It's very close to being the former, simply because Pickles refuses to let go even as Pratt flails and tries to dislodge him. Pickles would rather rip this motherfucker apart one mouthful at a time than risk losing this fight. For Pratt, it's a matter of dying and waking up the next morning, missing a chunk of his arm or his liver or something. For Pickles, it's a matter of becoming nothing.

There's so much going on that Pickles doesn't realize there's glass in his neck until it's tearing open the skin below the corner of his jaw. It's a sharp, searing pain that draws a ragged howl out of him, finally releasing Pratt from his mouth.

"GHHHK--!"

He winds back both fists and begins punching with blind, random fury; very few punches land, but the few that do are bound to leave a lasting mark.