text: > describe your surroundings
  Light spills through dust-caked windows and cracks in the log walls. It doesn't show up much. Some shelves, an old counter that may once have held a till, an uneven plank floor; must have been looted a dozen times over. Over in one corner there's a trapdoor.
  
  Curb detracts from the scenic value of the vicinity.
  
  > check what you're carrying
  You are carrying:
  a piece of paper
  an old bolt
  a diary
  a glow-jar (providing light)
  your car keys (disgusting)
  a Son of Toil bar
  a Twinkie
  a musket barrel
  your guitar
  an alligator stetson (being worn)
  your panga
  Treasure Huntery Lesson 1
  
  > Examine bar
  Son of Toil bars contain protein and suchlike for the man with work on his mind. You never had so much work on your mind that you could stand the taste. The packaging is attractively decorated with an image of some Bible feller in a generic act of honest labour.
  
  > eat the bar
  You feel a strong personal disinclination against such a venture. Say what you will. Maybe it's on account of your weak non-toiling constitution or some such.
  
  Curb has apparently grown bored with the offering. If you want it, you'll have to brave a great deal of slobber.
  
  > take the offering
  Not much you can do with these until you have some form of transport; you sure as hell ain't smoking them.
  
  > examine offering
  One thousand packs of filterless Camels, your birthday gift to Aunt Mabel. Hopefully it'll be a sufficient offering for her to confirm you, but that's no sure thing.
  
  It's covered in dog slobber and chew marks.
  
  Curb peers curiously at the panga.
  
  > look at Twinkie
  One of the foulest creations of the Former Age, but they contain calories of some kind and they never rot. You don't blame the looters for leaving it, though.
  
  > examine the tattoo
  Your right arm, left hand and the left side of your face are partially covered with blocky, rounded glyphs precisely specifying your age, blood type, status (social, economic, marital) and affiliations (birth-clan, adopted clan, moiety, college). None of which are going to impress anybody, except for the adopted-clan part, perhaps; Aunt Mabel's reputation extends across the known world. But even so, the conspicuous hollow circles on the backs of both hands mark you as unconfirmed.
  
  Curb gnaws hungrily on his own forepaw.
  
  > Go south
  A wide porch of wood slats, with the obligatory animal skulls nailed up against the wall. South leads back to the road; north takes you inside.
  
  Just outside the shadowed doorway, a parched corpse slumps in a rocking-chair.
  
  Curb scampers after you.
  
  > Go south
  As the highway continues to the east, you can see a rutted dirt path heading off to the north toward what looks like a small farmhouse.
  
  Curb scampers after you.
  
  > Go east
  You walk for a few sandy miles, out into the desert, and night begins to fall, slowly, like a dead parachutist. In the distance, the whispering wind takes on a howl - looks like a sandstorm is on its way. By the time you realize this, however, you've gone to far to go back to your car.
  
  And so, in the depths of nights, with the sandstorm building up its inhuman, demonic power around you, you find yourself on...
  
  The building is in the state you've expected from a ghost town. Its upper floor is completely gone, but the front is still standing, and you can barely make out the words Kissing Bandit Saloon in sun-bleached red paint. One half of a swinging door leads north, inside.
  
  Curb scampers after you.
  
  > go north
  You enter through the swing door, Curb on your heels.
  
  This room is much smaller than what the movies tell you. A stairway leads up to a gallery, though most of the roof and the upper floor is missing. A few chairs and tables gather dust, accompanied by a lone piano in a corner.
  A counter is near the back wall.
  An impressive chandelier dangles from the remains of the ceiling.
  
  On the counter is an empty pewter mug.
  
  Behind the counter is a shelf lined with a row of casks.
  
  An empty lemon juice bottle lies abandoned by the counter.
  
  > play the piano
  You play some notes from "The Late Goodybe" by Poets of the Fall, but then realize that the piano is one of those automatons. It even features some screechy lyrics. You can make something about a guy called Tom, who was a slinger, but not slinging "a gun". Something about a more lyrical meaning. Thankfully, the record ends soon.
  
  Curb peers curiously at the Son of Toil bar and makes a famished whine.
  
  > Author
  Scene 4, "Ghosts", was written by Marius Mueller.
  
  > take all
  shelf: That's fixed in place.
  empty glass bottle: Taken.
  empty pewter mug: Taken.
  
  > Examine mug
  It's empty.
  
  > look at the bottle
  It's a clear glass bottle with a jaunty picture of an anthropomorphized lemon on the label. However, it is bone dry inside.
  
  Curb savagely gnaws at his genitals with slurpy snarls of contentment.
  
  > Bottle
  empty pewter mug: You already have that.
  empty glass bottle: You already have that.
  
  Curb stares at the rum cask with paranoid fascination.
  
  > look at cask
  Which do you mean, the beer cask, the wine cask, the moonshine cask, the rum cask, the sarsaparilla cask, or the lemonade cask?
  
  > look at the moonshine
  It has "XXXXX" stencilled on the front. Wow, five X's? That must be strong stuff!
  
  Curb peers curiously at the musket barrel.
  
  > examine the sarsaparilla
  You see nothing special about the sarsaparilla cask.
  
  Curb skitters about.
  
  > examine the wine
  It's labelled "House White". There doesn't seem to be a house red. Maybe the patrons of this saloon preferred delicate, subtle flavors.
  
  > look at the beer
  You see nothing special about the beer cask.
  
  Curb chases his tail, squealing frustration.
  
  > examine the rum
  It has the words "RED RUM" scratched crudely into the wood. Funny, the R's are backward. Maybe it's cyrillic and it really says YAED YAUM.
  
  Curb sniffs at the rum cask like the horrible little pervert he is.
  
  > Drink moonshine
  (the pewter mug of moonshine)
  You slam it back. Ahh, refreshing.