An artsy whiteout later, Deadrich Nietzsche and Cloney Mitchell are walking through a living room lensed entirely in Drug-o-Vision, because why bother decorating a whole new set when you can just reconstitute, like, Claire's bedroom and make it all unrecognizably swirly by throwing in one lava lamp and a whole bunch of ficus plants, the official drug den plant décor of the Greater 1970s. Deadrich Nietzsche shares a non-coherent moment with an afroed American-American gentlemen whose turtleneck even looks like it's in callbacks for Hair. As their conversation concludes, Deadrich Nietzsche grabs Cloney Mitchell's hand and leads her off, and she stares behind her to find Young Vernon Jordan (as I've always been inclined to imagine him at that age, at any rate) staring back at her and, I think, making a slightly lewd gesture vis-à-vis his hand and its comparative position on his pants. Is this a spin-off gambit? Aren't we getting a little overly friendly with these people? Unless a totally non sequitur axe comes hurling out of nowhere and lands in this gentleman's back at this exact moment, I do believe it is time to bid him farewell and move on to our death du jour. Because axes don't kill people. Drugs kill people.
Deadrich and Cloney retire to a rooftop deck as the tawdry Los Angeles sunshine helps her throw a mile-long foreshadow across the walls when she notes, "We shouldn't be up here." But Deadrich Nietzsche has a drug-filled answer at the ready, drawling, "We should always be up here. See, that's the tragedy of life." Oh, shut up. See, this is why words "No, seriously, you should come. You don't have to do any drugs. It'll be fun anyway" comprise probably the biggest lie the college years have to offer, beating out other perennial contenders including "I totally just really have an early class tomorrow, so..." and "No, professor, of course I won't tell anyone about this." Cloney strongly suggests that they return to the party, but Deadrich has alternate ideas, securing his fame in the Bit Part Bonanza of this show's opening moments with the parting shot, "No. I gotta go." And go he does, leaping over the short wall that separates him from the great Hendrix concert in the sky and us from the sound of James Cromwell simulating (oh, god, we hope) the act of sexual intercourse. He hangs in the air for a moment because drugs don't kill people, Wile E. Coyote impersonations kill people. But, looking down, a sixteen-ton weight of reality drops on Deadrich Nietzsche, and Cloney runs over to the ledge to find him acting as the kitschy dashboard accessory of a newly compromised Chevy Impala. Ech. I hope he didn't break the little water-spritzer mechanism, because the wipers alone are not going to be able to get that off. Over a whited out screen, we learn that this week's victim is "Bruno Baskerville Walsh," who wasted his life licking The Devil's Postage Stamp and only made it from 1951-1972. My vague disconnect at seeing those non-contextualized dates quickly abates as the dulcet tones of "Something in the Air" fills the soundtrack, because, when in doubt on how to depict a defining cultural moment of the '70s like drugs or the invention of modern rock music or drugs, crib one from the Almost Famous soundtrack. It totally always works. Except in Almost Famous.