You're walking down a street, possibly one in a strange city, possibly on another planet, possibly one in your own home town you've walked down a dozen times. Suddenly you notice, in the distance, a slightly-seedy but still enticing-looking tavern with a malfunctioning neon (or equivalent) sign reading "Hoolihan's". It wasn't there yesterday. It won't be there tomorrow. It's one of _those_ taverns. But you're thirsty, both for booze and adventure, so you walk through the airlock/swinging doors/front door/beaded curtain.
A shortish but lovely young woman with honey-blonde hair, eyes with golden flecks and very slightly pointed ears greets you and tells you her name is Denver Gotobed. Make jokes at your own risk. The shadowy, never-quite-discernible figure behind the bar is Hoolihan. Rumours are that the tavern is cursed and Hoolihan is the reason. He's allegedly the Flying Dutchman. How the Flying Dutchman got a name like Hoolihan is unknown, but the damned Irish get everywhere. There used to be a talking dog bouncer and a talking squirrel, but they've moved on--although they may return.
Hoolihan's is more than just a watering hole. You might have figured that out by now, as you have to step over the tail of a K*lk from Alpha Centauri to get to the bar. That's a vampire on the stool next to you. And a werewolf next to him. And you really, really don't want to have to go to the bathroom here. Order the Hoolihan's Special. It's pink and green and fizzes and packs a wallop.
What's this that came with your tall, sparkly drink? It looks like mail. Hoolihan's now has a mail drop. For reasons best known to Hoolihan, or Denver, the mail call is known as "Quillings". Some of the mail may very well have been written with a quill. Open the envelope (or slice open the wax seal or flip open the communicator). And read.