“Tom Selleck was supposed to be Indiana Jones/I’m not supposed to be living here all alone.” This is where things really start getting bleak for poor old Kenny Dennis — bleak enough that Serengeti briefly positioned it as the end of Kenny’s story. After a string of albums that expanded his character from lovable Chicagoland oaf to disillusioned aging rapper, Dennis 6e finds Serengeti’s blue-collar oldhead persona truly on his own, cooped up in his titular apartment and fixating on both where he went wrong and why he never deserved to be wronged in the first place. He still brags about his rap-battle bonafides on opener “Winter Clothes” (“You sweeter than some caramel, I’m stronger than some Duracell”) but quickly detours into a regret-fueled rumination about how his life would’ve turned out if he’d let a few more things slide — like if his pride and his anger weren’t there to set him off when Shaq made fun of Kenny’s facial hair, a subconscious trigger of damaged manhood that culminates in him “stomping around Orlando, mad I never got to be a dad.” 6e also drives home that his wife Jueles is gone forever — apparently the victim of a 1993 plane crash Kenny never fully came to terms with, which is why he spent a quarter century dwelling on a past he’d never been in a hurry to move beyond. He tries to get by on the casual camaraderie of his food truck gig (“Job Story,” where he envies a co-worker’s family life), rec league sports (“Softball,” where an opposing team’s hitter needles him by claiming to love his failed dance project Perfecto), and residual hip-hop motivation (“Don’t Need It,” where he winds up getting exhausted by how much of it was expressed through kneejerk beefing). Andrew Broder’s bleary electronics and ambient minimalism add weary gravitas to the impression of a man struggling with stoner burnout and frozen bitterness, as well as some credible local color to Kenny’s relocation to Minnesota; it’s actually kind of unsettling hearing him rage against past enemies and scuffles with them on the room-pacing unaccompanied pianos of “Jam Time.” And by the time his furious panic-attack fast-rap outburst “6e” dissolves into the exhausted closing summarization of “Different,” the idea of Kenny Dennis as pure comedy rap character is as gone as Jueles is.