The saloon doors swung open and the troupe stepped into what could only be described as the Capicombital's attempt at sophisticated nightlife. The private room was considerably more refined than the main bar, dimly lit by clusters of bioluminescent fungi arranged with what someone clearly thought was artistic flair. Velvet curtains, slightly moth-eaten, hung from the cave walls. A small stage at the far end hosted a four-piece band of impeccably dressed cave-dwelling musicians who appeared to be engaged in the kind of instrumental jazz that made you wonder if they were all reading from the same sheet music.
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Behind the bar stood a slender serpentine creature with iridescent scales, a tidy beret perched between his head scales, and horn-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his snout. As they approached, he raised one elegant eyebrow with visible artistic suffering.
"Bartender," Tim started.
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"Mixologist," the serpent corrected with visible offence, his forked tongue flicking. "I am a crafter of artisanal aperitifs. Each libation is hand-fanged with venom precisely calibrated to enhance the auditory experience." He gestured dramatically towards the stage. "You are witnessing Rocky and the Cave Dwellers, the hottest instrumental combo this side of the Abysmal Chasms. They've just released an EP through Underground Sound, the Tightee Town record label."
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At the mention of Underground Sound, the group exchanged meaningful glances. Another connection.
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"Charming," Matilda said, her eyes already scanning the room.
At the back, past tables of well-dressed patrons nodding along to the music, a hulking carapaced bouncer stood firmly in front of an office door marked "PRIVATE - BOSS."
The troupe approached with the confidence of people who'd talked their way past far more obstacles than this.
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"We need to see the boss," Tim announced.
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The bouncer, a chitinous creature built like a beetle crossed with a brick wall, crossed his arms. "No."
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"It's urgent business," Matilda tried.
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"Boss isn't here. You can't go in. End of discussion."
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"We've come a long way," Eric added meekly, peering out from behind Tim's armoured legs.
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"Not. My. Problem." The bouncer's stance was immovable, his antennae twitching with finality.
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Then the opening notes of a new song drifted from the stage. Xylophones struck like a cartoon skeleton's ribcage, the walking bassline practically strolling across the room with a swagger, while occasional saxophone blasts punctuated the air like exclamation marks made of brass.
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The bouncer's entire demeanour transformed. His eyes went wide, his antennae perked up, and his carapace actually shimmered.
"Hard Rock Be-Bop," he breathed reverently. "Oh man, this is my JAM." He looked at the group, suddenly desperate. "Hey, do me a solid, would ya? Guard this door for like, three minutes? This tune is absolutely hep, you dig?"
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"Umm, yes! We dig." Tim said, doing a terrible job of appearing with it.
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"I cannot miss Rocky's drum breaks. They're the most far-out thing you've ever heard."
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Before anyone could answer, he was already shuffling towards the stage, his shell bobbing to the beat.
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The troupe looked at each other, Socrates bobbed up and down snapping his claws to the beat while perched on Tim's shoulder.
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"Well," Tim said, reaching for the door handle, "that was easier than expected."
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"Never underestimate the power of jazz..." Matilda replied, already following them inside.