Pickles goes with him the moment he rolls, bloodied teeth bared in a grimace of pain and determination. He smacks around blindly for a second before his fingers slip around Pratt's throat, and then he's grabbing desperately, thumbs pressing down hard on Pratt's windpipe. He'll kill him. He'll murder him. No, even better, he'll almost murder him, but not quite. Leave him just barely breathing, one leg twitching like a cartoon character --

It's hard to keep focused when he knows that he's slowly bleeding out from the side of his neck, doubly so when passing out is a guaranteed death sentence. Pratt doesn't make it any easier, thrashing and clawing at Pickles's face and arms; nor does being drunk, which hasn't done him any favors so far tonight other than dull some of the pain.

"I'm not going back," he snarls, fighting off the faint sensation of wooziness, "I'm NEVER going back!"