Another goddamn whiskey drinker. "Fuck, amigo, you got a lot of competition 'round here for whiskey. Whiskey and moonshine's all they drink straight. These fuckers put decent tequila in Jell-O." Marcus shook his head and laughed as he handed over the the amber-hued bottle, deciding not to be offended by Griff's shudder. The shitty rum was placed next to the chair to be abandoned. One of the camp bitches would probably find a use for it. "But I'll keep a fucking eye out for scotch, mijo. Just for you."
He then pushed his hair back from his face and leaned forward in his chair, watching Griff carefully. He launched into a cheerful sermon about the drink at hand. Marcus Caravahlo was a proselytizer of fine alcohol. The distilleries were all closed, as far as he knew, so that was even more reason to appreciate what they had. "Do not fucking belt that. That's not fucking Patron, trying to be tasteless for rich fucks can't handle flavor. And it's not cheap fucking mezcal, with a fucking worm in it to get the tourists fucked up and freaked out. This is real good aƱejo. Barrel fucking aged. You can taste the fucking oak under the spice and agave in that if you try to. Tequila can kick, but shouldn't burn. Anyone puts salt or lime in this, I'd punch 'em in the fucking face."
Well, if anyone actually had a lime to defile the drink with, Marcus would probably be far too covetous to throw that punch. While it had no business in tequila, the fresh, bright citrus of a lime would definitely help the fucking food these days.