Was that a stupid question? It felt like a stupid question.

"Sorry, what?" I asked.

"You just spoke some weird ass shit." Ross said. He looked utterly confused, stroking his beard. "It sounded Norweigan."

This now convinced me that all of this was some sort of setup by Ross. It was obvious. He started by scaring me, dumping me somewhere (probably Scotland) and coming to my rescue so conveniently by killing a pinata wolf. Then taking me to a pub, having everyone dress up like the disciples of Jesus Christ himself. Pretending we'd fucking time travelled or something, like a shit, fat Dr. Who. Then topping it off by finally gaslighting me into believing I was speaking another language.

What a fucking prick.

"Alright, game's up, cockwomble." I said, half laughing as I looked around the room at all of the bewildered stares. "Come on, stop fucking about. I've got work on Monday."

The big lad looked absolutely bamboozled.

"Chris, are you ok mate? Are you having a stroke?"

I staggered around a bit. Maybe I was? I mean, I'd consumed my fair share of XL Bacon Double Cheeseburgers in my life. Surely my luck would run out sometime. Was today that day? Was my face sagging? I put both arms up to touch my cheeks, to make sure my cheeks weren't melting off my face.

"...no."

"Chris, you spoke some absolute nordic nonsense. Right in front of me."

Was I in the Matrix now? I half expected Hugo Weaving to come sprinting around the corner. I couldn't comprehend what he was telling me.

"English? It was...English?" I asked myself more than him.

Something wasn't right.

Just as well that Luke and Mark appeared from the corner of the room to confirm I had finally lost my sanity.