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There it is. The burning. The pain. The stomach churning misery and agony of heartburn. Vessel knew that cockroach dancing straight after eating an entire box of spicy chicken nuggets was not a good idea, and yet he did it anyway. He stumbles into the kitchen looking for his trusty box of lansoprazole.
Except he, of course, forgot to pick up his repeat prescription the month before and had completely run out (dumbass). He frantically looks through every cupboard, every drawer, hoping against hope that there would be a single pill left over, but no. Not a single proton pump inhibitor was to be found anywhere. He ran into the bathroom, rifling through the medicine cupboard to maybe find some Gaviscon or Rennie or ANYTHING to stop the fiery pits of hell from literally scorching his esophagus. But there was nothing to be found. He falls to his knees, crying.
(Meanwhile, III is happily conked out, 10 bottles of empty gaviscon surrounding him on his bed. His stomach, unlike Vessel's is very happy.)