American Psycho: Overtime on Wall Street
Intro of a redeemed killer:
I live in the American Gardens Building on W. 81st Street on the 11th floor. My name is Patrick Bateman. I'm 47 years old. I believe in taking care of myself and a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my face is a little puffy I'll put on an ice pack while doing stomach crunches. I can do 1000 now. After I remove the ice pack I use a deep pore cleanser lotion. In the shower I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb-mint facial mask which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion.
Many seem to think that reaching 40 is an acceptable age to stop caring about your body, since its heading into its decline. I find this belief to be most incorrect. With all of today's cosmetic supplies and cosmetic alterations, there is simply no excuse to not look your best at any age. Closing in on 50, I still maintain my body of a 30 year old. I have botox injections annually at my plastic surgeon's office, Madro Iglasias. His methods are unique and most of all, extremely pricey. To look your best, you must sacrifice certain things that society has deemed vital to existence. Cigarettes, chocolate and all of the other garbage that fat middle aged house wives pollute their bodies with cannot be ingested to look ones best.
I also believe in keeping my mental state of well being evaluated and monitored by a team of therapists. I see 3 different ones each week. There is Dr. Hutchinson, a young woman in her 30's with a hint of a New England accent. She seems to think that I hide who I really am, by making up fantastic realities that succumb to my needs and desires. My other shrink, Dr. Willington believes I am clinically depressed and wish to inflict harm to myself and others, third, and certainly last is, Dr. Worthington. He is an older man, 75 years old to be exact. He claims that I am emotionally unstable and am waiting to go off like a ticking time bomb.
They are all wrong. You see, a man of my stature on Wall Street goes through hell on a daily basis. I am totally competent and level headed during all of the hours of my profession, did I mention that I am the CEO of Pierce and Pierce? I have worked their for 20 years now. I started when I was 27 and just finishing up my MBA at Harvord. My doctors all attended less prestigious schools, Yale. UCLA. Boston College for Christ's sake. My old therapist, Megan Barmes went to Harvard, but was a dumb bitch. I crucified her on top of the World Trade Center on August afternoon. We met up for dinner and I lured her up there. You see she was suffering a mental condition called the Nightingale effect. Doctors shouldn't fall in love with their patients. Come to think of it, no news of the recovery of the body was made, it was the August before September 11th 2001, she may very well be listed as one of the victims of the terrorist attack.
Ahh, I remember that day well. I had 3 bags of Orville Redenbocker popcorn while watching it on my 70" Toshiba plasma screen in my office…..it was a laugh riot. 3,000 people lost their lives that day, and that was just the terrorist attack, I helped add to the death count by performing a few murders myself. There was the hotel maid from the 4 seasons. She was an old hag, probably Mexican, or El Salvadorian. I borrowed a scalpel from my plastic surgeon and gutted her like a piñata in an ally while she was emptying a waste basket into a dumpster. After I gouged out her eyes, I heaved her hefty wrinkled body into the dumpster so the sanitation workers could toss her body with the rest of the trash. The next, was a violinist playing on some street corner. I threw a quarter into her case, and urged her to play an old tune from Les Miserables. She fucked up on the third note, so I pulled out a beretta 9mm and put a tight shot group in between her frontal lobe. Her reaction was bizarre, her hands still played the music on her worn violin or was it a viola. I don't really know, or let alone give a fuck. Anyway, her hands continued to deliver notes, while her legs gave up and buckled beneath the pressure of her body collapsing to the ground. I kicked her face until it imploded. Ruining a pair of Armani leather shoes is a sin, but using them to cave in ones skull is….scrumptious. The third wasn't really as important, some Aids carrying hooker I beat with a led pipe from a construction site I explored.
My therapists don't know anything about me. My confessions are right under their noses, yet they go unnoticed. I am waiting for the day one of them calls the police to have me arrested. But they never do, never. My blood lust has become a hobby. Some people collect antiques. Some play video games. I kill, I eat human organs, I play in blood like a small child playing in a puddle. You see, it completes me. I've tried other things. Models. Yoga. Writing blogs, but it just fails to complete me.