Haddo’s was an altogether different venue, far removed from the bright crass energy of a Zom Zom’s, or the studied decadence of the city itself. Warm tones were abjured in favor of a green gray throughout. Streamlined satyrs leered knowingly from green neon buttresses, and foliate faces peered regularly from wall panels of an antiqued silver. Signage was understated, and the unifying motif was the primrose, typically with an unnaturally large number of thorns. The unifying gimmick was fin de siècle occultism, though this was not directly stated. The overall effect was that of a stage whisper- nominally discreet while concealing nothing. It was the sort of place that copywriters from alternative weeklies went to feel like Baudelaire while they wrote reviews of pop music and personal electronics.
Still, it was a rich soil in which to grow Titan City’s bumper crop of idiots. Exhibit A: The restauranteur Durtal and his chorus, Huvert and Sprenger.
He and Gessler don’t get along particularly well.