PATRICK BATEMAN IN THE 21ST CENTURY
Abandon all hope ye who enter here is scrawled in blood red lettering on the side of the electronic billboard beside the Chemical Bank near the corner of Eleventh and First and is in print large enough to be seen from the backseat of the cab as it lurches forward in the traffic leaving Wall Street. Hope is abandoned, I thought to myself—
"Haiiiil (haiiill), what, the matter with your heaaaddd?"
Nothing. Just that I'm filled to the fuckin' brim with homicidal urges, narcissistic tendencies, schizoid-typical personality issues, a god-complex, a hero-complex, a—you get it, the list goes on and on.
I hate my wife. I hate her perfectly curled and blow-dried blonde hair—and it was the dirty-blonde type, not the pretty platinum she'd shown up with on the first date, fuckin' quack bitch—with all the waves in it, as if it were inviting her innumerable boy-toys to come on down and surf through her—
And I hate her perfectly coiffed hairline, and her Crest 3D-whitened teeth and how she tells all her cunts—friends—that she got them professionally whitened, as if she could afford to with her empty pockets, and if it weren't for me you'd be nothing you bitch—
She has a perfect smile and really her lips are the only thing about her that brings a real smile to my face. Just the sight of seeing them shut brings a peaceful exaltation over me. I feel a lot like God then—well, what People call God—he's obviously not real and just some figment of a conman's imagination.
Her body was undeniably her greatest attribute. She was a hot little bunny, curvy in all the right places—mmh! She had a rack of C's and an ass like a perfectly-tanned cloud.
She let me boof her on the third date. That's when I decided I could marry her. She swindled me, plain and simple, like a hooker—that fuckin' cunt—she seduced me and lusted for my greatness and she entrapped it within her asshole, which, just to be clear, did not appear virgin.
She was rocking out to this jam by Redbone; "Come and Get Your Love." I couldn't deny, it was a pretty bitchin' tune. Of course, I'd never admit that to her. The cunt'd probably implode.
"Hey, baby…"
I peered outside the passenger side window of the cab as we rode out past the tall escarpments and skyscrapers, heading outward. I felt like I was leaving home for the first time. I always considered NY to be the place where it's at. Now that I was leaving, a mixture of odd, uninvited feelings overcame me that I, quite frankly—and pardon my french—was having a shit-ton of trouble ignoring.
"Baby…"
And for some reason, I kept on hearing this buzzing around my left ear, like they were ringing with the buzz of a fruit-fly or a bee. I swiped a paw and scratched the bottom of my lobe. The buzzing didn't disappear. I was getting more annoyed. I started bouncing my leg up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down—and I want to kill this bitch sitting next to me—and up and down and—this pitiful little whore—up and—fuckin' two-faced, pretty-bitch, cheating cunt—down—I wanna take my nails and peel your mask back per cubic-inch of skin you grit, you pig—and—I'm gonna take my power drill and punch a billion holes in your skull until it looks like a big wedge of cheese and then I'm gonna cut the cheese—
"BABE!"
Hah…cut the cheese, I amused myself before dodging an incoming slap in the face, courtesy of my wifey-dearest. I grasped her hand tight in my grip, making sure to squeeze until I can feel her bones squeaking under my fingertips. She looked at me funny.
"Babe?" she whispered stupidly.
"What?" I asked annoyedly.
"Just wanted to tell you I love you."
Love? Love…? And the song ended. "Hey—driver, play that song again!" I demanded, completely ignoring the bitch's declaration. The spic fuck didn't understand what I even said. Rut. "Song." He said something. All I understood was "Radio, radio" and I knew what he was trying to say was that it was a radio playlist that couldn't be rewinded. So much for the 21st century.
I looked back at the bitch. She looked about ready to cry. Good. I realized it was because I was still holding her hand. I let go for some reason unknown to me. As far as I know, I would've loved to hear her bones squeak a little longer. When I pulled my hand from hers, a red print echoed from where I'd held her. It brought a smile to my face that I couldn't force back.
She looked fearful then. Better. I put my headphones on and scrolled through my newly-purchased smartphone for the song I wanted the driver to replay. Put it on repeat. I leaned back in my seat and through the corner of my eyes, peered out the window and watched as the car seemingly skimmed the tops of the skyscrapers from my point of view. It was a good feeling.
Oh! And I realized at that moment, I haven't even introduced myself.
My name is Patrick Bateman—coooommeee and get your loveee—
And I'm living the married life.