A lot of that sort of flies right over Rosinante's head, but he shrugs. All right. Good to know, he figures. For later, when Soldat comes back. When. Or so he hopes.

Way more preferable to think about than that abrupt and jarring death is the sudden production of large amounts of ammunition from those pockets. He'll take the distraction. "That's one hell of a stockpile," he comments. "Did you get all of that from Rastus?"