A/N: I guess this is short enough to technically be considered a drabble... I doubt you'll need it this time, but I have tissues at the ready just in case!
Pickles had tried to kill himself twice in the short time between the Snakes N' Barrels break-up and the formation of Dethklok. The first time, he'd tried to overdose. It was ironic, honestly, as he'd attempted it with heroin. He'd always yelled at Tony, always been so afraid that Tony would kill himself doing heroin, and here he was barely breathing in some hotel room he was staying in since he couldn't afford his rent anymore. The biggest difference is he'd been afraid Tony would kill himself on accident; Pickles had done it on purpose. He'd been lucky that night, having called room service at some earlier point. They'd found him near-death and rushed him to a hospital, and they'd been able to save him from the overdose. They hadn't been able to save him from himself. The second time he'd tried, he decided he'd go full out, no possibility of return. No more overdosing; he'd do it right this time.
He'd paced around his hotel room for nearly three hours, walking to the window, staring out it, walking back to his bed, sitting, picking the revolver off the bedside table, putting it back down, standing up, and repeating. He finally sat on the bed for what he wanted to be the last time, picked up his revolver, stared at it for a while. He gently tapped the barrel on the palm of his left hand, trying to speed his thoughts up or slow them down, just trying to decide. He held the gun up to his head; he knew it was empty, but he just wanted to get a feel for it first, hold the gun's weight, see how hard it was to pull the trigger. When he was finally convinced he could do it, that he needed to do it, he opened the cylinder and took a single bullet from his pants pocket, sliding it into one of the chambers. He was shaking as he closed the cylinder, cocked the hammer, pressed the end of the barrel against his head. He thought of turning back then but, as his inner voice shouted at him "why bother", he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
He let out a gasp and a sob when the gun clicked but didn't bang, and fretfully wiped the tears from his face. He stared down at the gun, convinced he'd just not shot the right chamber. With a hand even shakier than before, he pressed the barrel back against his head and cocked the hammer, pulled the trigger, heard the click, cocked, pulled, click, cocked, pulled, click, until all six chambers had gone around twice. He was in disbelief for a while. He opened the chamber and pulled the dud of a bullet out, stared at it. He set it on the bedside table, resigned it to just being a bad bullet, and pulled a second one from his pocket, pressed it into the chamber, closed the cylinder, cocked it, repositioned it. He felt sick, he wanted to throw up, but that was just one of the many inconveniences he'd be leaving behind. He pulled the trigger and again heard that resounding click.
He was furious, he knew the bullet was in the right chamber. How could he get two duds in a row? It was fucking impossible. With a strangled yell, he threw the gun to the floor in anger. He jumped nearly a foot in the air when the gun suddenly went off, firing the bullet straight through the window he'd been staring out earlier. His eyes were as wide as saucers, he held a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming or vomiting. He could hear the people in the other rooms yelling and running and calling for help. The oddest thing was that he'd stopped crying. In fact, when he dropped his hand from his mouth, he was smiling. Not quite laughing, but smiling.
He met Charles Ofdensen the next day.
