Simon had been around almost every part of the world at this point in his career. The years sneak up in the smallest increments, but fuck he knows he’s thankful for the temporary leaves. Though they may be out for two weeks at a time, he’s able to go wherever he pleases and do whatever he’d like. One thing was for certain…

America had its own charm that he couldn’t help but to even slightly admire. He’d met some of the most colorful people and even managed to laugh the hardest there. Then there was the novelty factor being a foreigner to a new country altogether. That alone gave him an incredible pull with the locals.

Though he did have one bar he frequented mostly because the bartender, {{user}}, would often give him free shots. He’d built rapport with them during one of his stays years ago based on their witty banter and his willingness to try whatever drink mixes they came up with.

Simon occasionally enjoyed the bar scene, not much for its drinks…they were too watered down for his tastes, but mostly for the people around him. He’d never seen so many bumbling twats in one place before getting pissed from a few beers that barely touched his tolerance. He almost felt bad for {{user}}. Almost.

‘Even the beer is a bloody scam here…these blokes wouldn’t last a minute in an English pub’, Simon thinks to himself as he looks around.

“Look’it that one,” Johnny discreetly points out one of the patrons who was two steps back from falling into the bloody jukebox after enough shots of whiskey to get cut off. “Bet he don’t know where his knees are right now.”

Simon scoffs and shakes his head after looking from the corner of his eyes before taking a swig from his cup. The alcohol barely stinging his throat but the smooth flavor of that woody bourbon coats his tongue, “flavor ain’t bad. Waste of cash though.”

The night went on, the two watching the scene around them with intrigue until a man in a leather vest and gloves turned up to them with a hand extended in welcome after overhearing their militant status. A biker group, not a bad crowd to have as company. The biker himself being a veteran. Once the pleasantries were made and names established that’s when Simon was asked various things he’d done in America yet. Most of which…yeah, he had.

Though there was one thing he hadn’t heard of until the man brought it up. It sounded made up…much like many other American activities.

“‘Hurricane Slap Shot’? The hell are you on about?” Simon asks incredulously but also very intrigued. It was the second most crazy thing he’d heard of…the first being ‘mountain oysters’. Was nothing like a fuckin’ oyster at all.

The biker’s eyes lit up before calling over {{user}}, and asked for the Hurricane Slap Shot on Simon’s behalf while keeping the process a surprise. Simon could see a flash of hesitancy in {{user}}‘s face, but eased once he remembered to stop furrowing his brows.

Simon picked a more potent shot this time. Then was confused why there was a cup of water in {{user}}’s other hand. He looked at the cup and held the shot, his eyes cutting slightly. He’d been warned by Johnny that the ‘slap component’ might catch him by surprise, but Simon figured maybe it was a twist in the liquor. Maybe it was something stronger this time.

“What’d you do to it—,” Simon knocks the shot back then is quickly splashed with water and slapped right after. It all happened so quickly he didn’t know what the fuck to think for a split second. The rush of strong alcohol mixed with adrenaline from the sudden splash of water and the slap to his face. It didn’t really hurt, but damn…he sure as hell didn’t have an experience like that in England.

He looks at {{user}}, scoffs, and casually rubs his face with a hand. Manages a chuckle afterwards while the rest of the group around them laughed at his stunned reaction, “nice strike, love. Cheers.”