"Yeah, I'd fuck it up," Marcus assured him. Grufford Rhydderch sounded like something out of a fantasy film, as far as he was concerned. Something a precocious kid with a magic wand would say, or maybe the name of someone who ran around with hobbits. "I can do Griff."
He let Grimes sniff him, but didn't move to pet the animal. A strange dog was a strange dog, after all, and since the dog had mauled people -- albeit zombies and wash users -- he decided to treat it with respect. Griff, too, for that matter. Even stiffened and bandaged, Marcus could spot an impressive form. The guy looked like he could hold his own in a fight.
Mardi Gras had decent taste in the strays she pulled in. He'd have to remember to compliment her on that the next time they drank together.
He chuckled, both at his internal narrative and the sight of the man struggling with the dog. "Hey, can always fucking use some. And shit, never met nobody from Wales before. Seemed like a good fucking deal to me. Want to sit? No offense, hombre, but I'm guessing they didn't give you any good shit. Ibuprofen maybe, acetaminophen..." His gaze lingered over the other man's form in a head-to-toe assessment. It wasn't entirely professional, but he could pretend he was just diagnosing from afar. "Any antibiotics?"