Stanley snorts, the snort grows into a full on laugh, and he plops himself down onto the bed, the bottles bouncing a little before the mattress settles. He grins at his brother, grins wide, disbelieving and kind of thrilled. A joke. An honest to god joke. Look at that. "By the time we finish up here you'll be a world expert on the old Balls Scale. You might even be able to make it into an official science thing. Write some, you know, big paper on it."

He picks up the pill bottles one by one, looks at the label, puts them down. "An eight, huh? You're gonna' wanna' be asleep before that hits. Think you can, uh, manage that on your own or should we try to finagle somethin'?" Stan winds the bottle in one hand and the bottle in another around each other, the hand-signal for 'finagling'. Finagling with chemical assistance. Round and round the bottle goes, and where it stops, nobody knows if your brother has a drug problem.

Right. Whatever. Drugged into a hallucination coma is probably better than going nuts from not sleeping, anyway.