It’s 1994, and Robert Downey, Jr. has found himself in the heart of the Mojave Desert with no food, no water, and no pants.  All he can call his own under the harsh desert sun are a loaded .22 pistol and a restaurant sugar jar filled with pure Columbian nose candy.  As he walks in search of civilization or perhaps a source of water to wet his parched lips, he spies buzzards beginning to circle on the orange horizon.  His hand begins to shake and he starts to run.  His knees are weak from frenetic abuses and chronic overextension on the cold tile bathroom floors of the Viper Room.  And as he stumbles, his toe catching against a rock, a vulture seizes the opportunity to descend upon him.   Screaming, with no other defense, he hurls the sugar shaker of cocaine at the hungry vulture, who screeches and sharply inhales.  The startled pause of the bird gives Downey enough time to rise and resume his run, but the vulture lingers, his kettle-mates swooping in to partake of the flaky white bounty.  He only makes it 7 or 8 yards, however, before the venue of buzzards rises, their bills smeared with cocaine, and resume their chase with renewed, drug fueled vigor.  The swell in adrenaline is a fortunate byproduct of the boxer-soiling fear he experiences, and this surge in energy is enough to see him through the desert, running at full speed, firing his 22 wildly in the air at the kettle of coked up buzzards who swarm him like the last shot on the fluorescent tray in the 54 back room.  Finally, his sneaker soles worn through, his legs caked with desert mud and streaked with urine, he collapses in the arms of a police officer on the Las Vegas strip, leaving a trail of buzzards behind him, twitching and foaming at the beak in overdose and bleeding from lazy gunshot wounds.