"Term of endearment," Marcus clarified the word, since the other man asked. It could be taken as a disrespectful slight in the certain contexts, but getting into why he'd fallen on that one in particular would take more introspection than he was capable of with his current level of sobriety. He tended to use it with men who looked like they could punch hard, if they weren't of his equivalent size. He often got it tossed at him from smaller Spanish-speaking men as well, for the same reason. "You know. Friend, man, brother, son, fucker, amigo, hombre, 'mano, mijo, cabrón." A mischievous flash of teeth was followed by a shrug. "Just fucking slips out."
He tutted in disapproval at the face Griff pulled, and shook his head in profound disappointment. He accepted the bottle back with a sigh, sipping from it with reverence and letting the smooth fluid sit in his mouth a bit before swallowing, enjoying the warmth it left in its wake. The overly pungent, gasoline fumes found in cheap liquor weren't present with good añejo, and it was smoother and more complex than most blanco. Marcus was a little surprised that a whiskey drinker would be sensitive, but there really was no accounting for taste.
As he swallowed, he thought about Griff's question. What was the best way to explain the Dog Park to a stranger? "Other than fucking Texas? Shit. Edge of Austin, I guess. Kind of a... group of independents, out here. Ex-cons, some of 'em. Hookers, fuck-ups... kids of hookers and fuck-ups. Not all, though. Some good people who either aren't fucking welcome in the good city limits or just don't want no fucking part of it. Decided this was as good a place as any to see this shit out. We got a leader. All right guy, doesn't seem to be too full of shit... though, if I'm honest, I'm not fucking sure what side of the law he's on, other than his own, know what I mean?"
He hesitated a little before holding the bottle back out, the smirk settling into its place again. "Sure you don't want that rum, hombre?"