Scene: A pristine, ultra-modern apartment. Sleek chrome furniture. A wall of immaculate CDs arranged by genre and color. A plasma screen television plays a muted version of the Sam & Max intro sequence. The camera pans to reveal PATRICK BATEMAN, dressed in a sharp suit, meticulously polishing a controller. He places it down, adjusts his tie, and addresses the camera with chilling calmness.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
You like Sam & Max?

He pauses, giving the question a rhetorical weight, his expression unreadable.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Telltale Games released Sam & Max: Beyond Time and Space in 2007, but it wasn’t until the fourth episode—Chariots of the Dogs—that the series truly transcended the bounds of what point-and-click adventures could achieve.

Bateman stands, walking to the CD wall. He selects an album: jazz. Smooth, intricate, complex. The perfect soundtrack to his monologue.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
What’s fascinating about Chariots of the Dogs isn’t just the razor-sharp humor or the immaculate design—although they’re both flawless, I assure you. No, what sets this episode apart is its ability to weave a narrative that is both utterly absurd and profoundly meaningful. It’s like staring into the void and finding it laughing back at you.

He returns to the desk, sits, and gestures to the screen. Sam and Max are frozen mid-dialogue, a UFO looming ominously in the background.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
The story? Genius. Bosco—yes, Bosco, the paranoid convenience store owner—disappears, leaving Sam and Max to unravel a mystery that spans time, space, and dimensions. The humor is biting, like a perfectly executed pun in the middle of a Nietzschean existential crisis.

He smirks, as if the thought amuses him more than it should.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
And the gameplay. Oh, the gameplay. Telltale delivers a streamlined experience, eliminating the clunky mechanics that plagued earlier adventure games. Every click feels intentional, every puzzle a masterstroke of design. It’s like an abstract painting: chaotic on the surface, but with a rhythm that pulls you in.

Bateman’s tone grows more animated as he continues, his hands gesturing to emphasize the points.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
The humor is surreal, sharp. A mariachi band in a UFO? It shouldn’t work, but it does. It’s subversive. It’s daring. It’s... exquisite. The voice acting? Perfectly executed. Every line delivered with precision, every joke landing like a punchline in a room full of philosophers and fools.

He stands abruptly, adjusting his suit in the mirror. His reflection speaks now, cold and detached.

PATRICK BATEMAN (in mirror):
But what really stands out is the ending. Without spoiling it, let’s just say it’s... transformative. A sombrero-shaped UFO and a revelation that changes the very fabric of reality. It makes you question your place in the cosmos, while also making you laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He turns back to the camera, his face suddenly intense, his voice lower.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
You think you’re playing a game. You think it’s just entertainment. But then it hits you—this isn’t just a game. It’s a commentary on existence, a parody of the human condition, wrapped in layers of wit and chaos.

He picks up the controller, holding it delicately, like a rare artifact.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
In many ways, Chariots of the Dogs reminds me of Whitney Houston’s later work—misunderstood by some, but when viewed through the right lens, it’s a masterpiece. It’s sharp, it’s confident, it knows exactly what it wants to be.

He smiles, cold and predatory, then sits again, crossing one leg over the other.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
So, do I recommend it? Let’s just say, if you don’t play Chariots of the Dogs, I pity you. You’ll never understand what it means to truly live. And if you think otherwise, well...

He picks up a silver letter opener, twirls it casually, then places it down with unsettling precision.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be you.

He leans back, smiles thinly at the camera, and presses “resume” on the game. The screen flickers back to life. The sound of laughter—both Sam’s and his own—echoes in the otherwise silent room.

FADE OUT.