Jago & Litefoot & Peggy (1)

The year is 1963, the swinging sixties are well underway, flower power is rising, Bettlemania has gripped the world, and a certain sci-fi show is about to air for the first time. It is in this setting that the intrepid investigators of infernal incidences and supernatural sleuthing known as Jago & Litefoot have found themselves in. These Victorian gentlemen have swapped the industrial revolution for a cultural revolution, quite by chance, and against their will. While the dashing duo figure out some method to return to their proper time and place, however, they must acclimate to their modern surroundings.

HGJ "Professor, I don't know why you dragged us to this lamentable location of libations. What was wrong with Higgies?"

PGL "Really Henry! You should broaden your horizons, we can't go to the same venue every night."

HGJ "It was good enough when we went to the Red Tavern, George."

PGL "Yes, but we belonged there, in our own time. Everything here is new to us, think of the future as a foreign destination to holiday in."

HGJ "I don't know about you, but my first port of call on holiday is to find my home comforts, like a good pint of ale."

PGL "We really are different people, Henry. Come now, when else will we get such an opportunity to explore a time beyond our lifespan, in such detail?"

HGJ "The rest of our lives, if we can't find a way home."

PGL "Oh, my dear friend. I know you miss our own time, I do too. But we know we get home eventually, Ellie told us so. So we should try and enjoy ourselves while we can."

HGJ "I suppose you're right, Litefoot. Sorry to sour the mood with my self indulgent sighs."

PGL "That sounds like the Henry Gordon Jago I know!"

HGJ "Indeed! While I have always preferred a perfectly poured pint of pale ale, perhaps some French fermentation will suit my libationary lust. Heh, a wine bar, the future really is a different place. What was it called?"

PGL "The Hoopy Frood, apparently. I don't get it either. And I don't much care for this decor."

HGJ "Take it from someone in the theatre business, this is a grotesquely garish assault on the sense of sight!"

PGL "All of these bright, clashing colours, and angles and curves. What happened to style, and sophistication?"

HGJ "It's like this place was decorated by an ill parrot who's eaten a magician's handkerchief."

PGL "At least they know their wine here. You should try the '58. It's got a fruity nose, and hints of chocolate and cinnamon, with a nutty finish."

HGJ "It's no good George, it's all Greek to me."

PGL "I'll have you know that this is Italian. The finer things are wasted on you, it would seem."

HGJ "Do you see that woman over there? In the fetching hat?"

PGL "The red one? Yes, it is rather striking, isn't it. Very fitting for this place. What about her?

HGJ "See the men she's with? The chapter on the left, with the moustache? That's none other than Howard Stark!"

PGL "Am I supposed to know who that is?"

HGJ "He's a genius, Millionaire, Inventor, Philanthropist, and Entertainment mogul. Met him once at a party at the TV studios. He's got a hand in pretty much every industry."

PGL "How fascinating."

HGJ "Though if I were you, I'd be more concerned with where his other hand is. He's got a bit of a reputation."

PGL "Oh, I see. That poor girl. But what's a man of his stature doing in a place like this?"

HGJ "Haven't the foggiest. CORKS!"

The patrons of the bar swung around in shock as the glass front shattered inwards with a resounding crash.