As the artist approached him, Aaron shot his glance subtly to a space on the floor that was about three to four feet Away from him. That was the acceptable amount of distance he'd entertain from the younger man.  "Jameson. Good whiskey," The large man noted. "I'm called Grunt until I either make it, fuck up, or die." That's how it worked it the Roadkill Jokers and in most Outlaw MCs. Once you had a position in the club, you never went backwards. You never quit or resigned. You either died or retired from active duty when you were too old and feeble to keep wheels on pavement.  A good percentage of the club seemed to nearing that retiring age and there was a lot of hype and hope surrounding Aaron's Grunt status. The Officers liked his skill set and he had come recommended by one of theirs on the inside who had come to know him and work with him on the block.<br/><br/>"Guns, blood, and bleached bones," he replied in answer to Jameson's question about his preferred art content.<br/><br/>"...but only when I've earned them," the left corned of his lip went up in the slightest of smirks as he looked down at the other man. The second inquiry seemed to take more consideration before he complied and he hesitated before pulling one hand out of the pocket that housed it. He offered it out, palm up first before turning it over for closer inspection of the mishmash of imagery that had been etched into it. Dots, playing cards, insignia, and a biting venomous spider all vied for space on the back of the man's left hand.