Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 121

I don't remember how long it was between the time he stuck me with the hypodermic needle and the time I slipped off the edge of the world. Five minutes? Five hours? Five million years?

A miasma of rotten onions hung in the air, as if I were stumbling through Hell's vegetable market. I couldn't seem to focus my brain on anything except repeatedly reminding myself that what they wanted was Diana's location. And telling myself that I wasn't going to reveal it, drugged or not.

I could barely see the doctor standing there talking to someone. It was Vic...