"No, I mean a leprechaun," Vasquez says firmly, digging out his phone to show the picture he'd taken of Sweeney, all seven foot drunken looming of him, while he'd flipped off Vasquez while he was taking the picture. He can't help his snort at the comment that he could do better, because it might be true, but irresponsible outlaws with issues with attachment don't want to do better.

Showing off the picture of a tall, broad, redheaded bearded man who's Irish may not exactly help his case about the 'type' part, though. "So what if I have a type?" he decides best to lean into it. "Not like I know how Faraday would've fucked, but this one..." He whistles, low and approving. "Makes me willing to put out his offerings."