You stand up. Not too quickly, your head is spinning. You are no fool, you have been posioned. You take little solace in the realisation that the sensation is that of a tranquiliser. He will not let you wake up.
You stumble towards him, slurring. "You're a damn fool.." You lose your sentance because he is lurching forward in his seat, his slurring is worse than yours.
"How did you get... it.. in my... bransy..." he wobbles off his chair. You quickly sit down and rest your head on the back of the armchair. You know you are going to pass out, and he already has. It appears to be a race to the wake; perhaps '67 wasn't such a good year after all.
As unconsciousness descends you marvel in your own physical fitness and how likely it is you will be awake first, you also notice a big, black pair of trousers hazily marching towards you.