In the height of the afternoon, in the heart of Las Vegas, three music producers sit in their office building, crowded around today’s paper. The entertainment section has a blown-up, grey picture of a man in a suit and tie, looking away from the photographer disinterestedly.
The shortest of the trio clears his throat and reads the headline out in a questionable tone. “Swinging Singer Sips To Be Crowned King of Scat?”
“King of scat? More like king of shat, am I right?” Smith growls.
CW: cursing as is common of Shatfilms