Not all sentient beings in the Tavern are allowed to vote, but they have their eyes on the prize: a world in which squid and bats and cats and ducks and whatever that large smelly thing is back in the corner where the Christmas tree usually hangs can cohabit a shape-shifting tavern without a cretin governor in a wheelchair rolling up to stop the music and exchange of mind-altering substances.

The ducks have spearheaded the cache of salad greens, quinoa, and various bugs that usually inhabit the pond in the creek back behind the Tavern parking lot. There is a bear (doesn't come indoors often) that has rounded up lots of blue jeans, surveyor's vests, and Stetson hats as disguises should Tavern clientele need to flee quickly and blend into the woods.

The squid has amassed an ungodly amount of booze. They seem to think that will be most useful for the rest of the week.