"Man, I feel wasted." Dilbo Farthing pressed the balls of his thumbs over his eyes in an effort to rest the nerves for a moment and lessed the pain. When he took them away again, he had trouble prising open his eyelids.
He rose unsteadily from the sofa, dislodging empty cans of cheap lager and a whole ashtray full of cardboard roaches from homemade cigarettes. "There's something wrong with my eyes," he said, a note of panic creeping into his voice. "I can't see properly."
Sam Trubshaw squinted at him. "Your eyes are flat," he said. "Flat as two pennies. That's not right, surely?"
"Help me, idiot." Dilbo stumbled to the large mirror over the fireplace, peering at his reflection between the dry-marker moustaches and bushy eyebrows they'd thought was funny one night when there was nothing but CSI on the telly. He used both middle fingers to massage his right eye, pulling his face long as if he was shaving off the few short hairs that ventured out between the pimples. The visage of a slack-jawed Sam came into focus.
"What's the matter with you? You look more dopey than usual."
"I feel funny," said Sam. "Sort of detached, like when Spiderman went up against the Blue Reaper in 'Amazing 468' and being a second out of time with his own body."
Dilbo closed his left eye and blinked his right several times. "That's better," he said. "I've sorted that eye. It's like they're made out of plasticine or something. Ne elasticity."
"P'raps we've gone through a space-time continuum and we've got super powers now." Sam grinned, a line of drool spilling out over his lip. "P'raps were the Fabulous Four an' you're Mr. Plastic."
"There's only two of us." Dilbo held out his arm, trying to reach the can of lager on the coffee table six feet away. His arm stayed exactly the same length. "Nope."