"Fuck. Sure. Whatever. Just for a bit, though.", he responded to the Mayan. Grog had given up on trying to explain his predicament as suddenly as he felt the urge to make it known. There were more pressing matters to attend to, after all, since the Shroom crab had just carapace-stricken him straight in the gizzard, pushing him back, and sending him reeling with gut ache. Before he even had time to recover, and just as the crab dude had began to lumber away in his usual don't-give-no-fucks attitude, he felt the RV slowly lose speed. Maybe the driver or that green daemonette needed a bathroom break or something. Who knew. He didn't really give a damn to begin with.

 Speaking of that, what Grog [i]really[/i] did give a damn about was his pint, which had stayed away from his person for far too long. And, the strange brew, Xocolatl, that 'Prave was drinking only served to further peak his interest. After letting the dude at least enjoy a good pint, he spouted out, in an increasingly impatient tone, displaying an odd mockery of sobriety.

 "Okay, 'Prave. That's enough. Hand it over. Also, that weird spiritual magic eightball shit Jen's personal Google's talking about? Prolly an EMP, just saying. Seriously though. Fuckin' gimmie."