Milk is soaking into his suit and Winter is stuttering in his arms, but between the flying weapons and black tar spraying everywhere, Presley is mercifully saved from having to think about any of it. "Son of a—" He lets himself be pulled out of danger by Winter as eldritch tar burns right through his nicest jacket and shirt.

He drops his now-numb hand and uses the other one to reach for a weapon (not the morning star, that's the floor, you idiot) inside his tote bag, without question the best thing Pouch ever decided to gift him. "This is my only suit jacket!" Presley yells as he flings a screwdriver at the Horror, point-first.