Drake "Spike" Stinger had finally found his way to the playground. He stood at the base of the stairs, gazing out at the assembled patronage with a wry grin plastered on his handsome face. A young chemist, he had spent several days in his room, none of which he can remember. That is particularly frustrating because he cannot recall just what he was working on when he lost 'time'.. or consciousness. At either rate, he's likely to repeat the affect by accident if he can't recall just what had caused it.<br/><br/>Stepping forward into the dim light his pale green eyes dance about the room, dark, pseudo-curly hair mussed by sleep, and the goggles located there. Lifting a half gloved hand to adjust the collar of his long jacket he looks about for the bar. Locating it, sleeping over there, he slips onto a stool. Reaching for a pocket watch he extracts it from green and white checkered vest and stares it for a long moment, clearing his throat. Closing it up, as it is unwound, and arguably, had been for a while, he slips it away once more.<br/><br/>"Bartender? 'ello?" His American accent is plain. He hopes he wont take too much grief for it. Last he checked the American's and Brits were getting on just fine, but who knows? He figures he was asleep for four days, judging by how hungry and thirsty he suddenly is. Either way it was not really long enough for the British to invade again.