All Sarge can do is ball his fists and try to take deep breaths. Keeping his breathing even has always been his weakest point while fighting in the ring and he can almost hear Bob's low rumble trying to calm him down. Because if you don't stay calm you make stupid decisions, you can't keep your head clear. He obviously didn't, and knowing what a colossal fuckup this is doesn't improve his mood in the slightest.
When Rodeo produces that little bag he kicks one of the shelves, not at all sorry. Elfquest sucked anyway.
Muttering under his breath about fucking junkies and babysitters and fucking 1984 big brother shit he lights a cigarette and scowls at both Emilie and Rodeo. It's obvious that her priorities just shifted. Hell, they did a 180.
And there he is, all worked up with no target to punch at. Snorting he paces along the wall, ready to leave as soon as this is over, and by the looks of it it will be soon. He needs to get out and find at least a few zombie asses to kick. Not good enough, but there is pretty much nothing else he knows that will calm him down.