The letter is written on a pile of stained cocktail napkins in blue ballpoint pen.
Hey Pilgrims! We could use a bit of a hand here. The Floating Admiral, is, well, floating away, and we're almost out of stout.
It started with the new shipment of "Light" ale, "Light" beer and "Light" whiskey that arrived yesterday. Needless to say, none of us regulars wanted to have anything to do with the stuff. However, Brown (the owner) cleverly offered the stuff up at half price. What could we do? We drank up.
It turned out to be an epic night. It seems if you drink enough light booze, it's pretty much like drinking the real thing. Well, at some point, when it was just down to us regulars, Brown locked the door, and the serious drinking commenced.
It was rather late next morning before anyone came to. Old Johnson was first, but when he opened the front door, instead of stumbling out, he leapt back like a scalded cat. It seems that the ground outside happened to be slightly missing.
Well, after Johnson's shout we all woke up and opened the shutters. It was a distressing sight: The Floating Admiral was airborne, without any bit of land in sight. We figure that drinking (and spilling) all that light booze the night before must have made the pub so light that it simply floated off of our little world and into the great airs.
Well, we were sitting there in the pub, having a liquid breakfast with peanuts on the side, wondering how we'd get home, when the pot man gave a yell. It was dragons! Dragons were flying right toward The Floating Admiral.
Now, these were smallish dragons, not much bigger than a horse, but still rather well equipped with fangs and claws. They flew right up to the door and pushed their way in, breaking the crossbar (which we had hastily placed) like it was nothing. We were certain that we were dead men, but they ignored us and slithered up to the bar, where they ordered stout, just as polite as polite could be.
Well, being no fool, Brown served them. Well, the Admiral is justly famous for its stout, and these dragons were apparently creatures of discernment, for they drank up promptly, with obvious signs of enjoyment. Not to mention they paid for their drinks in gold, which pleased Brown no little bit (and in fact he muttered something to the effect that his regulars could stand to learn a thing or two from these dragons).
Well, seeing that the dragons seemed peaceable enough, we were all soon mingling. But to our disappointment, the dragons claimed not to have ever heard of our little world or any of the worlds near it. But they looked at each other sidewise in a suspicious manner when they said it. We suspect that maybe they knew more than they were saying, so as not to loose the source of their drink. Worse still, they keep giving us considering looks, like wondering how we'd go with the stout. It would be enough to put lesser drinkers than us off of their sauce. But fortunately, they seem to prefer drinking to eating. At least for the moment.
So, if you could send some pilgrims to rescue us before we either run out of food or maybe become food, we'd heartily appreciate it. We'll stuff these napkins up the chimney to float to you, just like they did it in granddad's day.