INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
A minimally-appointed bedroom. Neat but cheerless.
BAUCE SAUCE lays atop his air mattress with his laptop planted firmly on his crotch. The laptop’s deficient cooling system sends warmth to his loins. Adorned with Beats by Dre UrBeats, his ear canals swirl with a faint rhythm that we cannot yet hear.
In spite of being alone, his body engages in the infantile stages of turning up. It is instinctual, dictated by millions of years of evolution. It starts with a distant shiver, a shake. First, his head subtly slices through the air like a snake’s slither. Next, his shoulders sway to the snare. Following suit are his arms, undulating like the rarest wave, as fluid and graceful as a Manta Ray’s wing. He is cooking. Somewhere in the universe Guy Fieri feels a pang in his frosted tips.
Spotify is open. He succumbs to sleep, letting Chief Keef’s dulcet tones usher him into a dream world.