Wim Herzog let forth a steam of expletives from his lips followed closely by a stream of vomit, as had been his normal morning ritual over the last few days. Since Wim had arrived on the YSS Horizon he had suffered a major artistic block, which had driven him into a deep depression. For some reason not a single good idea for a film had appeared in his head since he'd arrived at the ship. It may have been due in part to the fact that there was an ever-replenishing mini bar in the ships quarters. This meant he had spent a lot of time drinking since he arrived. A vicious circle soon formed: the more depressed he got the more he drank, the more he drank the less good ideas he had and the less good ideas he had the more depressed he got. Thus he had ended up in the state he was in now: lying in a pool of his own vomit, faeces and urine.
This had kicked up a stink with the other inhabitants of the ship, quite literally; in fact they'd been forced to close off the entire area of the ship for health reasons. A whole corridor had to be quarantined and only those wearing decontamination suits were allowed in. So far their attempts to clear the mess up had been unsuccessful; Wim had forcibly decommissioned the cleaning robots they sent. When the security personal tried to apprehend him he defecated in his hands and threw it at them. In the end they'd managed to get him to leave the room by deactivating the mini bar and then they ambushed him when he went to get more beer.
Two days later Wim woke tied to a bed in the sickbay with an extreme pain in his anal region. He noticed that there was a nurse and a security guard in the room with him. The nurse saw his eyes move and said, "Finally you're awake.â€