"Little dog, too? What are you the fuckin' Wicked Witch of the East?" Marty couldn't help it, he was a smart ass.
"Man, I don't have anything on the outside any more. Why the hell would I want to go back out there?" The metallic taste of blood was all he could taste and smell in that moment. Not what he preferred to be tasting at that moment. Marty shuffled his feet, shifting his weight from his bad leg to the other.
"I'm not leaving, and I sure as hell ain't gonna go to a damned prison cell willingly. So bring it on, old man." He lifted his hands. He was asking for it. If O'Brien was going to take him "kicking and screaming" he was going to make it worth both their whiles.