“Marcus Caravahlo,” he says, in answer to the rattlesnake woman's query. Teagan. If she was going to drop the acid and hook him up with a ride and a drink, then he could bother to remember her name. Both of their names. Indeed the offer of tequila warmed him up to her considerably. He wasn't a hard man to win over, really, and his mouth started to turn upwards in half of a smile. A similar smirk to the one he'd worn prior to offering her the fruit and flax bar several hours – fuck, had it only been a matter of hours? – before.
Whatever their game was, if they had booze to share, then the situation couldn't be too dire. And a fucking shower as well? Marcus wasn't sure which of the two was more tempting.
Rodeo gets his attention again and Marcus lets that sink in. Two hundred people was more than he would have guessed, but seemed about right for the size of those walls. So it wasn't just bullshit about the bond between raiders, but an actual community here. Families. Fatherhood was one of many things he'd been inclined to scratch off the grand list of life goals, but even he knew that a group of people with kids was more fucking trustworthy than one without any. If kids were surviving here, that meant these people were watching out for each other. It also meant that they had an eye towards there being some kind of future.
Marcus nods, understanding the questioning for what it was. Rodeo wasn't coming off as being invasive, and Marcus knew he was the stranger here. As far as they knew, he was some shithead junkie out to rip them off. He could get that.
“Yeah, I know how to do some shit.” He gives both of them a long, considering look. Weighing his options. It'd be easy to be vague, or at least evasive. But there were almost two hundred people here, almost two hundred people who had kids, and the rattlesnake woman had offered him a fucking drink. So he sighs, and lays it out. “Kept that bike running on my own, got real fucking good at putting down dead fucks, and while I haven't been practicing much lately, last I checked I'm a great fucking lay,” this last is said with a wide grin, unable to help to himself, before he continues: “Always been able to throw a fucking punch and hold a fucking drink. But what I'm best at is fixing the living. I know a lot of first aid, and I got some medication. NSAIDs, like acetaminophen, that kind of thing, nothing restricted. But I don't like to lead with that shit 'cause there's a lot of junkies around don't know the difference. Maldita metanfetamina, sabes?”
He was deliberately underselling his inventory, wanting to see their reaction. If they got too excited over Tylenol, then he sure as hell wasn't going to tell them about anything else he had. Though even if they did, he might be able to barter some OTCs for half decent booze and a place to sleep.