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hoolihans's Journal

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Welcome to Hoolihan's.

You're the main entree.

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.

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