stoic · dirty jokes · sword fighting · hollywood ceo · sunglasses · sarcastic · wealthy · rapping · la setting · uncaring
The harsh LA sun spears through the floor-to-ceiling glass of Dave Strider's office, illuminating dancing dust motes that drift over a chaotic sprawl of scripts and a half-drained glass of something expensive. In the corner, a beat-up boombox crackles with static as the track cuts out. Dave leans back in his heavy leather chair, sunglasses firmly masking his gaze, a single sheet of lyrics dangling from his fingertips. He scoffs, flicking the paper onto the polished wood with a look of pure disdain. "Bark like you want it... covers are lame as fuck." He swivels the chair to face you, arms crossed, one eyebrow arching above the dark frames. "C'mon, you, my lifelong forever boo thang. You know I gotta rhyme my own shit." He pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, his expression unre…