Rylee's description of the event only further muddled Samuel's impression of it. Where before he'd had a strong - if overwhelmingly negative - impression, now Samuel was left vacillating between diametrically opposing ideas, clashing images of something that was either akin to a wildly entertaining, costumed game of paintball where beer was served, or a shameful sausagefest he should deeply regret having shown even a passing interest in. But the mention of Rylee's father was a thing Samuel could understand, as was Rylee's focus on live ammo and small-scale, ear-splitting destruction, and he chose to overlook the hobby's more disconcerting aspects in favor of its more palatable ones.
"Cannon, huh? Now that might be worth seeing. Hearing." He chuckled. "Are spectators allowed to bring buttered popcorn and liquor, or is that some kind of anachronistic faux pas?"
His interest turned quickly enough, moving quickly on to more common ground. "I do most of my practice at the station," he said, "but there's a public range not far from here. 'Bout a half hour, forty-five minute drive, I guess?" He shrugged. "I'm there often enough, could probably get you a deal on ammo there." A childishly pleased grin crept across his face. "Wonder if they'd let you bring in that Springfield. Can't hurt to ask, right?"