Butcher pulls a face. "Thought young people don't take too kindly to cops anymore," he grumbles, because he hates law enforcement a great deal, himself. What kind of hick-ass town is this lad coming from that a town sheriff would pass for family mention and why the fuck was some sheriff here? It's time for him to stop thinking of this place as some sort of magic business complex where people set up shop like it's a choice. Everyone got here the same magical way Butcher did. There's an us-versus-them mentality that is going to take a lot longer to shed than a couple of months and maybe then he'll stop seeing the place as a million native cunts and a handful of poor sods like himself. The ratio of outsiders seems pretty large, and when he's got nothing else to do, he wants to know what that means.

The taco truck Butcher sees around sometimes is, in fact, at the corner when they get there. Thank fuck, because he'd taken an educated guess that this was the corner he's seen it on. It's usually out later when the bars are the only thing open.

There's no line, either, so Butcher gestures for her to go first.