I can see him now:
All coke'd up in his dimly-lit, and slightly moldy living room. Sitting at the computer in nothing but a pair of socks and a straw cowboy hat, furiously pecking away at the keyboard while laughing like a hyena.
In the background, his VCR is humming away while his 19 inch color TV flickers with the fleshy glow of 80's fetish porn.
The phone rings, and it startles him as he jolts back into a pseudo reality. "Shit-storm sonufabitch!!!", he screams in a turrets-induced rage, knocking over a myriad of empty Miller Light bottles as well as a small mirror with a straight blade sitting on top of it. He's frantically trying to follow the cord to the phone lost in the piles of rubbish strewn about this living room. After a couple of seconds, he gives up..."Probably just some damn bill collector, anyway" He says out loud, as he swats at the hallucinated birds encircling his head.
The dog seems a bit startled by the whole scene, but at the same time, recognizes it as business as usual for a Monday night. He quietly gets up and meanders through the piles of trash, dirty clothes and stacks of 'Hot Chocolate' magazines in the living room.
He sprints back to the computer desk, which comprises mostly of a computer monitor sitting on a TV tray, and an old wicker chair surrounded by balled-up Kleenex's. He's back to furiously pecking away on his keyboard with a paranoid look in his eye. The only thing that distracts him from his goal of beating Trevor, it the frequent glances at the pinkish glow of the 19 inch TV, to 'beat' himself.
...fade to black...