Announcing the Oaken Knob

[Kylinn]

Newsflash from Brother Yngvi, inside the Oaken Knob:
"ID's claimed good intentions were tarnished by one of their members killing two demon customers in the popular and avowedly neutral safe ground of the Oaken Knob pub today. It looks like the leadership needs a better way to communicate the message of No Killing in the Oaken Knob if they are serious about reforming their reputation here. We'll just have to watch and see what happens. For continuing updates, keep your radio tuned to the Voice of the Nexus, KJRM."
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OOC: for reference:

[DUMBGoose]

The Return only recently joined iD I will inform him of procedure.

[toxicology]

Well, at least return didn't kill the door.

I will say that I survived a fair time and got some serious drinking done. I was slightly almost murdered by one of the bar staff, but almost doesn't count, and I was almost slightly murdered later by someone who was kind enough to inform me that they were going to only almost murder me. That was certainly considerate of Buffy Summers, Slayer of Gods (but not Fred), and I may have to accidentally not entirely murder Buffy when next I catch him or her maliciously failing to learn Advanced Thrown Weapons.

I also healed the heck out of myself thanks to my new BFF, a closed and locked door. I celebrate this convenient source of healing AND form of healing XP for the poor, sad demon, AND a source of healing XP for all those healers who are sad because they can't heal Fred directly.

As I may have mentioned before, I can't really hold a grudge against anyone who kills me. Fair's fair. Though I don't murder Knob patrons, I also don't drink there just to avoid getting killed, and honesty does compel me to admit that I have not yet found time in my busy schedule to learn Advanced Thrown Weapons.

So if I almost murder you, kind Oaken Knob patrons, I will do as Buffy does and tell you first, and do my very best to only almost murder you. Remember, this isn't mindless violence, it's Healing, and therefore altruistic and good.

Also, if you don't mind my asking, what's so invisible about invisible danger? I find the danger from some maniac with a long bow shooting me full of arrows fairly visible. Palpable, even.

[EstimatedProphet]

The best event of Harrower's short life recently occurred in the Knob:

[Bigguyinblack]

a closed and locked door has returned to the knob after many rides on the Mortal Express.
_________________
"Guess it's time for me to throw my 6-inch clear heels into the ring as well, since Bigguy has wiped a little bit of the hooker-stench off of this idea."

[ZIppy]

Stupid Demons sit around angelic enclaves

Stupid Demons die

Simples.

Moon the Loon - KoA

[EstimatedProphet]

Seven bottles. Seven bottles.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

[Kylinn]

It's not an angelic enclave. It's a bar. You can tell from all the booze and fried snack foods.

Booze and fried angel wings: bar
Paradise nectar and angel tears: enclave

See the difference?

- Brother Yngvi, Oaken Knob staffer

[ZIppy]

[toxicology]

I'm not entirely certain our angelic friends, or for that matter our angelic not friends, have quite come to terms with the wonderful world of language, especially as it applies to names.

So for those who are convinced that Soylent Green is made out of Green, I invite you to consider buffalo wings. These contain approximately no buffalo. Neither water buffalo nor bison have wings. I suspect that what we have in the case of buffalo wings are in fact chicken wings.

Similarly, toad in the hole? Not a particle of toad to be found. Scotch eggs? Contain no scotsmen. Sweetbreads are entirely devoid of bread. Bear claws are a delectable pastry, but contain neither claws nor bears. Boston butt does not contain any appreciable quantity of pig sphincter, since it is in fact pig shoulder. Bird's Custard Sauce? Actually a cooked cornstarch sauce flavored to resemble custard.

In Mr. Bird's defense, it's really not his fault that his custard-like-without-eggs sauce was pretty tasty, and it certainly isn't his fault that his customers, being, as we call them, British, were so shocked at finding something actually edible and not made of sawdust and chalk that the experience drove all memory of actual custard out of their minds (remember, this was the nineteenth century, in what may have been the only nation more enthusiastic about dangerous food adulteration than the United States, and that's saying something).

But I digress. Fried angel wings are rather unlikely to contain any actual angel, and not just because our host, Mr. Oaken Trauma, is too cheap to shell out the big bucks for free-range organic angel, carefully harvested at the peak of ripeness and quick-fried to a crackling crunch. Simply because, as everyone knows, fried angel wings are made from turkey legs, because that tastes better. Not as much fun as dropping an angel or two in the fryolator, but more likely to get you the coveted Michelin star.

[happy_trauma]

Mr. Trauma returns home, battered suitcase in hand, with a camelbak hydration kit on his shoulders and a pair of rubber mouse ears on his wooden head. Too exhausted to take note of the changes to his beloved pub, he collapses in an heap behind the bar.

[toxicology]

So, is there any particular reason that the Oaken Knob is full of zombies who hate me? I can't help noticing that a Mr. Athru is keeping these pets, and that he appears to be working for the bar. I also can't help but notice that I get brutally murdered within a few pet ticks of walking into your establishment. Odd, that's what I call it. Also fatal and painful.

Am I the only potential customer who is being murdered by the mindless undead before I have a chance to place my drinks order? I would think this sort of rapid shredding of potential customers might tend to drive business away. Certainly I don't recall any other business that uses the undead to kill their patrons with such speed and efficiency.

Yours,
Fred Dullard,
startled and dead.

[happy_trauma]

Oh Mr. Trauma! Me drink needs more ice! Oh, Mr. Trauma! Th' pub piano be soundin' wheezy an' missin' th' high C! Oh, there be splinters in th' men's room dunny! An' I were killed by zombies on th' way ter th' snooker table!

Well ter hell an' bother wi' ye! It's yer own got-damned fault! Ye cry-baby jack-a-ninny! Curse ye an' stomp yer guts! Ter hell wi' ye an' e'ery o'er flap-jawed numbskull what bitches about me pub on Yelp or Citysearch or here or elsewise.

Awa' an' bugger ye then! Stout hearted folks drink here, so's I guess yer heart nae be stout enough! Go to hell an' stay a while! Garrh!



(Actually it's because you're in the DnD and they've been set to hostile. Someone on your roster must have caused some trouble while I was away on vacation?)

[toxicology]

I see what the trouble is here. The management is probably afraid that the Demons (who, sadly, are not next door to the Knob, more's the pity) might bring their tea-sipping ways to your establishment, and the cultured example of DnD could cause your patrons to turn away from the variously fermented and distilled concoctions you sell. It's a simple case of fear of the competition.

Well, for my part, I'm happy to live in a world where I may enjoy both tea and fermented blood and/or whiskey. To say nothing of the fine champagne, brandy, and beer served in the Knob. I just wish I weren't dying in that world with such speed, whenever I try to visit my old friends.

Well, I look forward to the day, and I hope it is sooner rather than later, when the Knob and the Demons Next Door (to someone, if not to you) coexist in peace, each serving the drinking public in their own way.

[happy_trauma]

Take th' moral high ground, and be all diploma-fied, will ye! Bah an' pox! Ye're a wretched drunk o' no good stature, an' yer grand-mammy smells tart!





(I've set DnD to neutral, stop by for a drink. Try to suppress your moral fervor regarding advanced thrown weapons, at least to the extent that you do not kill patrons and staff over this issue)