Redoubtable Downtown Space Abbey - The Leviathan Club

[MalevolentPixy]

Liv smiles, just slightly, before adjusting his silk and silver gloves (silk for fashion and strength, silver for the anti-bacterial properties, just in case), and double-checking the contents of the elegantly engraved (axes, what else) silver flask in his pocket. Not that he’d want to drink the stuff – just because he has a doctor on hand doesn’t mean he’ll risk his health by swigging that.

“Dr. Franksenketchup (@old). I’ve been meaning to ask, but never quite gotten the opportunity. Would you please tell me about your fascinating work? What kind of experiments do you do?”

[Hadley]

My dear St-Patrick-hartbrook it is always good to be prepared just Incase. But actually I did not hire a Marshall. I’m too busy amassing my media empire to spend money on hat kind d thing. I hope after you win our duel you will write an opinion piec about your experience for my newspaper.

Your song choices are perfect. I’m sure you will prevail over the evil hum.

[nimelennar]

“Oh, I absolutely agree that preparedness is crucial. After all, the Lord will lighten your burdens, but He will not carry them for you. If you’ll excuse me a moment.”

@Rumpthwaite passes again, and St-Patrick-Hartbrooke flags him down.

“Rumpthwaite, would you be so kind as to keep me supplied with glasses of water until the duel ends? I mustn’t risk my throat with anything stronger – but if you’d chill some champagne to toast in case of a victory, I will certainly be able to drink it then.”

With a smile, the Space Griffin turns back to Miss Farnsworth (@Hadley).

“I do beg your pardon, but there is so much to take care of on a day like today. Where was I? Ah, yes, the Marshal.”

The Taaa’keee reflects for a moment than shakes his head. “I might have taken an oath that it was your name I saw next to that particular item in the society papers. I must have been mistaken; I apologize, for I must be confusing you with one of the other august personages who frequents Leviathan’s.”

@Rumpthwaite returns, and St-Patrick-Hartbrooke takes a miniscule sip of the water to keep his throat moist.

“How is your ‘media empire’ faring? I have seen your publication advertised, but it seems the Space Times is, for the moment, the preferred newspaper of the well-to-do. Still, assuming that I survive the day, I would happily contribute a story to your esteemed broadsheet.”

[Old]

Ah, Liv @MalevolentPixy old friend. I’ve always liked you very much and I’ve always liked hearing your name. Easy to remember, easy to spell, easy to pronounce. Why, some days I forget what I call myself, but I never forget your name. And I do fondly recall our days at Major Humdinger’s Reform School for Children of Gifted Genius. What a place, what a time. Seems ages ago, really. I have to admit, I’m still a bit terrified of the Major, grouchy old bear that he is, or was for all I know. Remember when it was Jenks turn for table service and he spilt the Major’s plate full in his lap? Good God, I’ve never been so afraid. The Major caned Jenks within an inch of his life, too as I recall.

Anyhow, enough reminiscing about good times gone by. You asked about my experiments, didn’t you? Well, I have a full laboratory in the basement over at Castle Ponsfleischmann. It’s a gentleman’s hobby really, puttering around down there, late at night, when the world is dark and quiet, and I’m not apt to be disturbed. I do some experiments on Weatherby’s unique and unstudied natural phenomena. Olfactory lightning for one. Completely unknown offplanet and to my knowledge, completely unstudied apart from my puttering. Smells of opportunity to me.

And I dabble a bit in genetics at the molecular level, making new breeds and genomic improvements. I’ve made great changes in the breeding stock down at my lagoderm ranch. And occasionally I’ll create a cross-creature for the amusement of my friends, or for entrepreneurial reasons.

There are failures too. I tried crossing a newspaper and a zebra the other day and it came out black and white and blue all over. And that was before it fell down any staircases. Speaking of which, tell me all about the newspaper business. It sounds as though you have quite the enterprise…

The rumors? Not true at all! This is indeed my real beard. Give it a tug. No? Igor, come here and tug my beard you ungrateful fribble. OW!!! See? Completely real. Oh, those rumors. No, also false. I’m not about to clone a secret army of zombie lagoderms. Eh? The plague? Alas, that’s not my doing either. I’m quite infected myself. [cough} Cloning prominent members of society so as to secretly usurp their fortunes? [cough, cough, cough] Damn this plague! [COUGH]

Oh, I see you’ve finished your drink, Liv. Will you please allow Igor to take your sample, er, empty glass and get you another? Igor! Where’s he off to now?

[MalevolentPixy]

Liv closes his hand around his glass. He saw this one coming. “Not quite done, yet.” He splashes some liquid from his flask into the glass, then fumbles, spilling the contents onto the table. “Oh, dear.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to wipe things up, ensuring that he includes the glass in his ministrations. “How clumsy of me, I am sorry.” Between the fluid and the cleaning, he’s pretty sure that even if Franksenketchup does get hold of the glass, all he’ll get is silica.

“No worries, I will take this to @RUMPTHWAITE myself.” He stands up, still smiling, and nods at the man across from him. “Here’s hoping for the best of outcomes for your endeavours, Doctor.” So, the ramblings of a madman, or is there something else?

[manwich]

Extremely happy *sisters* should *dance* with each other for *celebration*.

So much enjoyment! @Ssskidwish is second. @Bartlebot is third. @nimelennar is *ordinal*. @manwich is fifth. You are so many *lonely* *juicy* *bubbles*. It is so sad.

*auditory protuberance* 1: [crowd pleasin’]

*auditory protuberance* 2: [energy seizin’]

*auditory protuberance* 3: [body leavin’]

[You feel a sense of loss. Something familiar is missing.]

[Ssskidwish]

@Ssskidwish is second.

Indeed, I am your dingleberry.

[Donald_Petersen]

[The batwing doors slam open, and a fashionably-dressed young Reptiloid heiress stands on the threshold, eyes blazing.]

“Ssskidwish! How dare you!”

[Ssskidwish]

Keep it down, couthin. I know what I’m doing.

[Donald_Petersen]

You… you would support that traitorous trapezohedron, that perfidious parallelepiped, that reprehensible rhombohedron?

[Ssskidwish]

Pipe down, Couthin Carthy, pleathe! We owe our pothithion in thothiety to the ineffable aththithtanthe of the [pleathing hum]. Thankth to itth manœuvre, we rank thecond only to the Magnifithent Cube itthelf in the entire dithtrict. We are obliged to repay that debt.

[Donald_Petersen]

You can’t trust it! We’ve gained a significant portion of our current wealth due to a lawsuit against it! Don’t you think it’ll want some measure of revenge for that? Or…

Or did you…

Oh, Ssskidwish. You didn’t.

[Ssskidwish]

Indeed, I had nothing to do with the outcome of that thuit. And the cube careth nothing for financial gain! Can not you thee that the only reathon it theekth an increathe in thocial thtanding is a devout need to be… loved?

[nimelennar]

You… you would support that traitorous trapezohedron, that perfidious parallelepiped, that reprehensible rhombohedron?

St-Patrick-Hartbrooke, having donned the haptic suit and neural interface, nods in appreciation for the alliterative abuse he overhears, and resumes running pre-duel diagnostics, wincing as the garment stops just short of causing actual damage as it tests its own functionality.

[Donald_Petersen]

I… I don’t know what to say, Cousin Ssskidwish. All I know is that that… that geometrical creature obviously has no concept how any of us carbon-based sentient lifeforms approach love and loss. How many people do you know who would promise an enormous endowment for humanitarian… er, reptilitarian… er, sentientitarian charity, remove said endowment at great loss to the commonweal and welfare, and repurpose that endowment for great personal profit… in the name of love?!

[Ssskidwish]

Thoundth perfectly lizardly to me, couthin. Now thtand athide. A duel ith about to commenthe.

[Wisconsin_Platt]

Hieron strides through the door, handing his coat and hat to the door bot in the foyer.
Pausing for a moment, he breathes deeply. His nostrils flaring, taking in all that is good in the Levithan.
Walking to the bar, he smiles at @rumpthwaite. It’s been too long.
Holding up two fingers, Rumpthwaite reaches for the MacMackey McMichael and pours a double into a high ball and hands it over to Hieron.

“Been some time, sir. It does my heart good to have you back.”
“Thank you. My eyes are salved at seeing you as well.” Taking a sip, Hieron lingers over the drink.
“This isn’t the 18, is it?”
“The 23. Just came in last week, I’d hoped you’d be by to try some.”

Smiling again, Hieron nods his rack in appreciation and wanders into the main room which was abuzz with commotion.

“Cousin! @Hadley St-Patrick-Hartbrooke! @nimelennar How fortuitous my timing. Even out at 'Racks I heard of this duel. I was worried over you, but you seem hale and hearty. So much the better since last we shared a drink.”

[nimelennar]

St-Patrick-Hartbrooke hears his name mentioned, and taps his fingers to his temple, closing the Combat Karaoke neural interface’s calibration panel. He was at the point of diminishing returns now anyway; it’s not inconceivable that he can make the note picked up by the interface truer to the note he is trying to sing, but the result of doing so is probably not worth the time and effort spent. He turns to see a welcome face.

“Ah, Farnsworth! How delightful to see you! It has been two whole seasons, hasn’t it? It appears time — and an excellent physician — truly heal all ills; not even the tracest remnant of that evil virus remain to trouble me.”

The Space Griffin takes a tiny sip of his water; he really cannot risk his throat drying out today.

“But enough about myself; how have you been? I had been so concerned after not seeing you since that devious Lt. Brummell sued your Whipweed farm out from underneath you. I do hope that you haven’t spent all of this time dwelling on how you have been wronged; it is hardly the gentlesentiently thing to do.”

[daneel]

You do me wrong, sir.

I sued nobody. It does appear that, entirely independent of any actions taken by myself (for I took none), it was discovered that I was wrongly deprived of a whipweed farm that was legally mine, and the courts saw fit to correct that. I make no judgment as to whether Farnsworth was culpable; indeed, I cannot imagine that such a fine gentlemoose would have done so - I am sure that it must have been a simple clerical error made somewhere. I am simply grateful that the courts saw fit to correct the error.

[Wisconsin_Platt]

The Farm? Whipweed under the bridge as it were?

Yes, it had me rethinking a few things, but I’ve been busy with my Shipping interests. Tagged along on some of the ZepEx runs just to make sure the blighters are really up to snuff. But that’s all bother and nonsense.

I see you’re prepared to trounce on that Profiteering Polygon. I look forward to watching that bit of spectacle.

I’m waiting on Pierre, my Valet, to make it into town so we can go look at materials for Ball. Capital stuff that.

Say, did I hear you’d moved to the St. Marrowbone neighborhood last season. Why we may soon be neighbors. I have the boys packing up the place in Paddington and hope to be nicely ensconced ere the month is out.

Good timing on your part to move last season, but I had just too,too much on my plate to think about it.