Chairman Pork
Bard
The stars are exploding, the timeline is fracturing, and the bill is going to be astronomical—but the service here is impeccable. We have exactly ONE seat left at the final dining table in existence, and we are reserving it for a true cosmic elite.
We aren't looking for mere tourists. We need legendary Spire Climbers who can ascend to the heavens without getting space-sick, and relentless Tournament Champions capable of racking up points faster than a computer calculating the Ultimate Question. You must know exactly where your monogrammed towel is.
The Reservation Details:
The Final Frontier: Only 3 chairs remains before the doors lock eternally.
The Dress Code: Formal evening wear, velvet waistcoats, and your finest festive socks to wear while gravity ceases to exist.
The Requirements: Absolute devotion to smashing the Spire, crushing Tournaments, and not panicking when the universe literally ends at midnight.
If you have the stamina to watch creation tear itself apart while maintaining a perfect score, your table is ready. Apply immediately. After all, if we’re going to go out, we might as well do it in absolute style.
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Our member Sandi wrote the words. I merely graphic'd it.