INT Dobb’s Shack

Dobb’s shack is dilapidated, a rundown version of the shoddiest one bedroom shack ever built by man. Somehow, the dirt encrusted window allows in less light than the cracks in the wall. The solitary lightbulb, dirtied and hanging by a single wire in the center of the room, is dark. Stacks of pots and pans form a miniature city in the center of the room. Pipes hanging miserably from the ceiling drip disturbingly mucus-like fluids onto the grimy newspaper covered floor. There is a half built mailbox lying on a skeleton of a couch, springs rusted through and supports sharp and unpleasant. Dobb himself sits on the floor, eating something directly out of the fridge, plug lying disconnected on the floor in a particularly mucus-y puddle. His shirt barely restrains his abundant body hair, and his face looks as if it was fashioned with the wrong end of a shovel. Mucus-liquid is dripping directly on the top of his head as he finishes whatever it is he is eating. It runs down his grizzled mess of a face, down his flabby, grubby body, and pools in his unclothed lap. He coughs out a hair.

And yet Dobbs is still more attractive than you. I mean, damn.

DOBBS: Seriously, man, take a shower or something.