There's a story there, in that offhand comment about having done that sort of thing before. Ford can only begin to imagine the circumstances which might have lead his brother to be committed to a mental institution, though if he had to hazard a guess, he'd say it was probably some sort of bizarre misunderstanding resulting from A. Stan's eccentric behavior or B. An elaborate scheme gone horribly wrong. Or right, depending on whether or not landing himself in the loony bin was Stan's intention all along.
After all, he had to get his hands on all those medications somehow, and Ford has never known his brother to do anything conventionally.
When the man in question returns with an absolutely obscene amount of ill-gotten prescription medications, Ford can't help but smile slightly and let out an amused exhale through his nose. It's not quite a laugh, but it's in the same ball park which has to count for something.
He swears to God, if Stanley actually went undercover as a mental patient just so he could raid a pharmacy, he'll eat his hat.
"Honestly, your guess is about as good as mine." He admits, before picking up a bottle at random and squinting at its label only to immediately set it aside once he realizes it's a barbiturate.
He's desperate, but he's not that desperate.
"As far as I'm aware there are no drugs on the market - black or otherwise - that can effectively prevent a person from dreaming."
He turns over another bottle, then another, inspecting each label quickly but thoroughly.
"So, failing that, I figure we may as well go in the opposite direction and see if there isn't something that will make my dreamscape so unstable that Bill won't be able to exert his control over it."
He pauses, looking up from one of the orange bottles to level his brother with a comically deadpan expression.
"In other words, before I go to sleep I might need to be about an eight out of ten on the Balls Scale of Trippiness."
He doesn't know how he manages to say that with a straight face, but he does, despite the powerful urge to smile at his own joke.
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After all, he had to get his hands on all those medications somehow, and Ford has never known his brother to do anything conventionally.
When the man in question returns with an absolutely obscene amount of ill-gotten prescription medications, Ford can't help but smile slightly and let out an amused exhale through his nose. It's not quite a laugh, but it's in the same ball park which has to count for something.
He swears to God, if Stanley actually went undercover as a mental patient just so he could raid a pharmacy, he'll eat his hat.
"Honestly, your guess is about as good as mine." He admits, before picking up a bottle at random and squinting at its label only to immediately set it aside once he realizes it's a barbiturate.
He's desperate, but he's not that desperate.
"As far as I'm aware there are no drugs on the market - black or otherwise - that can effectively prevent a person from dreaming."
He turns over another bottle, then another, inspecting each label quickly but thoroughly.
"So, failing that, I figure we may as well go in the opposite direction and see if there isn't something that will make my dreamscape so unstable that Bill won't be able to exert his control over it."
He pauses, looking up from one of the orange bottles to level his brother with a comically deadpan expression.
"In other words, before I go to sleep I might need to be about an eight out of ten on the Balls Scale of Trippiness."
He doesn't know how he manages to say that with a straight face, but he does, despite the powerful urge to smile at his own joke.