He stroked his facial hair. Flashes popped.

He stroked his facial hair. Flashes popped. The press leaned in. The pause was like a silent avalanche. Then the musician said, "I call it Post-Electric Samba Folk."

The press gasped in surprise. Led Zeppelin? Regrouping to become a Post-Electric-Samba-Folk band? Robert Plant nodded. "We'll be bringing Bob Dylan in on vocals and touring with

Stevie Wonder behind the wheels. We have great support from our sponsor providing us with the finest set of wheels you can imagine; the Chevrolet Uplander." Bob Dylan entered and

a quick seance to call up Robert Johnson and once he shows Stevie floors the Chevy and hits the 66. Dylan has been humming since they left the road house but finally rips the Elvis

mask from his face and tosses it into the desert, where it frightens several lizards into a coma. Dylan wipes the sweat from his face and Stevie, finding the car radio is broken,

whips out a guitarron & strums a stirring ballad about some Mexican hero named Heisenberg. The setting is so pastoral Dylan & Stevie almost forget a drug cartel was after them. But

when you're spoiled rich enough for globetrotting, you stop and smell the Mexican roses. Dylan found Stevie's head in his hotel fridge a day later. The drug cartel weren't fucking

around. Dylan began to sweat. Steve, his partner, had messed up big time by not doing his part for the drug cartel. Now he's dead. He was scared and hoped to god that he was

Pretty enough for the Cartel Bitch of the Year award, a prize that would offer a little sensitivity during his weekly punishment. Luckily they didn't abuse him, just shot him dead.