"Is this what drunk feels like," I ask, one hundred years later, entwined in Thatcher Stag so tightly I can't quite figure out where each of my limbs is located.

"No, Chezz," he says, laughing at me. "This is what stoned feels like."

"Hmmmm," I sigh. "I like this." I think I drift off to sleep, but eventually I open my eyes to see Thatcher kneeling beside me with the hand towel from my bathroom. I hear it dripping on the floor. "Did you just soak my ...