Speaking of things that will make you look stricken, let's cut to Linc's hotel room, where the erstwhile Dylan McKay is giving Tina a $1,000 tip for what I can only presume is their re-enactment of the torrid deflowering scene from Moist Thighs, Pink Bottoms 3. Man, I really hope Linc isn't tipping 20% or else my entire concept of what the market will bear just died whimpering in the corner. Linc seems to be under the impression that this tip will cover Tina's telling him just what an impressive lay he was. "You fucked me cross-eyed," she says flatly. "I never took a cock that big, and you handle it like a champ." Now you're just being patronizing, Tina. She tells Linc to "do better than you did with Butchie." Linc asks if she's referring to Shaun, and points out that it seems increasingly unlikely that the Yosts will let him anywhere near the prodigy. "Stick around," Linc pleads. "Help me think." "Yeah," Tina scoffs. "That's what I'm good at." As the former Mayor of Carmel used to say, everyone's got to know their limitations. "I had a good time," Tina says, not at all flatly this time, before walking out of Linc's room. That's exactly what Brenda said, back in the day.
Out in the great outdoors, we see a blanket from which lots of smoke is billowing. Some sort of Native American sweat lodge? Yeah, that was my first instinct too, and we'd be right if we define "Native American" as "Vietnam Joe" and "sweat lodge" as "hole in the ground where he smokes reefer." Joe is rousted from his herb-fueled unwinding by the sound of rustling in the nearby underbrush and the voice of everyone's favorite crypto-mystic Morrissey lookalike. "Don't be afraid, Joe," says John -- perhaps not the first thing to expect from someone who lives on a diet of marijuana and 'Nam flashbacks. Indeed, Joe has his sidearm drawn and at the ready, before he scolds John that he's cruising for another near-fatal bruising. Looking around Joe's compound, we see that he's balancing that whole smuggling-immigrants-across-the-border career path with a healthy interest in horticulture -- five hundred plants! -- though the crop he's growing is not the sort you'd show off to the 4-H and especially not to the DEA. Anyhow, John's not here for gardening tips: "Justice must be served, Joe," he intones. "The vato must get his due." In case you're not up on your slang, John is referring to the gent who tried to aerate him a few episodes back. "Well, if ever there was a crime that cried to heaven for redress, it'd be getting gutted and left in a ditch," Joe concedes. John suggests involving the police; Joe is not too keen on that idea -- you know, what with the massive marijuana farm he operates. John was apparently referring to Bill -- an ex-police officer and a Vietnam veteran not unlike Joe. Anyhow, Joe motions for John to get in the van. "Zippy told Bill we'd be over," John says. Of course he did -- he's a very thoughtful parrot.