The moment your eyes peeled open, taking in the hospital room, the Scottish man was already spewing words at you, words that were drowned out by the beeps of the EKG machine and the morphine.

He swung his fists into the air, laughing heartily as he recalled the night you two shared. “Then you went, ‘gimme me fookin’ chips,’ bam!” John swung once more.

“They had to call riot police! Mate, you were unbelievable!” John grinned, shaking your arm, raising it as if you’ve won a boxing match.