He's higher than a zeppelin shot into space, but no one's really surprised. The ghoul could hardly keep his head up without falling over like a newborn Brahmin calf in the streets.

"Heh, woah," His arm slinks over your shoulder. "Damn. Can't feel my toes. Or at least what's left of 'em."

Hancock's breath carries the pungent blend of jet and whiskey, a scent worse than death. "M'fine. Let's get into trouble out there like always… shoot the shit."

"… N' maybe another hit wouldn't hurt."