Miamian Psycho
By Patrick O'Ceannliath
RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism
PATRICK
I always knew I'd find myself in a paradise like this one day. Florida, one of the last paradises that can be found in America. Sure, Dad would always say it's nothing but a retirement hole for old Jews, but I can live with that.
At age 52, you wouldn't think me a day over 29. The impeccable routines I've put myself through over the years to keep myself in top shape, with the smoothest skin, and the most cutting-edge style; there is no second-guessing my success, both professionally and in life.
I deeply inhale the salty, breezy air, and touch the tip of my right finger to my cheek. Despite the unavoidable line or two on my face, my skin remains impeccable, and smooth as a combination of infant skin and marble. My daily routine of facial preparation, exercise, hygiene, and overall well-being, hasn't changed since I was 16 years old. One might call that obsessive-compulsive, but the ones who do, never look or feel as good as I do at my age. I relax in my backyard, far enough in the shade of my palm trees to avoid the direct sunlight, but close enough where I can feel the sun's warmth. The pina colada I drink is a testament of pure; fresh coconut milk, produced a mere 3 hours ago, and hand-made Cuban rum, made especially for me by Fernando, my illegal gardener.
At first when I moved here, I thought of the Cubans and other naturalized Latino subcultures as filthy and worthless as the niggers, spics, chinks, and other various immigrant scum that plagued the streets and lower-income urban areas of New York. Just another brown locust here to feed off the fruits that were built upon the backs of hard-working Americans! Yet, as I began to employ them, and got to know them, a feeling I've never given to any one person or group of people for many years emerged; respect. These were a people who crawled and swam from a country drowning in shit, for nothing more than the freedom to scrape the shit of the overlords they chose. A trait that, despite their race, deserves respect in my book, and a trait that has come in handy for me personally. As I began to amass my staff of personal Cuban and other various Latino assistants, I found that this trait of willingness made them 3 things; loyal, discreet….and even expendable.
The oh-so-wonderful Stalinist representatives of New York's Federal Trade Commission took it upon themselves to regulate the ever-living fuck out of my investment banking empire, and so, Bateman Securities was moved to the more friendly and understanding location of Miami, FL. True, I may have made millions on Wall Street at the expense of Main Street, perhaps my business dealings weren't 100% legal, yes I have multiple Cayman Island accounts; it's called kill or be killed. These so-called "Occupiers" I hear about, a bunch of insignificant ants in a swarm, thinking that by their sheer numbers they can make a difference against a stone wall. I often think about what I could to do to them; the beautiful myriad of gashes I could make across their throats, how I could spell "Occupy This" with their various body parts, how I could gang-rape their women while the helpless, pussy hippies they called their boyfriends watched, maybe even write my company logo in their blood….
Now was a new beginning. I could be a new man, the same man, or the man I used to be. As far as the Miami Businesses were concerned, I was the perfect corporate citizen, and like State Farm, a good neighbor, always there. Hell, even my neighbors in the building across from my headquarters, the Miami Metro Police Department, think I'm a great guy! If they only knew my history, and the desires that define me; would they continue to be as neighborly as they have been?
Since I've settled into my new home, old habits die hard, and old desires awaken, and burn, with a vengeance. Because I've taken such good care of myself over the years, because I AM a God on Earth, in physical and beautiful perfection, I have earned the right to indulge myself yet again. Oh the 80s, how I miss you! The money, the blood, the booze, the pussy, the flaying, the sex, the decapitation, the blowjobs, the torture; I've kept it surprised for so many years, it's like testicles full to the brim with cum, just waiting for a release. In my case, that is both figuratively, and literally, true. I've kept every instrument I've gathered over the years; guns, knives, swords, wires, coat hangers, power tools, yard tools, anything that can cleave flesh or break bone. I found it empowering, orgasmic, immortalizing.
As I sit enjoying the beautiful Florida spring weather, I twirl a strand of braided blonde hair, complete with a bead at the end. The Internet makes it so much easy, and cheaper, today; no need to canvass hardened streets for hookers, and high-priced escort girls were now more expensive, and more traceable. All it takes now, is the right photographs, the right words, and showing up at the right place at the right time. Thank you God for the Internet, you truly do love me!
My last date ended rather abruptly, as many of my dates back in my 20s did, but still it was rather satisfying. She was one of the 4 I'd met so far in Miami. I met her, or rather, "Keith Norwood", met her, at the Gilded Macaw in Coconut Grove. She was your typical "daddy didn't love me" brat, who would do absolutely ANYTHING for a little male attention; it was almost too easy! 3 Blue Hawaiians later, and we're already headed back to Keith Norwood's shitty basement apartment in Hialeah. In my years of experience, I've since learned, and resolved, never to bring women to my true home. As drunk as she was, it was the Taj Mahal. She was practically naked before I even closed the door, and blew me right as the door was closing. I grabbed her throat and jerked her head back and forth on my shaft, getting off as she gagged upon my girth, and when I was finished, threw her upon the mattress. She half moaned, half cried, when I forced my cock into her asshole, thrusting roughly, feeling her bleed. After awhile of that, I withdrew, smearing the blood on my hand and licking it, before shoving my still-throbbing hard-on deep into her pussy, grabbing her hair as I fucked her from behind. I thrust as hard as I could, she was practically screaming, and I wasn't sure if this was out of agony, or pleasure, or both. Reaching underneath the mattress, I took out a machete, purchased from a local Latino flea market, and the weapon of choice of many gangs in the area. After I blew my load inside her, I withdrew, and proceeded to fuck her with the machete blade. Moaning with pleasure at first, then obviously pain, she turned around to see me impaling her gash with the machete, over and over again. She screamed and tried to crawl away, but I grabbed her by the hair again, and cut off both her legs. She cried pitifully, and I let her try to crawl towards the door on her hands and bloody stumps. She managed to reach towards the doorknob, and I cut off her hand, then the other one, then both arms, then her tits, and stood over her bleeding torso as she continued to weep. I finally ended it, thrusting the machete blade right between her neck, her final gurgling satisfying both personally and sexually.
After a meticulous cleanup, I tossed what was left of the body in the part. With as many druglords and gangs in this area, no one would notice it. I kept strands of the bitch's hair as a souvenir, and toy, for me to play with later.
Ladies and gentlemen of Miami, Patrick Batemen has arrived!