Night. A dim Manhattan penthouse lit only by the glow of the skyline.
Patrick Bateman stands in front of an enormous wall of perfectly organized compact discs. Each one alphabetized, polished, and catalogued.
A ventilation shaft quietly opens.
Out drops Solid Snake.
Snake dusts himself off and looks around.
“Nice stereo,” he mutters.
Bateman slowly turns, irritated that anyone has entered his apartment without scheduling it through his assistant.
“Who the hell are you?”
Snake walks over to the CD wall and runs a finger across the jewel cases.
“You ever hear about the blackout in Cuba?” he asks.
Bateman sighs, already bored.
Snake continues.
“Power grid collapsing. People in the dark. But those CDs…” he taps one of them, “polycarbonate plastic, aluminum layers. Recycled right, they can help manufacture small solar components.”
Bateman stares at him like he just suggested burning the Mona Lisa.
“You want… my CDs?”
Snake nods.
“Think of it as renewable energy.”
Bateman suddenly pulls one out dramatically.
It’s Sports by Huey Lewis and the News.
Bateman holds it like a sacred artifact.
“You have any idea,” he says slowly, “how difficult it is to find a mint-condition first pressing of this?”
Snake shrugs.
“People are sitting in the dark.”
Bateman scoffs.
“These are irreplaceable.”
Snake leans against the wall, unimpressed.
“They’re plastic discs from the 80s.”
Bateman smirks.
“Wrong. They’re culture.”
He slides the CD back into its slot with surgical precision.
Snake sighs and lights a cigarette.
“Guess the Cubans will stay in the dark.”
Bateman straightens his tie.
“Well maybe they should have invested in a better sound system.”
Snake shakes his head.
“Colonel was right about you.”
Bateman pauses.
“Colonel who?”
Snake starts climbing back into the vent.
“You wouldn’t get it.”
Bateman calls out after him.
“And stay away from my Phil Collins section!”
From inside the vent Snake mutters:
“Mission failed.”
