Bootsy was drowning. His weightless and limp body slowly twirled in the darkness toward the sandy bottom of the sea, surrounded by millions of tons of salty sea water. There was a vague danger signal in the back of his head, warning him to keep his mouth closed, to hold on to any remaining oxygen until help arrived. But there was no panic, no adrenaline surge prompting his immediate action. Instead, he floated, carried lifelessly along with the current, to the bottom.
Along the way he was aware of thousands of tiny eyes watching his fall. They kept to the shadows at first, then became increasingly brave, the fish finally coming out of their cover by the dozens to approach Bootsy. They swam nearby at first, curious but keeping away, until the first one took a nibble on Bootsy's collar. The others joined in then, swirling and biting, tugging at his shirt with increasing vigor, until his head snapped back and forth atop his limp neck.
Another bite, and his eyes opened.
His mind immediately rejected the input from his senses because his underwater fantasy had been so overwhelmingly realistic that he expected his lungs to be filling with water even before his eyes opened. But he was not on the ocean floor surrounded by inquisitive marine life who pecked at him, he was on the office floor with the darkened form of his attacker looming above him and going through Bootsy's pockets. Hence the shirt-pulling aspect of Bootsy's hallucination.
He considered his predicament for a moment in his muddled brain. It would have taken his attacker just a moment to drag Bootsy out from under that desk, so Bootsy could only have been out for only a couple of seconds, though time seemed hypothetical and unnecessary when one is unconscious. It made Bootsy's head swirl all the more.
What the hell was he thinking about? He was not a metaphysical kind of guy. He was a guy who needed to get back to basics.
So basically, he punched the shit out of the figure currently picking his pockets.