And so the carrion bird perches himself a good foot from the door. His hands drop away from his arms and hang at his sides, Vulture's never been known - yet - to be caught with his pants down around his ankles. He half glances at the door and then looks back across it to the less than verbose woman, "S'good t'have a name..." He comments singularily, before stuffing a few more frosted flakes in his mouth... chewing noisily. He even starts to tap out a tune on the molding with the heel of one boot, stuffing the unopened box into one of his deep pockets. This should prove interesting.