Are you standing in your glad rags in a dim stairwell on 8th Street, snow drifting past the holographic adverts?

Or are you in the back of a crumbling library, the heady vanilla of ancient books drifting past as you adjust your travel pack?

Maybe you've just stepped off the subway, the giant biomechanical eye of a Steward tracking you as you cross the platform.

No matter where you're at, there's an unmarked door directly to your right. Knock to the tune of "Shave and a Haircut." The bouncer will let you in.


Come have a drink. All your friends are here.

Al's Speakeasy