A/N: Bless you for reviewing. Here's more drabble…

CUT TO:

We're back in THE RED SHARK careening "down the road to Las Vegas" at 90 mph. DUKE is at the wheel proudly wearing a white powdery mustache on his upper lip. ROWE sits on the passenger side clad in a pair of DUKE'S sunglasses and visor hat. THREE DOG NIGHT'S "Mama Told Me (Not to Come)" blares on the radio. Every so often wisps of marijuana smoke stream out from the RED SHARK as they tear up the road, so to speak.

JOSIE (V/O)

I was on an incredible high. The Good Doctor had an awesome stash, it turned out. I find it impossible to recall how Duke and I got from the convention to his car or how he managed to get me loaded, but I quickly found that when you're around a man like Raoul Duke, details like those listed are grossly insignificant. Before I'd even grasped the reality at hand, I found myself floating like a balloon and seeing speckled catfish everywhere. I remember saying something like:

"Whoa! Would you look at my knee? That's got to be the, uh, greatest invention… since… bread… Wait! Uh, Du- du- dukie- Oh my God! Dukie! Where are we going, Dukie?"

"Vegas, goddamnit!" He yelled back.

I laughed hysterically at this and let the whiplash of the corvette drag me back into my seat.

"Hey!" I said, pulling myself against the force of this high-velocity travel once more. "Wasn't I supposed to interview you?"

"By God, you're right!" Duke said. He beat the steering wheel angrily. "Fire away! Quick, man!"

"Shit!" I muttered, glancing around at my feet. The car was swooning. Or was that me? "Where's my tape recorder? I need that thing… to live… Ah fuck it, never mind."

"What!"

"I SAID NEVER MIND!"

And then I found it struggling for stability near the windshield wipers.

"Okay," I said, speaking softly into my tape recorder like a psychotic BINGO announcer. "I'm sitting here with Raoul Duke-"

"Doctor of Journalism!"

"Raoul Duke: Doctor of Journalism. We're driving to Las Vegas in one snazzy, red corvette and I'm high as kite! OW!"

"Ah!" Duke yelled. He suddenly jerked toward me and grabbed my sleeve. "Now you listen, missus, and you listen hard. This well oiled machine here has a name! This isn't just some automotive! It has a soul, goddamnit! You're sitting in the Red Shark, woman!"

I laughed again and pulled free from Duke's grasp. He resorted back to mechanically driving in that same, fragile silence.

"Okay man," I said haphazardly. "Whatever floats that quirky boat you drive. Oh! We should get a boat! A boat!"

"Never!" He cried passionately.

"Fine… worthless whore," I added. "Now, why are we driving to Las Vegas?"

"I, uh… mystery!" Duke growled in answer.

"Ah, the Good Doctor says it's all a mystery. Better drop the wiffle-ball."

Then, before I had time to change subject and ask Duke where he bought his awe-inspiring Acapulco shirt, the man broke my concentration with a frightening noise. He shrieked like a banish and jumped up from his seat as if he'd sat on a South African tarantula. The Red Shark fishtailed, swerving and spinning and screeching and twirling down the road in a cloud of dust, making me cough like an asthma patient.

"Run away!" I screamed.

But all too late. Before I knew it, the Red Shark had skidded to a stop. A car door slammed, and I opened my eyes. Duke was gone.

"Heeeello?" I offered.

There was the sound of closing trunk, another car door and… was that a school of catfish waving to me from the horizon? I took a long drag from the joint in the ashtray. Medicine, medicine…

My head was steadily rising just a few more feet above the clouds when I glanced back at the driver's seat.

"Sweet Jesus!" I screamed. Duke had somehow reappeared back in the driver's seat and wasn't wearing his hat. "You're bald!" I cried, near tears. "You are one bald man!"

"Am I?" Duke inquired, his hand caressing the top of his head. Then a look of total, terrified clarity covered his face. "Good God, you're not lying!"

"Sweet Jesus, I can't take this." I said in exasperation. "Here, take this-"

I whipped off the visor hat I'd stolen from Duke earlier and placed on the Good Doctor's head in an odd, slanted way so that it hid as much of his bald spot as possible.

Duke barked once in thanks. Meanwhile, his eyebrows seemed to be doing some freak facial hair dance. They were jumping and moving everywhere. It was intensely entertaining.

"What?" He asked. I must have been staring openmouthed at his eyebrows' magnificent talent. "What are you looking at there? Is there… drool, man? No? Maybe? Answer, Rowe! Oh, Christ, never mind. Here-"

He bent over and carefully tore something he held in half. He handed one part to me, thought a moment, and then put the other away.

"What's this here?" I asked.

"Blotter."

"Acid?"

"Oh yeah, man."

"Huh."

I placed the thing on my tongue and let it dissolve. My head was already fogged and spinning from the pot, but maybe this crap would stop the catfish from coming back.

"Okay now," Duke started. He was talking fast. Very, very fast. As if there would never be enough time to say what he needed to. "You've got half-an-hour, Greenhorn, maybe less, maybe more, before this vile stuff does its job. DO YOU SAVVY, GREENHORN?"

"Hell yes!" I cried.

The Red Shark roared and we were off again.

Black screen.