Under the doors of each host's dorm room, there lies an envelope addressed to each personally. Written is the following:

"I'm a little shocked and disappointed that I did not see more of you Monday afternoon. I would have expected that since you all volunteered (or were encouraged) to join this Host Club, you would take the initiative to actually come to it. Seeing as you didn't, I will supervise your development into ADEQUATE hosts and confidantes of the female populace through assignments. If you choose not to perform even a single one of these... well, a debt will be owed by you, and it will be paid by whatever means necessary.

But enough of the pleasantries. On with the assignment!

Task 01: Talk to a girl. Chat her up, and obtain her phone number. Then, bring it to the Clubroom during the next session, when we will move on to the second task. If the number is a dud, you will be forced to parade around campus in an ugly argyle sweater and call yourself inferior to Jack Wynand, then do laps around the school clad in nothing BUT the sweater. The same goes for if you do not bring a number in.

Some Tips:

Be friendly! There's no way you're going to speak to a woman if she's afraid of you.

Don't be afraid to share details about yourself to make her feel comfortable! The name of the game is to EASE her into conversation. Help her relax.

No cheesy lines, please. Be natural; fakes are one of a woman's biggest turn offs.

Above all, try to be a good listener. Women like men who don't yap and yap into their ears. Although it doesn't mean you should be silent.

Good luck gentlemen (and you few esteemed ladies) and remember: I know where you sleep.

All the best,

To the dwarf's knowledge, a host or hostess was basically a prostitute... without any actual prostitution. They were paid for their time and company. To flatter the person they were with, whether male, female, or in between. It mattered not. This was an exercise in manners and good behaviour, but also cunning and trickery. One had to be able to maintain an illusion of perfection to satisfy customers, after all.

Sitting in a chair at the far end of the Host Club's room, Tyrion was sipping a mug of coffee and watching the door. No alcohol during school hours; there was no reason to make a fool of himself when there were others who could do the job quite well. But the first meeting of the Host Club was being called today, and it would be a while till they would be ready to receive people. But the door creaked open ever so slightly, giving the dwarf pause. Placing the mug on the table beside him, the little man approached the door.