Chapter Text
9th March 1778
It was all in all a normal day in Setauket. Somewhere a horse was neighing, and somewhere someone was sitting in his church-turned-garrison. That someone was none other than Edmund Hewlett, oyster major in the flesh, and in front of him stood Lieutenant Colonel John Graves Simcoe of the Queen’s rangers.
That’s right, I said it, Lieutenant Colonel John Graves Simcoe of the Queen’s rangers, and he was looking unceremoniously at the other, with his neon green shutter shades on, and his headphones hanging around his neck.
“Major.”
“Lieutenant Colonel.”
Hewlett regarded the other with a raised brow, and in turn Simcoe tipped his head down, so his shutter shades were resting on his nose, while his eyes were peeking over the top. They made quick work of assessing each other, before Hewlett relented with a sigh, and Simcoe put his shades back in place.
“And what business has brought you back to Setauket, Simcoe?”
“I prefer DJ Simcoe, Major.”
“… DJ Simcoe...?”
“Yes.”
Hewlett looked at Simcoe’s shades, the neon-green plastic obscuring his otherwise intense stare, and he leaned forward in his chair.
“… What are you playing at…”
Simcoe stood still.
“This.”
Simcoe revealed his transportable DJ booth, and smiled that bloody teeth-on-a-hard-stone-curb-and-a-boot-to-the-back-of-the-head-smile, that made Hewlett’s toes curl, and his cheeks clench, as if he was taking a particularly hard shit, which, unfortunately, wasn’t too rare for the poor Major. Safe to say the dear DJ turned soldier turned captain turned Lieutenant Colonel ranger, had a talent for setting Hewlett on edge.
Simcoe plugged his headphones in, tested the volume and amplifiers, before playing a track that started fast with a mix of electronic beats, that mostly reminded Hewlett of a washed-up memory from a particular night in Aberdeen. He then soon realised it was the instrumentals to Jamiroquai’s ‘Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing’ (a rather new artist that’d arisen a few years prior to the war)
“This is what I’m playing at.”
“..ah.. I can see”
Simcoe slowly upped the tempo of the beat, before blending it into Mozart’s leck mich im arshc, with beastly precision that would put even Fatboy Slim to shame.
“Simcoe, I understand, you hate me, I hate you too, no need to-“
The tempo spiked up with Leck Mich Leck mich L-L-L-L leck mic him arcsch… G'schwindi! Echoing out, before dropping down and rewinding back to the pulse of the song.
“-do…that.”
Simcoe ignored him for a while, before finishing the tune off with one last scratchy ‘arsch’.
“Me and my men simply needed a place to stay, no need to fret, Major.”
His lofty voice hadn’t changed since last, Hewlett wished he could jump over the desk between them and start choking his neck so it would be wringed to another tune. Was it possible for vocal cords to be rearranged by a throughout beating? He’d like to find out.
“A place to stay? And you chose Setauket? You must be joking, if you think you’d be welcome back here!”
Simcoe only stared, though those damned shades of his made his expression much harder to read than ever. He pressed a button on a soundboard he’d somehow produced from his waistcoat, and that mocking, sad, failure of a ‘woop-wooop-wOoOoOp..’ trumpet sound played, and, by God, Hewlett had to restrain himself from biting the table.
“All bark no bite, as usual with you, Major”
A foul bout of a laughing track accompanied the comment, and Hewlett was this- this close to flinging that awful soundboard out of his hands, and into the next world. Not that Hewlett thought himself an overly religious man, per se., but that thing did belong in the inferno! Much the same with the man who owned it. Simcoe was indeed the sound of hell.