NEVILLE NotThatOne Chamberlain tripped over the ladder and cursed. It had almost become a morning routine: trip over ladder, curse; trip over paint-tin, curse; stub toe on large lump of plaster, curse. It was a wonder he didn't run out of curspiration.
Ever since the World Assembly had managed to squeeze into its collective drug-crazed, alcohol-sodden, ever-scheming consciousness the welcome information that there was Stimulus coming their way, they'd been arguing about what way that was.
The faction-ridden Snakepit had divided and divided again, amending repeals, cloturing proposals and generally having a high old time involving custard pies, assorted weaponry and a significant number of unexplained disappearances. But still they couldn't come to a decision on how to spend the windfall.
At last the sole delegate left standing (strength, vanished; category, unsocial injustice) had croaked out "Infrastructure!" before collapsing in an illegally branded, metagamed-out heap. And so it had been decided: the WA's infrastructure would be refurbished.
At first it had seemed like fun: offices for all, delegations happily employed choosing paint colours, the installation of a light rail line around the lake, an outbreak of fountains and commemorative statuary, tree-planting frenzies as the Green nations became locked in vicious evolutionary competition to make sure that their particular national (bloodsucking parasite) floral emblem was the one at the top of the ecological tree.
But it had begun to pall. The constant mess, the noise, the disorder, reminded the delegates too strongly of debates. Even the Strangers Bar, that very present help in time of trouble, had seemed at times to be under siege by folk with fluorescent jackets and hard hats.
Today, though, the Bar staff would have a respite. Today they would halt their labours and go outside to watch the Official Switching On of the new illuminated sign that proclaimed their calling. Violet had donned her nametag for the occasion ("Ms Brackett lowercase bold violet endbold close Brackett") and Neville had worn one of his famous black velvet suits. Now they stood, hand clutching anxious hand, Jimmy the part-time barman and Dazza the Australian-fusion chef quietly squabbling behind them, as the LEDs warmed to their task.
"Welcome" shone out, and Violet smiled.
"to the" clicked on, and Neville felt a surge of anticipatory pride.
"World Assembly Strangers' Bar!"
And then the lawyers parachuted in. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day.
OOC: NEWCOMERS: These remain the "rules" of the Bar: The BarLordian Conventions. They're RP conventions, not mod-enforced site rules, but if you break them Neville will do Evil Things to your poor ambassador. First edition.
