Tonight, Brock has been drinking well past the point of what constitutes normal behavior for him, and he can't help but find it a little funny that the good-looking physician had asked him how much alcohol he consumes on a regular weekly basis. Well, it wasn't a lie. This situation just kind of falls outside the whole 'regular' parameters.

He's sure he'll get over it soon enough. He's good at that, getting over things.

Apart from the occasional interruption, Brock has been largely avoided and ignored by people through his slowly escalating bender. It could be a number of reasons: he's huge, he's intimidating, his default expression is mean enough to make grown men piss their pants. He doesn't really think about it because it's normal, unlike everything else about this whole situation.

But then, there is the occasional interruption. Brock is staring out over the city and the mountains, considering throwing the half-empty bottle into the dumb forcefield that's ostensibly keeping people from jumping off the roof, just to see what happens, and rolls his head to the side when he figures out somebody is actually talking to him.

"You know they got a whole bar downstairs, right."