with nothing less than 5%.

Now consider the possibilities. A chicken that lays gold eggs, a housecat with wings, a flying toaster that can use a litter box. My good man think of the immortality of your own genetic code, passed along in thousands of consumer products. And then pause… and think of the profits.

Well, what do you say? A little drool for your old friend Dr. Franksenketchup? Mwa-ha-ha-ha! Er, [cough, cough].



[You suddenly realize that a significant feeling of accomplishment would follow the preparation and delivery of a round of Flirtinis to every sentient entity in the room]

{OOC: Request has been made to remove my GIFs due to epilepsy concerns, sorry to those affected!}


"A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Franksenketchup (@Old). Your ‘biological creations’ idea reminds me of an awful rumor I’d heard recently, from the Historical Society. The story — although only God knows its veracity — is that someone, when asked for their heraldry, provided a drawing of a coat — that is to say, the garment — with humanoid arms growing on it.

"Can you imagine? I can understand messing up the tinctures and mistakenly ending up with armes à enquérir, but in this case, the owner must either have a complete disdain for polite society and its traditions, or just as thorough a lack of awareness of such. I do hope, if such a person exists, that they do not stop by tonight. I’m sure I could recognize them by their behaviour — they’d probably mangle my name and make some uncouth and ridiculous demand upon me within the first minute of meeting me — but then I’d be in the awkward position of having to avoid them for the rest of the evening.

"Anyway, as to — thank you, @Rumpthwaite, and please convey my gratitude to Mr. Pleasing Hum (@manwich) — where was I? Ah, yes. As to your request, I’m afraid the Taaa’keeen government is very recalcitrant to allow experimentation with the species’ DNA. Fear of biological weapons being developed, or somesuch, I’m sure you understand. You’d have get in touch with the Embassy, and make a formal request. You’d better word it carefully, though, to ensure they don’t think you’re contemplating war crimes.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must find the gentlesentient’s room. Thank you for the drink, and the kind offer.”

As he beats a retreat at maximum-dignified-speed, St-Patrick-Hartbrooke thinks to himself:

Dear God, is everyone on this planet insane? Perhaps I should invest in a pair of antlers; they seem to grant the only immunity among those I’ve met tonight.


Igor you fool, you’ve scared off St-Hat-Trick-Hardscrabble! I’ve never get a sample from that one now. Damn your incompetence!


Jean-Rhys Witherspoon Wilhelmina Winnifred Rodchaser née Westingham glides swiftly into the Leviathan, her numerous metallic legs tapping rhythmically on the age-blackened floorboards of the Club. [clickety-clickety-clickety-clock!]

An iridescent mist wafts from the vents of her life-support apparatus, carrying the faint, sickly aroma of black treacle cut with an earthy, alkaloid undertone. The indicators on her brain chemistry regulators flash madly, spasming and fluctuating like the gauche display of one of those primitive throwback audio signal processors that were all the rage in certain circles of the demimonde.

Before the Doorbot scarcely begins to enunciate the third ‘W’ in her name, Jean-Rhys notices that something is amiss. The Leviathan is quiet and nearly empty. It should be bustling. An @old Space Human with a distinguished shock of white hair and a demented gleam in his eye sits quietly, nursing a glass of McClary Bros. A single feather (@nimelennar) hangs in the air, illuminated in a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight slanting through the casements.

Late afternoon? Of which day!?!?

She blinks rapidly for a moment as her leftmost manipulator gently fondles the controls of her brain chemistry regulators. Her pupils slowly contract and her stance relaxes ever so slightly. “Tare an’ hounds,” she mumbles, “my time-sense has apparently been operating on a logarithmic scale…”

Jean-Rhyse has missed the Leviathan’s Induction Reception, entirely.

How utterly mortifying!

Rumpthwaite, ever the consummate gentlesentient, pretends to ignore her embarrassment without seeming to, and merely inclines his antlers just so, inviting her to avail herself of his services, just as usual.

Jean-Rhys shakes her head and desultorily stabs a discarded broadsheet with the pointed tip of one of her podia. Drawing it near, she discovers a copy of the latest Space Times, and begins scanning it for the news of the day.


“Good evening, @Rumpthwaite.”, barks Hieron as he hands his coat and hat to the frontdoor bot.

“MacMackey McMichael. Neat. And some Scotch Eggs, if you please. I’ll be in the library.”

Hieronymoose makes his way through the parlor to the rich oak of the Library. A large map of Weatherby adorns the far wall. Pins mark the expeditions undertaken by those members of the Levithan Club.
Hieron gazes at it taking note of the the more notable members. Solemnly touching the Ahnk worn under his shirt as he spies the black pin of the ill-fated Marstitson March to the South. Poor devils.

But exhibitions and campaigns are not what Hieronymoose has come here for. From the shelves, he pulls down the richly embossed volume of Weatherby’s Wunderkind to better appreciate who’s who and their sphere’s of influence.

Research would take time. As Rumpthwaite appeared with his scotch and eggs, he mentioned he might need a room for the evening and to send word back to Abacus Racks so that dear Rocco wouldn’t fret.


Erythro refracts into a prism that Qaaatzl has had set up in the lounge of the Leviathan; evidently his efforts at creating holographic analogues of his new accountrements have been succesful, and he looks resplendent as he examines his new club; unusually, he is wearing full-length trousers rather than knee breeches, and an astonishingly complicatedly tied cravat.

-Ah, good day! Delighted to make your acquaintances; it is a pleasure to spend some time in the presence of such a fine collection of gentlesentients. And what charming surroundings! Very bijou.

glancing at the card table

-I say, does anyone fancy forming a foursome?


-My ward, Qaatzl, occasionally takes the Chatler (a habit I do try to discourage - it is a frightfully scurrillous publication) but they write that in the coffeehouses of Weatherby, the most outlandish rumours are being spread about our good king’s health. I, of course, do not believe a word of them, but apparently, certain radical persons are suggesting that he is suffering from some kind of mania - even going so far as to suggest that he is talking to his plants (and they do not mean space cacti).

-Anyway, I propose a toast to the health of His Majesty.

raises glass of Charyblis


Dear Friends,

I regrettably find myself under the weather this season. As such, for the sake of your health and for my own, I shall be limiting my time at the Leviathan Club; I should very much not want to spread the “Bird Flu” among such excellent people.

In light of this situation, please excuse my absence; I have enclosed payment for a round of the drink of your choice as a poor substitute for my presence.

If anyone should wish to reach me, I will be splitting my time between my apartment in the city and Hartbrooke Hall, and will be accepting callers.

I remain,
Dear friends,
Your humble servant,

[Garishly stylized signature]

Aaaakzeee St-Patrick-Hartbrooke III


The mover’s were finishing up at the flat, Rocco had begged his leave and it was time for drink and conversation.

I mused as I entered Levithan that I did not think I’d ever made an appearance midweek. Handing my top coat to the roboservant, I nearly took off my new, lovely bowler. While I was happy that hats were all the rage again, the fact we wore them indoors this season was a bit hard to get used to.

The main room was all but empty.

Rumpthwaite sensed my wonderment as to where the other’s might be and inclined his antlers in the direction of the minor ballroom at the far end. I thanked him and held up two fingers for a double.

As I approached the door, the faint sound of music wound down and polite clapping ensued. Opening the door, I see all the regulars, and Elizabeth Mary (@hadley) standing next to the door jumped up smiling.

“Dear cousin! I was so hoping you might attend tonight now that you have an apartnment in town.”

The quizzical look I had must have prompted her to continue.

“It’s TuesdayF, you silly Moose. Karaoke Night.”

“Kar-a-o-ke.” I felt the unfamiliar word in my mouth.

“It is all the rage from the Auriental System. It is like a poetry reading of sorts, but you are accompanied by music on the phonograph.”

“Seems odd that I hadn’t heard of it, little cousin.”

“The first rule of Karaoke Night, is that one does not talk about Karaoke night.”

I stroked my beard. Poetry was usually an enjoyable evening, the music may add something of a twist. I sipped at the MacMackey McMichael that had appeared in my hand and looked for a seat.

“Oh, no, dear cousin. If this is your first Karaoke, You MUST participate.”

Judging by the polite stares from the assembled group, it would be a faux pas to not sally forth, so I made my way to the stage.

“And, Hieron, I knew you would show up so I have an arrangement picked out just for you. Well, for you and that Silk Bowler.” She smiled sweetly as her tongue flicked about. I paused trying to remember if I had slighted her (more than the usual near-sibling rivalry one would expect) and felt my best course of action would be to follow through with her sugestion

Elizabeth Mary Farnsworth busied herself telling the KaraokeBot setting what arrangement I would be performing and showing me how the teleprompterbot would show me the poem I would recite.

“Now the music will start, and just recite the words as they come up. There’s a little bouncing ball that will keep you in time.”

I set down my drink, loosened my cravet a hair, took a double pinch of snuff and felt my pupils widen. Clearing my throat, I struck my poetry reading pose. Right leg back, chest puffed out, head held high. I nodded to the K-Bot to begin.

[Pop][Hisss] and the music began. The Teleprompter came to life.



I was investing part time in a fishery
 The boss was Mr. McGee
 He told me several times that he didn't like my kind
 'Cause I was a bit too business-y

Seems that he was busy doing something close too nothing
 But different than the day before
 That's when he saw me, Ooh, he saw me
 I walked in through the out door, out door

I wore a
 Raspberry bowler
 The kind one finds at a habadasher
 Raspberry bowler
 And if it was warm I wouldn't wear a top coat
 Raspberry bowler
 I think of Pro-ooo-fit

Built like he was
 He had the nerve to ask me
 If I planned to change the schedule up

So, look here
 I put him in the back of my coach
 And-a we went riding
 Down by seet Gummibunns' farm

I said now, lay-about bums never earned a coin
 But something about the clouds and him mixed

He wasn't too bright
 But I could tell when he groveled
 He knew how to keep getting checks

I wore a
 Raspberry bowler
 The kind one finds at a Habadasher
 Raspberry bowler
 And if it was warm I wouldn't wear a top coat
 Raspberry bowler
 I think of Pro-ooo-fit

The rain sounds so cool when it hits the barn roof
 And the lagoderms wonder who you are
 Thunder drowns out what the lightning sees
 You feel like a robber baron

 They say the first time ain't the greatest
 But I tell you
 If I had the chance to do it all again

I wouldn't change a note
 Because, dearest, I'm the most
 When the board votes for the CEO ... Oh No

The music wound down. The polite clapping seemed sincere enough. My dear cousin looked pleased with herself. I picked up my drink and found a chair to enjoy the next sentient’s performance. Such a pity Sir Patrick (@nimelennar) could not be here.


[Several blocks away, in his apartment, while cleaning his antique dueling Plasma Pistols, Aaaakzeee St-Patrick-Hartbrooke III suddenly feels an inexplicable surge of gratitude towards whatever virus has taken up lodging in his throat. The feeling soon passes, and he returns to his task.]


“Oh cousin,

Splendid. Splendid.
Your debut will definitely get a fine write up in my publication.

Who’s next?”


Jules eners the club in sensible afternoon business attire. Hands hat to @Rumpthwaite .

Good afternoon, Rumpthwaite. I’ve just come from Weatherby U. They’ve made an excellent decision in accepting Lady Jane Rhys’s @MrMonkey services. She really does bring a fresh perspective to the Natural Philosophy faculty. I eagerly await her public lecture. I am sure she will burn as one of Weatherby’s brightest flames.

Have you seen Lady Farnsworth? @Hadley I had reason to believe she would be about. I wanted to hear about her new printing venture.

Accepts a sparkling water and heads follows a slight but informative nod of the antlers

Julius Formal


Okay I’ll go

@Rumpthwaite I’ll do my regular number

I come home in the morning light
My grandmother says help our family up the aristocracy right
Oh grandmother dear we’re not the fortunate ones
And lizards they wanna have fun
Oh lizards just want to have fun
The phone rings in the middle of the night
My father yells how you going to make money in your life
Oh daddy dear you know you’re still number one
But lizards they wanna have fun
Oh lizards just want to have
That’s all they really want
Some fun
When the working day is done
Oh lizard they wanna have fun
Oh lizards just wantna have fun


she slides into the booth, still a bit out of breath

First sing.
Then we talk business.

@Rumpthwaite I’ll take a double


Dear, dear Lizzy. Excuse me, Elizabeth. That was wonderful. This is so delightful.

Mr. Karekin (@David_Falkayn) I do believe it would be your turn.

Shall I pick something out for you? Perhaps something from that classical poet out Seattlestan? Sir Stiralot? His classic My beloved is Well Endowed is ever so touching


A performance? How delightful.

I do appreciate your kind offer, Farnsworrth, but I believe I am up to the task. If you’ll just give me the better part of an hour to prepare some… personal modifications.

( Mr Karekin departs, and returns after an interval sporting a head band, with a Top Hat wearing companion )


Splendid Mr. Karekin