come_sailaway | Are you on the square? Are you on the level?

Entry tags:

Are you on the square? Are you on the level?

Who: Deputy Pratt & You
What: A reckoning is upon you (He's storming the halls looking for Sharky)
Where: Everywhere!
When: Mid-October
Warnings: Violence. Cult stuff. Cannibalism. Skinning. Gore. The standard Pratt warning buffet.
Notes: Bracket or prose, live your truth.

1. The World Is Weak - Laundry Room
It's already been well established that the best place to have a breakdown on the ship is in the Laundry Room, so that's where Pratt is. Though he's not crying, he's not yelling or throwing things or freaking out over a jacket like last time. No, he's pacing. Back and forth and back and forth, again and again while staring at the ground. He has his arms folded, clutching across his chest, which is an awkward position while walking but he doesn't move them.

He doesn't know what to do. Well, he knows what he wants to do, but he also knows that he is the master of terrible decisions so maybe he should think about it?

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Enjoying yourself?

"Shut the fuck up."

2. Eviction Notice - Decks

When Deputy Pratt leaves his room in the morning, he's wearing his full uniform, his belt jangling with every step, along with the dog tags around his neck. Idly he trails his fingers along the wall as he goes, dragging through some of those bloody notes left on doors without even seeming to react to it.

"Sharky! Shaaaaarkkkkyyyy..."

For all that people have seen him sobbing into mashed potatoes, enjoying himself in the arcade, or just generally being a morose but kind of endearing dork, there's another side to him that even Clarke hasn't seen. The last time he was walking like this he was losing himself to the conditioning and barely knew what he was doing. This is different. Pratt is in absolute control of himself and that is so much worse.

"It's been a day and we had a deal. A pact even." Pratt normally sounds like a raven with laryngitis, but right now his voice is so low and controlled when he talks that it could probably be used to grind glass. If it's not obvious Pratt is pissed. He's fucking furious. And that cold fury is being bottled up, saving it for later, for when he needs to act.

"It's okay, you can come out. We just need to talk. We're going to have a little chat. That's all."

He gets to the end of the hall of cabins, blood trailing from his fingers across all the doors from the loving notes left to Ebalon. He reaches up to his forehead, using the blood to draw a cross down his nose and across his forehead.

"Did you think you were finally free?"

This is probably fine.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Yeah, this guy is a fucking nutjob. Pickles could appreciate it if they were on a team together, especially if he had to face down Daisy, but right now, it just fuckin' sucks.

Ava says she's on her way, and Pickles uses the opportunity to slowly begin creeping in the direction of the exit, hoping to be quiet enough to avoid being detected. That lasts all of a minute before he spots a classic voice changer on the rack...

Shit, he can't not. Especially when it's a limited edition, mid-90s branded Ghostface voice modulator.

"So you want to play a game, huh?" Oh fuck yes, it sounds just like the guy. "You wanna play Regan and the Priest?" When he laughs, it's loud enough to make the thing all staticky. One more line before he tosses it...

"Nah, man, I think you've just been waitin' for a chance to rip Sharky apart. He doesn't think you'd do it, but I know better."

He chucks the thing in the opposite direction, into a bunch of hokey Oujia tin signs, then begins a quicker creep back toward the entrance. A creep that picks up into an alarmed run when he accidentally steps on a pressure pad that triggers a howling werewolf display nearby.

Congrats Pickles, he actually startles when he hears that.

With the distortion he can't tell where it's coming from, except vaguely to his right, but considering the dimensions of this store stretch for infinity that isn't exactly helpful. The smell of the fog machines is actually a little nauseating after standing in this for so long and Pratt backs up towards the entrance a bit to try and get some fresh air. Or at least pumpkin spice air and not fog juice.

He's about to shake his head and make a joke because apparently both of them are having way too much fun with a halloween store fight, but he snarls immediately at that last part.

"I'm not ripping Sharky apart, I'm ripping you apart. Sharky deserves better than to be taken over by a fucking douchebag ghost. He survived the cult, the collapse, raiders and the full-on apocalypse. And all he wants to do here is chill and relax and make this shit a pleasure cruise. Then you showed up to fucking ruin that for him you absolute asshole!" His voice doesn't really do yelling, but there's definitely the sense that he would be screaming at Pickles if he could. "Of everyone on the fucking ship why him? The one fucking cheerful optimistic guy who fucking cares about people. Shoulda been anyone else. You coulda taken over me - no one would notice. Or give a shit. But no, you picked Sharky. And that's the last mistake you're going to make."

He is quite literally seeing red by the end of that, and the minute he hears the display go off and then the sound of Pickles footsteps he takes off running towards him. The instant he sees something moving that isn't an animatronic he is launching himself at it to tackle it into whatever shelving is around.

Not only does he have a gun and a taser on him, he also has a collapsible police baton, but no, he doesn't reach for any of those things like a normal fucking person, he's going to bludgeon Pickles to death with his fists the old fashioned way.

If Pickles had any say in the matter, he would have come back as himself, damn it! He doesn't want to be stuck in some fucking asshole's body, let alone one that feels like it's been through all the things Pratt's describing! This body doesn't feel right, like wearing a skin fatsuit and walking around on stilts, and it doesn't smell right, or look right --

He has no breath to spare on explaining that to Pratt, so he doesn't. What he does do is cut across the winding central path to another rack of wet-looking bagged costumes.

That's mistake number one.

And here, there's only room for one mistake, as Pratt sees his opening and takes Pickles down, the two of them crashing into the water-exposed clearance costumes. Pickles doesn't hesitate ~~bitch~~, taking a punch to the gut and returning it with his own clenched fist aimed for the bloody gash from earlier.

Pickles' aim is true and hits him right in the face, his head snaps back from the impact, blood starting to gush again where it had finally stopped from the earlier injury. His nose is definitely broken, he can feel it, and that's happened to him so often he's surprised he even has cartilage left to break.

Costumes scatter around, the rack knocks over another shelf with bags of plastic spiders that burst and go everywhere like spooky themed caltrops. Somewhere behind them an animatronic goes off randomly cackling as they start fighting in earnest.

Pratt has one palm flat on Pickles' sternum, holding him down and scrabbling with his legs to straddle him and keep him in place. In fighting at least, being on the bottom of the pile is a surefire way to get wrecked in the unenjoyable way. He reels back his fist and starts punching at him, each throw of his arm punctuating what he's repeating over and over, "You're. Not. Fucking. Sharky!"

Maybe he's trying to convince himself now that he's actually trying to beat the shit out of someone who sure as fuck looks like Sharky anyway. Unfortunately all the shit on the ground and the fact that it's wet for some unknown reason has Pratt nearly slipping and falling into Pickles in a way that some fic writer would have a field day with. He's undeterred though, once this plan was set into motion he's not stopping until he accomplishes his purpose.

Getting fucked in a Spirit Halloween, and it's not even by a hot groupie in a sexy nurse costume. Just an ugly fucking asshole in a very real cop uniform, wailing on him with all the fury of the thin blue line behind him. For now, Pickles focuses on defense, keeping his arms up over his face to block as many blows as possible.

He isn't gonna die here, that much is for sure. He will not be murdered by this lightweight psychopath, not after getting so fucking lucky the first time! There is nothing for him beyond this body and he isn't going to give it up! He will not go back to being nothing again, he won't, he CAN'T --

The next time Pratt punches him across the jaw rattles his brain so much that Pickles can't think of anything else to do but bite down on Pratt's arm before he can fully retreat it. It's nothing more than brutal instinct, and he chomps down with the force of a man enjoing his first taste of blood in a very long time.

"Fuck!" Well more like feuughhhkkttt because that fucking hurts and he's sorta forgotten he actually has the ability to feel pain! How about that.

Pickles grabs him like a terrier, and Pratt has to make a split second decision if he's gonna just rip his arm free and lose a chunk of it, or try and get his arm back some other way. He's ninety-percent leaning towards the former, but the fact that he might have knocked some of Pickles' teeth loose and they may come out with his arm, is gross enough to keep him from doing that. Even this cannibal from Jacob's army has his limits and human teeth stuck in his arm that he has to pick out later is apparently where that line is.

Pratt hopes his blood tastes like Bliss and ketamine and death and Pickles chokes on it.

He scrabbles on the ground for something to bludgeon Pickles with, or to wedge in his mouth to make him let go, like he's a K9 unit that hasn't learned the drop it command yet. ~~He. Has. A. Gun.~~ He doesn't even look at what his hand closes around until he starts beating Pickles with it, turns out it's a ouija themed prayer candle which he tries to crack Pickle's skull with. The pain in his arm is distracting enough that he misses and bashes it into the floor, shattering the glass holder in his hand.

Time to try and jab that into his jaw and get him to let go of his fucking arm! Curse Sharky's ridiculously huge beard getting in the way...

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.

Those punches are all that keep Pickles from having his throat slit open like Pratt is field dressing a deer. One of them hits hard enough in the temple to send Pratt careening to the side.

He makes a weird gasping groan because that feels like his already damaged brain is now sloshing around in his head and for a few moments he sees double.

The stun only lasts mere seconds, but that's enough for Pickles to gain the upper hand and the instant Pratt realizes that he is a feral, snarling, thrashing mess. Anything to keep from getting pinned and killed. Blood is pouring from his arm and his nose, and making him more than a little woozy, but he keeps on struggling, unable to get a good grip on anything with his bloodstained fingers.

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!"

Pratt doesn't have anything to say to that, mostly because he doesn't have any air to say things with. The gasping gurgle he makes sounds like someone running ice cubes through a garbage disposal and blends pretty well with the Halloween noises going on around them.

One hand is on Pickles' wrist trying to dig his fingers into those tendons and get him to loosen his grip. The other goes for his eyes, or the wound in his jaw, anything to distract him enough so that Pratt can get some air and recover from this.

It's a lot going on for poor Pickles to deal with, especially when Pratt starts kicking and trying to twist around to bring a knee up into his groin. He's a fighter to the very end, and as Clarke found out, he takes a long time to die.

After the text for help from Pickles, it doesn't take long for Ava to track them down. Through the dissipating fog, the wrecked displays that maybe slowed their pursuit but not hers. The animatronics cackle brokenly as they sense her passing by in a flickering but purposeful path through the Spirit Halloween. That alone would lead her right to the scene, but the shouting and grunts and scuffling truly give their position away.

There's no shock at the brutality, she's seen far worse. Caused far worse. Just a sad tilt of her head as she watches them desperately get whatever blows in that they can, her quiet presence unnoticed. Because she doesn't yet interfere, doesn't call out for them to stop. Doesn't think they'd listen.

It wouldn't take much to knock them both out. They're just two regular humans, after all. And this isn't cold and efficient, it's an outlet for pent up raging emotions that... she can't quite argue with on either side and so won't bother. No, stepping in too early wouldn't solve anything, it's best to allow them to exhaust whatever fight they have left. Make them feel the consequences of the action better than her own disappointment could.

Pratt doesn't like an imposter living within his best friend. Would do anything to rip him out and bring Sharky back. She wants that too. And Pickles has his entire existence on the line, and she's been in such a position before to know the very real fear. He deserves a chance. But she has no solutions.

None of this is right. But this isn't her fault, she has to remind herself. She told Pratt. But he deserved to know. She wouldn't feel any better if she'd withheld this from him. And she knows asking Pickles not to hurt Pratt could only go so far. Still. Still, she's almost tempted to let this play out to the end, because maybe it's not her call to make. Who deserves to win.

But she cares too much. About all three of them. She silently asks Sharky to forgive her, as she sweeps in from behind to wrap an arm around his throat to hold his head in place before shoving a hand right through the back of his skull, fingertips poking out the other side through his eyes. Unlike the hand in his chest, this time she allows it to hurt. "Playtime is over, boys," she hisses against his ear. "Let him go."

And if Pratt thinks he can get cute and take advantage of her holding Pickles back for him. No, he has both her feet planted into his stomach, a twist of her heel to make sure he feels it. "And you. Stay down."

Pickles is howling something about choosing to be blind forever over death, fuck Pratt, etc. etc., and then suddenly there is a searing, awful pain that shoots from the back of his head to the front. So it kind of goes like:

"FUCK YOU, YOU SHITTY RENT-A-COAAAAHHGGHHH!"

He gives Pratt's throat one more hard squeeze, as if hoping to crush his windpipe, then lets go with an awful groaning sound. He doesn't move other than that, though, agonizingly aware of just how bad it would be if Ava decided to turn corporeal with one arm stuck through his head.

Rent a cop?? RENT A COP??? The white-hot intensity of Pratt's glare should cause Sharky to ignite into flames in a way his flamethrower never could. He's going to go demand the Captain send him back home for ten seconds to get his police academy certificate so he can BLUDGEON PICKLES TO DEATH WITH IT AFTER HE KILLS HIM THIS TIME.

Of course none of those words form because he'd probably need air for that and that's a thing he currently doesn't have.

He startles the minute those fingers protrude through Sharky's eyes because what the fuck. There's no room to recoil because he's flat on the ground but he tries anyway; he's seen some horrific things but if Ava actually became tangible right now would be up there in the worst things he's ever seen. He'll pass.

There's a yelp, and a wheeze, as her foot grinds into his stomach in a way that shouldn't be possible. But he grudgingly pulls his own bloodsoaked hands back from where they've been smearing gore all over Sharky's face in a desperate bid to get free.

He hacks and chokes and gasps for air now that he actually can, that final squeeze doing his already damaged throat no favors. It's a few minutes of panting gurgles before, "He started it."

The chaos seems to halt, and Ava can feel the warm blood from the gash in Sharky's neck already soaking through the sleeve of her sweater. Her arm tightens its squeeze like a snake around its prey. To keep him under control, in worry of him bleeding out.

This isn't Sharky. Maybe Pratt is right. Maybe she should just-

Ava slowly slips her hand out of his head with a blur that'll spark through his optical nerves, and pats the top of it with a soothingly whispered "good boy." He'd called her an angel, and so she'll be merciful. And far more patient than she feels.

She fixes Pratt with a stern frown at his childish excuse. "I know. You think it's better Sharky isn't in here right now." She strokes the side of Sharky's stolen face with her fingernails. "But what if he is? What if Sharky is in there. Right now. Watching you do this. Can you really live with that?"

Pickles hands are up and away, held out like Pratt has a gun to the back of his head. Although he reels momentarily as she takes her hand out of him, he doesn't otherwise move; no way, no how is he doing anything to get himself killed.

He's just gonna keep his goddamn mouth shut and let Ava talk Pratt down. Hopefully, that happens in the next fifteen minutes, so he has time to get to the infirmary before he starts to feel woozy.

Pratt doesn't move, isn't going to risk it for either of them. He just pants, trying to catch his breath while his throat feels like it's still trying to close up.

Though he's speaking to Ava, he's looking right at Sharky. "I don't care if Sharky hates me for the rest of his life, so long as he's okay. He can.. can never talk to me ever again, that's fine. I just.. can't let him end like this. He deserves better. I let him down before, let everyone down. And I'm not doing that again."

Yeah okay, Pratt is tearing up a little because he would be devastated if Sharky never spoke to him again. And the thought that Sharky might just be gone forever, replaced with Pickles permanently...

He swallows down a sob because he doesn't want to think about that, "You can let him up, I'm not gonna kill him. I'm just..."

A failure. Again. Like always.

"Yeah it's fine. We're good."

"The alternative," Ava continues, her eyes narrowed sharply because she's not done with you yet Pratt. "Is that Sharky isn't in here," taptaptap to the side of his temple. "And if you kill this bastard, maybe nothing comes back." Because if she had any confidence at all, she'd do it just to have this be over. Pratt and Sharky have always been so good to her, and she wants better for Pickles, but if that's what it comes down to. That's how it'll have to be.

"I think I've been. very. fucking. nice. up until this point," Ava gives Pratt another little heel twist, to make sure he's paying attention. "But I can't help either of you dipshits if you DON'T. TELL. ME. THE. TRUTH."

Sharky's body is significantly heftier than her own, but she drags Pickles back a few feet away from Pratt with little effort, and shoves him upon the floor. That blood loss isn't look great. "So be useful, Deputy. And go get some costume gauze or strips of whatever," she orders Pratt. "And when you come back. You're telling me about that ghost cat and Izzy and convincing me that that wasn't your doing."

Pickles gets dragged and, for once, lets himself. Two-against-one is destined to end badly for him, and his only desire right now is to get a couple of staples in his neck before he gets back to the one thing he missed more than fucking: drinking.

He hates how much these people care for Sharky. He doesn't even get it; he's sitting here with all the memories right at his mental fingertips... and all he sees is some dumbass who likes to drink and fuck and party. What the fuck is the difference? What makes Sharky better than him? Hasn't he been just as nice? Doesn't it say something about him, that he didn't haul off and kill them like the other ghosts have done? What the fuck does Pickles have to do to get Ava to like him the way she cares about Sharky?

"I haven't lied once," he whines, which is all he can really come up with through the haze of pain. "I just want to get drunk and fuck! What's so wrong wit' that...?!"

Pratt is... not listening to Ava at all. The only thing he's thinking about is what if this is permanent. What if Sharky is just gone. Forever. What would he even do at that point? What's even.... it should have been him. No one would have missed him or noticed and maybe then he'd at least have a worthwhile purpose other than just mindless killing.

His little depression spiral is interrupted by Ava grinding her foot right through his torso and he yelps louder than he intended. It takes a few seconds of blinking before he comes back to actually being present in the moment and listening to what she's saying.

"I... didn't lie?" He sounds more confused than anything, but he struggles to his feet, not looking at Sharky, never once glancing at his friend as he staggers off to go find something to deal with that neck wound. He's not even sure what he would lie about, the fact he was going to kill Pickles? She literally saw him doing just that ten seconds ago.

He limps towards a rack of costumes, hoping to find some sort of mummy outfit that he can use the gauze off of. It'll be a second because as soon as he's out of sight of the two of them he bursts into tears and has to curl over the shelving and wrap his arms around his head to tamp it all down. Silently.

When he comes back he wordlessly kneels down next to Pickles. Sharky. All that Search and Rescue training paying off as he quietly tends to that wound in his neck. He's already a fucking disaster, so what if his eyes are all red now. He doesn't care. Don't look at him.

They're both claiming they hadn't lied, and Ava's paranoia itches at her like a rash.

There's more going on. There's. There's something very fucking wrong and she's grasping at every bit of information she knows.

She kneels next to Pickles, having removed her already-ruined sweater to hold against the wound until Pratt returns. She politely doesn't comment on the evidence of Pratt's tear-swollen eyes when he does. Or reprimand him for taking a bit longer than it should have.

"You and Izzy. Went looking for Jenny... Guabancex's brothers. Their trapped souls. And you found a cat. A ghost cat in Tauva, that attacked him," Ava retraces the conversation they'd had over text. "Is there more to it than that? Did you accidentally awaken something? Open some ghost portal?" It's not as accusatory as her first statement, she hadn't actually meant to blame Pratt for this. "It's just. The timing. You know? He starts asking me to go searching too... Ugh," she smacks Pickles lightly on the arm. "If you were Sharky you could at least appreciate when I asked you who Rischie was. Turned out to be a dude after all."

Pickles doesn't say shit the entire time Pratt's gone, eyes fixed on the bloody flooring in front of him. Man, he'd almost had Pratt out for the count, and he doesn't even feel good about it! If this were his crew, he'd be getting a pat on the fuckin' back for almost offing some psycho hillbilly; instead, he's stuck feeling fucking guilty for defending himself.

This shit sucks.

Even when Pratt returns, Pickles is mostly silent, up to the point where Ava nudges him to mention Ren -- mmm, Rischie. Fucking of course. How the fuck did he not notice that?

"No shit it's a person." He side-eyes her for a second, then drops his glare back to the floor. "Dumb bitch got what she deserved."

The Spirit Halloween doesn't have a convenient staple gun or even thread and needle to do stitches, so this is going to get patched up with mummy gauze and cheerful bat and candy corn washi tape. The good news is that Pratt actually knows what he's doing so Pickles won't bleed out. He could make that happen though, he could shove his fingers into the wound and rip his whole jugular out - but he doesn't. All the fight has gone out of him and the adrenaline crash is hitting hard.

"The cat yeah. We were looking for Guatauva, and we ripped the whole fucking bar apart thinking he might be trapped in an object. You know like a shiny jewel or a coin or something. And then I suggested maybe we just ask the bartender? So Izzy did and this cat showed up. It was just sitting there on the bartop all glowing, more like uh.. the silhouette of a cat but light rather than shadow." He finishes taping Pickles up, sitting back on his heels and looking at the ground, brow furrowing as he tries to remember this in the sequence it happened. "Izzy tried to pet it, and that didn't work, his hand went right through it. But then when he said the name Guatauva it attacked him, started clawing the ever loving shit out of his arms but instead of bleeding it's claws were like..."

Pratt pauses, a coughing fit overtaking him, thanks for fucking up his voice even more, asshole. "Every swipe was sucking out Izzy's.. life force I guess. His whole arm went white and dead when I pulled them apart. And then the cat disappeared. We think it needs a sacrifice, needs someone's life so it can manifest. But uh.. I don't think that's why the place is falling apart. Or why Sh--Pickles showed up. Unless the cat let them all out, or I guess Guatauva, if that's him."

But he doesn't really know that, maybe he and Izzy cursed the whole place in their fervor over finding some sort of leverage over the Captain.

"You talking about Jenny?"

Ava rests a gentle hand upon Pratt's shoulder as he patches up Pickles, as he shares more details of the search and the encounter. She knows he probably doesn't want to be here, doing this. But she hopes it helps some, giving him something to focus on during the rough comedown of violence and rage. She doesn't want him running off like this. Doesn't want him alone when he crashes.

"He didn't tell me any of that," Ava frowns, slightly annoyed to be sent on a task with important information withheld. "You'd think those would be relevant details. He wanted Darcy to go with me. Suggested a whole team. What if she'd gotten attacked-" He'd asked her to go into a situation blind, knowing the risks himself. She knew he didn't care much about her. But Darcy?

She rubs at Pratt's back as he coughs.

"Jenny? I heard how she won her illusion of freedom, fucking everyone else over. What do you mean deserved? Getting trapped here again?"

Huh. Vengeful ghost cat of Guatauva eating someone's life force through cat scratches? That sounds about right for this stupid goddamn ship and all its convoluted magical bullshit.

But -- she won an illusion of freedom? She's trapped here again?

"She's here? NOW? You're fuckin' kiddin' me! That stupid goddamn idiot bitch fuckin' --" He very nearly pushes himself to his feet so that he can scream at the gods more appropriately, but moving so abruptly causes a serious bout of vertigo.

"Wwooooaaah, okee, sittin' down now." Fuck. Headrush... "Fuckin'... Yeah, she fucked people over! And it didn't even do nothin'?! She's just... back here again?" He can't decide if he should laugh or cry.

He flinches at the touch but doesn't shake off her hand, doesn't have the energy for that right now. Instead he sits down on the ground and tenderly presses his fingers against his own nose, wincing as the cartilage shifts around.

"Did he know? This was uh.. last month sometime. I haven't really seen him since then." Which sucks because he is thirsty as fuck for that pirate and can't seem to pin him down. He goes to run his hands through his hair, grunting in pain because he forgot that should they need to identify Sharky's body he's got a nice set of dental records in his forearm. He'll need to wash that out later, his only hope is all the alcohol Pickle's had been drinking sorta sanitized it because the human mouth is disgusting.

"Yeah she was pissed about it too, spent days screaming in the hallways that she was gonna rip the balls off the people responsible. Which I think means Izzy actually. Haven't talked to her cuz I like my balls where they are and I don't want her getting ideas cuz I know him." He nearly fucks up his bandaging of his own arm, which is going terribly anyway, reaching out to try and shove Pickles back down. "She's from your group huh? What'd she do to you?"

Are you on the square? Are you on the level?

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