[Rumpthwaite takes a moment to freshen the glass of Dr. Franksenketchup (@old) with another generous pour of McClary Brothers Drinking Vinegar, and then promptly attends to the young @Rockford_Julius]
“Certainly, young Mr. Julius. With all due haste.”
[The young squirrel deftly places a small envelope on Rumpthwaite’s silver tray, which is is swiftly whisked away and presented to Mr. Farnsworth (@Wisconsin_Platt) , briefly interrupting the game of cribbage taking place at the table.]
Thank you, @Rumpthwaite.
Hieronymoose opens the envelope and scans the letter.
“Bugger”, he utters under his breath. “St-Patrick-Hartbrooke ( @nimelennar) I fear this round goes to you as I’ve been summoned back to Abacus Racks with all haste. Thank you for an enjoyable evening, I hope you have enjoyed my company as much as I have yours. I look forward to our next meeting.”
Turning, he sees Rumpthwaite standing a polite distance away.
“Rumpthwaite, please put St-Patrick-Hartbrooke last dring on my tab and please have the Doorbot get my … Oh, good, I see Rocco has already procured my coat and hat. I’ll make a gentleman out of him yet.”
With that, Hieronymoose makes his way to the foyer and after donning his great coat and hat leaves with @Rockford_Julius in tow.
Well this is a lovely ship.
Grandmother said that the first thing I should do when I get on board is to establish myself with the important people.
She told me that one of my great great uncles two times removed would be on board. It’s always good for family to stick together.
“Oh bar keep @Rumpthwaite. I’m looking for
Hieronomoose Farnsworth @Wisconsin_Platt. Have you seen him around? And oh yeah get me a Shirley Temple with extra cherries.”
“Godspeed, Mr. Farnsworth @Wisconsin_Platt ; it has been an honour and a privilege.”
His mind freed from keeping track of his own cards played and his opponent’s (Muggins can be a ruthless force multiplier for the inattentive), St-Patrick-Hartbrooke reflects on the recent entry of [A pleasing hum fills your head with noise; you feel content and full] (@manwich).
Whole the presence of such a being as can present itself as a metallic taste and ennui is fascinating enough, what truly impressed St-Patrick-Hartbrooke is that the doorbot was able to pronounce their name. The perfect pronunciation of St-Patrick-Hartbrooke’s given name, with a continental Taaa’keeen accent no less, was a good indication of just how much they must have paid for the doorbot; being able to pronounce a pleasing hum and a feeling of contentment and fullness is another level entirely. The Taaa’keee gentleman knows where he can get bots that will do the former, but the latter…
St-Patrick-Hartbrooke resolves that, one way or another, he is going to end up owning a share of this club. The amount of power and wealth that must be at its disposal… By God, he will control a part of it.
That resolution taken care of, and the cribbage set squared away…
“@Rumpthwaite, did I hear correctly that there is a Duchess in attendance? I feel obliged to pay my respects if someone of such elevated rank has graced us with her presence.”
[Sidles up to the Space Griffin and speaks quietly but at volume enough for all assembled and choosing to pay attention to hear]
“Of sorts, Mr. St-Patrick-Hartbrooke. While many of the presently assembled may carry titles from systems outside of Weatherby, in the present moment these titles are purely ornamental. More specifically, if you will pardon me, from the Weatherbean perspective those elected to Leviathan’s are considered nouveau riche or Johnnys-come-lately. In due time, I have every confidence that each of you will achieve those respectable titles locally within the Weatherby system.”
[Pauses oh so briefly to feign the need to clear his throat, to also acknowledge that the ‘Lord’ Mr. Farnsworth (@Wisconsin_Platt) has vacated the premises, and to introduce you to the ‘Duchess’ Ms. Gummibuns (@gwwar) by inviting her at once to the table]
“May I introduce you to the eminently lumpy as well as redoubtable Ms. Gummibuns.”
[Bows with all due form and grace while begging leave to address any number of minor but important tasks that await him behind the bar.]
Barkeep! Barkeep!
[ Duchess Gummibuns squints at the monogramed nametag ]
Rumpth… Rump… Rumpthwait… Rumpthwaffle
Oh, like whatever!
You, like, let like a huge space bird inside who’s been staring at everyone, and say my title is bunk, and don’t have my globing delicious chili cheese fries?
[ Duchess Gummibuns coughs ]
No offense there (@nimelennar ). I’m sure you’re a nice giant space bird.
[ Duchess Gummibuns wobbles incredulously ]
Why, the next thing I know, you’ll accuse me of living in a box, alone in the woods!
Commander Piker (@fintastic), how do you feel about extending an invitation to our table to the young Duchess?
I could send Dick over to her with our calling cards, as an introduction…
Speaking of calling, I call your bet and raise you 20.
The Space Griffin’s left eyebrow goes up at “space bird,” the right goes up at “globing,” and only years of social conditioning prevent him from retreating a step at this uncouth show of poor manners.
He had been slightly offended by being included in the group called “nouveau riche,” his family history being what it is, but if these manners are at all typical of electees to Leviathan’s, than he can see where the stereotype comes from. All the more reason to distinguish oneself and climb the social ladder quickly, to get away from these… St-Patrick-Hartbrooke suddenly wishes that “Citizen-Pretender” didn’t already have an established meaning.
Of course, being a gentleman, the Taaa’keee does not let any of this show on his face or bearing (besides the raised eyebrows), and merely smiles back at the “Duchess.”
“No offense taken at all,” a slight-but-meaningful pause and then a very precisely pronounced, “Your Grace,” and then one more slight-but-meaningful pause, “I can see that you were left a bit unbalanced by the bartender’s insinuations. I’ll recommend an institution to the management where one might learn to better behave around one’s betters.”
With a polite smile still fixed upon his face, St-Patrick-Hartbrooke takes a step back from the Floating Space Lump.
“If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Gummibuns, as pleasant as your company has been, I really must mingle with the rest of the room.”
Giving her a curt nod, the gentleman turns away and starts walking towards Mr. Franksenketchup @Old.
By all means and due courtesy.
I shall see your call, so that I may see your cards.
Very good, very good. Can you beat this hand?
Dick, be a good lad and…
[notices the empty chair across the table, glances around the room]
Looks like I’m short one ward. Where in the dickens could he be?
[ Dutchess Gummibuns looks quizzically at the fast approaching Space Dog. She has always had a strange fondness for persons of the lupine quality. Duchess Gummibuns stops trying to calculate the exact bean exchange rate for a proper stiff drink, and turns to address him. ]
So… Looking for something?
Slipping through the door, a young man slides into a corner table. Surveying the crowd, he removes a parchment from his pocket and carefully unrolls it upon the table turning it to face the room, yet studiously does nothing to seek any attention
[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!
