VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 64

double update WOOP WOOP post exam hype is real
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[POV: Narrator]

The post-race celebration had spilled into one of Montreal's less-subtle clubs — the kind of underground venue where the walls were concrete, the floors were sticky, and the lights pulsed like they were trying to induce seizures. Psychedelic strobes lit the room in blinks of neon green and pink, and a mirrored ceiling overhead made it feel like everything was happening twice. Glitter clung to everything — tables, drinks, and several people who looked like they'd been dunked in a vat of it on purpose.

A DJ had been set up near the back, wearing sunglasses indoors and remixing whatever was popular enough to make it onto TikTok. It was barely cohesive, heavy on bass and auto-tuned hooks, but everyone was too far gone to care.

Lando had already claimed, loudly, that he could do better. Then he tried.

He was not invited back.

At the bar, things were no less chaotic. Max Verstappen had somehow found himself behind it—sleeves rolled up, grin too smug, trying to look like he knew what he was doing.

He had just won the Grand Prix, so his spirits were high. And so were the literal spirits— as he tried to balance a bottle of Grey Goose on his head.

It was chaos, but Max thrived in it, at least until it became clear that people had started to take him seriously. What began as a joke — a few exaggerated cocktail flourishes and a very bad French accent — quickly turned into a line of people genuinely ordering drinks from him. And Max, instead of admitting defeat, doubled down. He wiped down the bar with wide, sweeping motions, slinging ice haphazardly into shakers, and yelling things like "House special coming up!" with zero idea what the 'house special' actually was.

Charles was no help.

He'd been sitting on a barstool, watching the whole thing unfold with a kind of smug, amused look. Every time Max fumbled an order or tried to light something on fire, Charles nearly cried with laughter. He made no move to intervene, instead egging Max on with occasional sarcastic applause and unhelpful commentary about technique.

Max, who had started out by having fun, was now a very overwhelmed fake bartender, hands sticky with syrup, hair glittered from champagne fallout, and visibly sweating.

Charles was thoroughly enjoying every second of it.

And then came Lando.

He emerged dramatically from the crowd, elbows out, wearing his most self-satisfied expression—a mixture of theatrical flair and (attempted) grace. The club's flickering lights caught on the edges of his slightly-too-unbuttoned shirt, and for a moment, he looked like a man storming a catwalk.

"Emergency order coming through!" he yelled, slapping the counter with both hands once he'd waded to the front of the queue.

"Elo," Max said in that awful French accent again, wiping a glass with a towel like he'd owned the place for years. "I am Max the bartender. What you like? I can make. What I make you like. Please give tips."

"Two very strong alcoholic beverages, please!'" Lando matched Max's energy with a flourish of his arm.

Charles raised an eyebrow from where he was leaned against the bar, clearly amused. "For you and who?"