Casually Tony takes Jack's tequila bottle and undoes the cap. It's with a certain perfunctoriness he puts the opening to his mouth and tosses his head back. It's more than clear this isn't just one night of heavy drinking, but an habit, a skill. Finishing he sets it back on he counter, carefree as can be. "Depends. How scenic's the location?"

It's all Jack gets before Tony's hand is gripping the back of Jack's head and slamming his face into the countertop (or trying at least, whichever). He looks up at the bartender who's jumped back at the commotion. Something about it... Her frightened rabbit look maybe or maybe it's the violence itself, the alcohol, who knows, he's feeling good! So he laughs. Loud, a tone shy of a guffaw. Hell, if he had the free hand he'd wipe away a tear. "We're not that good friends, sorry. Say, Camilla. Would you happen to remember which eyecandy I came in with? This is probably going to involve the cops—" He laughs again, louder, even as his fingers tighten in Jack's hair. "—and I never got those digits."

If he's still got that hold on Jack he'll be jerking the other man back with a strength fueled by alcohol and throwing him backwards to the floor. Or, well, into a gaggle of hipsters. Look, it's crowded in here. Watch out for the pins on those messenger bags, Jack.