party til you're passed out

[Not long after the fun has been efficiently drained from all streets and bloodied back-alleys of the city, Furtur curbs inevitable disappointment by tending to his ever-needy business matters.]

Well now that our party has ended (postponed good Sirs and Madams), and blessed worldly order once again restored, I see that spirits have already begun an inevitable descent. Work and toil and onward we head, back to boring lives—as our dear flustered Library would once again have it.

Ah, but not every drink must be soured by foul moods hmm? Fear not, gentle London. As my humble sanctuary still stands, Mr. Fritz continues to commit himself to your interests.

[Employees of The Hierophant.]

Consider this an appropriate venue for all current worries, kittens, as I imagine you've all retained limbs and fingers and important bits (if not, see a manager). Replacing that tapestry in the bar ought be the most costly of my concerns, yes?

[Right to business for once, or so it seems.]

Necromancer for consultation purposes, please. As for the rest of you, do keep in mind, reservations are unnecessary but greatly encouraged during the next week.

No unsolicited chickens in the hallways.

[It occurs to Furtur, pleasant, smiling proprietor of The Hierophant, that perhaps it's been too long since new hires. The managers complain, but then, that is often their wont, and the floor has seen the same familiar faces in what seems to be too long; we don't need our good minions weary and dragging, now do we? Generosity to his hard-working staff, generosity to his clientele, Mr. Fritz Hart has been known to always have an opening for the curious, the needy, the down on his luck bastard-scoundrel when London has cast its glance aside (often a good idea, he'll admit, but that's hardly an excuse). Men and women, clever mortals, nasty devils, everyone has needs and Furtur is here to provide. The club's proprietor never seems to tire, and his penmanship flourishes across the page with typical, unabated excitement.]

Hold fast, Good London, keep hope nestled tightly in your breast-pockets for we're looking to fill more positions. Job market got you low well turn that snarl upside down, friends. You have skills and talents and nowhere to hone them, you say? Not true, never so in this wondrous City of Cities, keep on your feet, go look, there 'round the corner.

Look for the sign, pleasant Sir and Madam, our doors are always open to those with good eyes. Interviews aplenty, talk to the man behind the counter and he'll sign you up square away. Mr. Fritz, ever your servant, inquiries always welcome.

( Abandon hope, blah blah blah. )

( This wicked tongue says, God's a million miles away. )