Poor old Big Macintosh has spent the past month in a drug and pain-induced haze. Trussed up from the ceiling, encased head to hoof in an all-encompassing body cast, he had little stimuli to help him tell the hours or even days apart from one another. His eyes covered, his muzzle casted over and wired shut. His ears were shored up and encased, reducing voices to a low rumble. His limbs were splayed stiffly below him, though he could barely feel them through all the pain and painkillers. His only exposure to the outside world was through his nostrils and his free nether regions. And even then those were violated daily, with tubes being forced down his nose to his stomach to feed him, and a movement forced from his backside on regular intervals. The changing of catheters was a pain he had never experienced prior now, and something he feared every day. He much preferred the throbbing of his shattered skeleton to that, and he preferred any feeling to the darkness and silence of his fiberglass prison.

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