Cole Robinson snorts a foot-long line of coke like it’s his job. He gasps and pounds his fists a few times on his mahogany desk and looks about to have a heart attack. He paces around the room a few times, his white robe trailing behind him. He stops at the wet bar he has set up beneath a signed Scarface print and makes himself a stiff drink. Just another Sunday afternoon here at Rockstar Games in New York City.

For those who don’t know, Mr. Robinson is the rock star at Rockstar. He’s their go-to PR man. The one who made the company their first million. And while he may be a small man – he can’t be an inch over five foot – he has some really big ideas.

“Kittens man, you fuck the fucking kittens,” he says after downing his old fashioned in one gulp. “They’re cute, right? And you fuck them. Non-consensual like. Kitten rape, is what I’m saying. Write that shit down. That’s an exclusive you got there. You fuck kittens. First game to do it. World first.”

He stares at wall, then at his hands. “Cocaine! Alright!”

The ‘kitten-fucking’ that Mr. Robinson refers to a new mini-game recently added to the company’s next installment of their flagship product: Grand Theft Auto: The Ballad of Gay Tony. Not much is known about it other than it involves having anal intercourse with adorable kittens.

Now Mr. Robinson screams into his Blackberry while sprawled out over three chairs in middle of the Rockstar Studios reception area. He’s dressed in the rumpled Armani suit he’s been wearing for the past four days. His hair is a wild mess.

“I like it fucked up!” he yells. “It makes people understand that I can fuck them up!” He tosses the phone over his shoulder. It cracks open into a dozen pieces on the tile floor. A beleaguered security guard collects the pieces. “That was EA. Remember when they tried to take over Take-Two a while back? Well, I still have the CEOs son somewhere in the Poconos. Boom, problem gone!”

Robinson is no stranger to controversy. Rockstar’s brand of gory, sex-filled violence-orgies have gotten the company in trouble before. All part of the territory, says Robinson, who in 2001 was plucked from his job as a bouncer to get as much exposure for the games as possible, by any means necessary.

“Remember Manhunt? Game about killing killers for snuff videos? Well, we actually made a series of snuff videos. It was wild man. Very cinema-verite. It was going to be, going to be like, viral marketing. ‘Cept nobody watches snuff films anymore! First big, fucking, failure.”

Mr. Robinson takes a deep drag out of his cigarette and sighs. “Fucking Youtube.”

The next morning, screenshots of the kitten rape mini-game surface for the first time. The scenes are extremely graphic, with a substantial amount of detail going into the facial expressions that a kitten makes when being sodomized by the player character. It appears that a button must be pressed in time with the rhythmic humping of Gay Tony’s buttocks. If done incorrectly, the digital kitten explodes in a mess of guts and semen.

Mr. Robinson seems to show no remorse for the way the new content is shaping up.

“Look, this business, this business of video gaming and shit, you’ve got to be there man,” Mr. Robinson says. “Fucking, like, flares coming out of your ass. I mean, we called the game “The Ballad of Gay Tony”. We expected to be pissing out multicolored glow-stick water by now, but no. No fucking CNN around-the-clock Gamestop coverage, no Fox News circle-jerk. If you ain’t got 1000 words in the Post about how you’re corrupting youth, you’ve lost the fucking war.”

Robinson expands on this point several hours later, while behind the wheel of his Porsche. He’s drunk, high, and going 120 mph in a school zone. A strange woman is going down on him.

“People don’t fucking understand, you know, what fucking, what fucking, you know, goes into this shit. You know how many bats we broke on hookers–” His phone rings. “I got to get this, champ!” He answers. “Y’ello…a-huh…yeah…well, yeah, just call it the ‘Matthew Shepard’ achievement and give them some fucking gold badge or some shit. You’re asking me to do your job now?”

Robinson jerks the wheel suddenly. The car spins and turns over on its side. It careens into a lightpost. There is a crunch of metal followed by the pillowy punch of an airbag.

Mr. Robinson awakes with a jagged piece of metal through his neck. He laughs, blood bubbling out of his mouth. The strange woman looks dead. Sirens wail in the distance. “I can’t…die…” he says. “I haven’t…fucking…made my opus…”

As the light fades from Mr. Robinson’s eyes, one can almost hear the cats laughing.

Reported by Hardcasual’s Canadian correspondent, Filipe Salgado.