[He likes that grimace. The rum's Caribbean rum-runners rum, which is a bit like drinking shelack on a good day, and a bit like drinking tar on a bad one. Weaker men have coughed it up on first taste. He wiggles his fingers for the bottle back.] An acquired taste, to be sure.

[But he likes that you can drink it. And he likes men who smile like that: predatory, like a big hunting dog, either guarding ground or about to chase prey. He likes being chased. So have his brand of one of those smiles back. Just an upturned corner of his mouth, showing gold and silver teeth, t might be intrigued, and a little bit lecherous, but it isn't particularly friendly.]

Delighted to make your acquaintance. [With a little wave of his arm signifying a bow, but not actually bowing. He won't shake hands unless you offer first and he can't decline it without looking suspicious. He knows better than to let people see the pirate brand until the opportune moment.] And what's it you do, Hunt-Gene-Hunt? Hunting? [There's some slight mockery there, but it could be with you and not at you, a harmless word-play on your name and your characteristics, if you're so inclined to take it that way.]