Rodeo snickers over his best brother's reaction to the pruno, which objectively tastes like death. Back in Huntsville he had a buddy who made a killer brew with fresh apples, orange juice, rye bread and sugar, but there ain't no prison commissary in this joint and he doubts the guys have access to any of those ingredients. Whatever this shit is made from, the end result is fuckin' vile. But despite the taste, it does the trick-- Rodeo's feeling pretty buzzed, though there's a slight chance he might just be getting high off the fumes from this fetid bottle.
Maybe the fact that he's drinking it anyway ought to concern him, but like a bum guzzling rubbing alcohol he decides that indulging his habit outweighs the risk to his health.
"You reckon I'd rather it fall to Sonny Boy?" Rodeo scoffs, taking back the bottle and turning slightly away from the COs on the other side of the floor to take a swig. He coughs, mouth twisting into a grimace as he slides the bottle back. "Please. All hail the Cannabis King. He'd fuckin' turn my Dog Park into a dispensary."
Sarge seems to be wrestling with something-- well, something more than the usual troubles that furrow his brow and darken his eyes, anyway. It's unusual for his brother to say that he's got to talk about something, so Rodeo is immediately curious but not yet wary. He lifts his brows, wincing only slightly as he rests his elbow up on Sarge's bed and leans his weight against it to take the pressure off his battered leg. "Listen, if it's about the manwich proposition, you're too late. Bettin's closed, brother."