Fast & The Fiancé’d
Bucks mission brief
The Buck gets his own private circuit for the afternoon: no other crews on the track, just your group split across a proper practice, qualifying and grand final with an actual prize on the line. From there it's straight into a three-level pub, a pool table and a seat already sorted, the Buck handed his own jug the second he sits down. A proper pub feed follows: burgers, parmigiana or pizza, a beer or a spirit and mixer to match, and a second round for the Buck because tonight he's not pacing himself to the table. It closes at a nightclub in the city, straight past the line on express entry with a drink already in hand. Four stops, one crew treated like VIPs at every door, and nothing left for you to organise except which round's coming next.
Game Plan
$329.00 per person, based on 6 attendees.
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All of your package customisations will show up right here!Fast & The Fiancé'd is built around one idea: hand the Buck the wheel, put the whole crew on the same grid, and let the afternoon settle a few scores that have been sitting around since school.
Nobody's refreshing three different booking confirmations hoping they all land on the same afternoon. Nobody's the one working out whether a table's actually free before ten hungry blokes turn up expecting one. That part was sorted before the group chat even agreed on a date.
It starts with the track cleared just for you: no other crews jostling for the racing line, just your group split across three proper sessions. Practice first, everyone finding their braking points and quietly reassessing how fast their mate from accounting actually drives. Then qualifying, where the grid order gets set and the trash talk gets specific. Then the grand final, an actual placing on the line and a prize waiting for whoever crosses first. Somewhere in there, someone's going to overcook a corner in a way that gets replayed for the rest of the night, and the group is already threatening to strip the loser of shotgun rights for the rest of his natural life.
From there the group peels off the track and into a three-level pub built for exactly this kind of afternoon: a bar downstairs, a bistro, and pool tables where the rivalries from the circuit keep going in a slower, cue-in-hand kind of way. Seats are already sorted when you walk in, and the Buck's handed his own jug the second he sits down, which he will absolutely try to finish before anyone else gets through a schooner.
By the time the cues go down, it's time to eat: burgers, parmigiana or pizza, whichever way the table splits, a beer or a spirit and mixer to match. The Buck gets a second round of whatever he's drinking, on the house, because tonight of all nights he's not pacing himself to match the table.
The last stop is a nightclub in the city, and this is where the night stops asking anything of you at all: straight past the line on express entry, a drink landing in your hand within a minute of walking in, and a DJ with no obvious plans to wind things down early. No standing out the front arguing about numbers, no working out a cover charge on the spot: that part happened weeks ago, and it's just been waiting for you to show up.
By now the Buck's collected a jug, a bonus round and a free entry he didn't have to think twice about, and he's decided the DJ was booked specifically for him. Let him have it. Somewhere on that dancefloor he's telling a story about the grand final that's already three times more heroic than what actually happened, and nobody's correcting him.
And you? You spent the whole night in the group, not chasing addresses or double-checking bookings, because none of that was ever going to land on you tonight. Somewhere between the track and the dancefloor, one of the boys is going to turn around and ask how you actually pulled this together.
The track only clears for one crew a day, and that's the same rule the whole night runs on: one booking per date, no other crew sharing the grid and no other crew sharing this exact night. Check your date now, while the whole circuit's still free to be yours.