They can never love! (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _peapod) wrote,@ 2005-06-16 02:57:00 |
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American Psycho fic
Yes, I am entirely obsessed and quite possibly mentally disturbed. Yes, I would like you to read this. NC-17, because it's gross. *knows how to sell herself*
1992
My name is Patrick Bateman. I am thirty-one years old. For my thirtieth birthday, which was fourteen months ago, I disembowelled a prostitute named Cindy with the blade from a Gillette razor. While she was still conscious, I ate her liver with Dijon mustard and a garnish of fresh parsley. Evelyn wanted to have dinner at Dorsia, followed by drinks at Espace, but Dorsia ceased to be cool at the end of the last decade. I told Evelyn this firmly when she first raised the issue a number of months before my birthday, but as always she refused to listen.
“Patrick,” she says, “Patrick, what are you doing for your birthday?”
“I’m returning some videotapes.”
“You always say that, you tease! Come on, what do you really want to do?”
She bats playfully at my sleeve and I tug my arm away in annoyance.
“Evelyn, do you mind? That’s Calvin Klein you’re pawing at.”
“Sorry. So what do you want to do?”
“Well, I’d quite like to fuck Madonna up the ass and then watch her choke to death on her own pointy bra. Would that suit you, Evelyn?”
Of course she’s not paying attention.
“Because Marcus Halberstam – you know Marcus – says he can book Dorsia for a private function if we arrange it now, so I thought if we did that then we could invite a lot of people. Dorsia has a lot of tables, Patrick, it would be simply amazing.”
“Whatever.” I’m not concentrating. One of the waitresses is bending over the table opposite us, putting some drinks down, and I’m admiring the way her ass shifts inside the material of her dark blue skirt, which is, I think, a not bad piece by Coco Chanel.
I don’t show up for my party because of my pressing engagement with Cindy. The following Monday at Pearce & Pearce, Van Patten taps me on the shoulder.
“Hey Bateman, that was a great party you threw this weekend. Even if Dorsia is kind of out of fashion now. Evelyn organise it?”
“Uh, yes,” I tell him, distracted.
“I really liked the suit you were wearing. Valentino? Wait, crap, I’m late for a meeting. Catch you later.”
He runs off before I have the chance to tell him I wasn’t at the party at Dorsia. He must have got me confused with Hamilton or Allan or Bateman – wait. I’m Bateman.
--
Five months ago I moved to London, basically because of company business but also because I needed a break. Evelyn came with me. I couldn’t really stop her – we’re married now. It was a low-key affair, comparatively. She wore a tailor-made Dior dress and I slit the reverend’s throat in the vestry after the service.
Now we’re in the Ritz, which would be nice if it weren’t for the German tourists in shell suits littering the place up and making it look as trashy as hell. Evelyn has something to tell me, but I’m too distracted. It’s getting worse, my attention span. Recently I’ve been having spells where I zone out completely and come round maybe half an hour later with no recollection of what I’ve done. I’m worried it will happen when I’m at work one day. My father is already concerned for me; if I had an episode on company time he would have to do something about my frankly unacceptable behaviour.
“So, anyway Patrick,” Evelyn is saying, picking apart a cucumber sandwich with her over-manicured nails, “the gist of it is, I’m pregnant.”
“What?”
“I said, I’m pregnant. Do you understand what that means?”
I shake my head no, but actually I do understand perfectly well what it means. I wonder what a child of me and Evelyn will be like. A well-groomed, vacant psychopath, I imagine. It’s a wonder that I can create life, when it doesn’t seem like there’s anything at all inside me. Sometimes I freak out because I don’t think I can feel my heartbeat. Then again, the child might not even be mine.
“You’re okay with it, then? I mean, Cecilia just had a baby and she said giving birth was the most blissful experience she’d had. They pump you full of drugs and you don’t feel a thing except absolute euphoria. Can you imagine?”
I can try. I treat Evelyn to my best smile.
“I would like to abort our baby by shoving a large knitting needle up your cunt. In fact, I think I would jump on your stomach first, you stupid fucking bitch, because I’m pretty sure you told me you were on the Pill.”
“What’s that?”
“I said, I thought you were on the Pill.”
“Oh. I was – I, I am. It must not have worked, I guess.”
I get the feeling she’s lying, but I can’t summon the energy to call her on it. Just then, I hear a voice belonging to someone I had hoped to avoid for the rest of my life.
“Coo-ee, Patrick!”
Luis Carruthers. Christ. The last time I saw him, he was clinging to my knees in Bloomingdale’s and snivelling like the pathetic faggot he is. I make to ignore him, but Evelyn turns round and greets him loudly enough that I can’t pretend not to have seen him. He’s wearing a stylish, if somewhat too flamboyant, green Yves St Laurent suit with wide lapels and no shoulder pads.
“Hello, Luis, whatever are you doing in England?”
Luis bows faggily to Evelyn and kisses her hand.
“Oh, you know, this and that. I broke up with Courtney, did you hear?”
Evelyn makes her aghast face.
“I didn’t know. How dreadful! Well, I guess we all have news to share. It’s a little early to be telling anyone, but I suppose you can know – Patrick and I are having a baby.”
There’s a moment of silence, in which the waiter brings a fresh tray of sandwiches. Shreds of cucumber decorate Evelyn’s plate like droplets of green blood on linoleum. Finally Luis kicks into action.
“A baby? Oh that’s wonderful! Patrick, you must be very proud.”
He looks at me with wide wet eyes and I feel suddenly sick, even though I really haven’t eaten that much.
“Would you excuse me? I have to use the bathroom.”
I stand up and push my way blindly through the throng of badly dressed, overweight tourists. None of them are as rich or attractive as me, and even through my nausea I manage to be thankful that I’m not one of them.
--
After I use one of the cubicles (which looks good for doing coke in, although I don’t have any coke and I haven’t really used it since I came to Britain, because it seems to be the favoured drug of television actors, who are all fags with bad teeth), I turn on all the cold taps and lurch from one sink to the next, throwing handfuls of water on myself. Some goes down my front and makes me look like I’ve pissed myself. I’ve just stuck my head under a tap and am sucking on it as thought it were a tit when the bathroom door swings open and Luis walks in.
“Patrick? What are you doing? You know they sell Evian here, right?”
He giggles at his pathetic joke. I surface and gasp at him, “Fuck off, Carruthers.”
He looks hurt.
“Patrick. It’s been three years. Aren’t you even a little bit pleased to see me?”
“No.” I tell him, “I never want to see you again. You can rot in hell for all I care.”
“Pat-rick,” he singsongs, moving towards me, “There’s no need to be so aggressive. I’m pleased to see you.”
Breaking up with Courtney seems to have made him more forward, the bastard.
“Luis,” I say patiently, “don’t touch me.”
He runs his hand along my collarbone, coquettishly, but his touch is firmer than it was the last time this happened. God, I have got to stop ending up alone with Carruthers. His fingertips trace a path down my bicep, then they slide across and he’s drawing patterns on my $500 herringbone Gucci shirt.
“Jesus, Carruthers,” I say.
“What, you like that?” he says in a faggy lisp that makes me want to cut out his tongue and feed it to him.
“No,” I reply.
“I can’t believe you and Evelyn are having a baby! You’re going to be a father, Patrick.” and as he says ‘father’ his hand moves even lower and he squeezes, Jesus I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming, he squeezes my cock through the linen of my lightweight Versace pants.
I zone out.
--
I come round to find myself in one of the ornate toilet cubicles. Luis is kneeling on the salmon coloured bathroom floor, sucking my cock. He’s making disgusting slurping noises like a kid sucking on a popsicle and I come very close to vomiting. But I don’t vomit, instead I come in his mouth and he swallows it with a little grunt of pleasure or surprise, blinking up at me with his watery blue eyes.
I pull my cock out of his mouth and do up my pants quickly, before he has a chance to react.
“Stand up” I tell him, and he gets to his feet adoringly. I could probably tell him to cut his own throat right now and he’d obey me. When he’s standing I kneel down in front of him, thankful for the relatively clean floor because linen is one of the harder materials to get thoroughly clean, particularly as it doesn’t respond well to harsh detergent. He’s already hard and almost whimpering with desire when I unzip his pants and take his small pale cock in my left hand. As I do this, I’m reaching into my jacket pocket with my right hand and I pull out my switch knife. Carruthers doesn’t see me do this because he’s staring at the chandelier on the ceiling and making small sighing noises.
“Oh,” he starts to say, “I always knew you wanted me too. It’s all right, Patrick, don’t be –“
I interrupt him rudely by bringing the knife’s blade down sharply on his cock, half severing it. Luis doesn’t scream because he’s in shock, which is what is I had banked on when I decided to do this. Blood spurts out and spatters my horn-rimmed Oliver Peoples glasses and, probably, my Gucci shirtfront.
He passes out from the pain and I cut his jugular as neatly as I can in the circumstances. After I’ve washed my face and sponged my shirt off as much as possible (I have to button my jacket up to hide the stains, and it looks kind of dorky but I don’t have any choice), I leave Luis bleeding to death in the cubicle farthest from the door, so that the pooling blood will take a long time to seep into the Baroque tearoom and upset the ornamental cherubs.
Evelyn is bored.
“Jesus, Patrick, where have you been? Some Japanese are eyeing up our table.”
“Sorry,” I tell her, “I was taking a crap.”
“That’s so lovely. Thank you for sharing.”
“You did ask. Come on; let’s get out of here. These tourists are driving me crazy.”
Evelyn gets to her feet and rests one hand lightly on her stomach.
“We’ll all leave,” she says. “You and me and Patrick Bateman the Second.”
“Excellent,” I mutter as I pay the check. “I just can’t wait until little Patrick Junior comes along.”
The doorman bows to us and holds the door wide open, and we step out into the sunshine on Piccadilly.
Yes, I am entirely obsessed and quite possibly mentally disturbed. Yes, I would like you to read this. NC-17, because it's gross. *knows how to sell herself*
1992
My name is Patrick Bateman. I am thirty-one years old. For my thirtieth birthday, which was fourteen months ago, I disembowelled a prostitute named Cindy with the blade from a Gillette razor. While she was still conscious, I ate her liver with Dijon mustard and a garnish of fresh parsley. Evelyn wanted to have dinner at Dorsia, followed by drinks at Espace, but Dorsia ceased to be cool at the end of the last decade. I told Evelyn this firmly when she first raised the issue a number of months before my birthday, but as always she refused to listen.
“Patrick,” she says, “Patrick, what are you doing for your birthday?”
“I’m returning some videotapes.”
“You always say that, you tease! Come on, what do you really want to do?”
She bats playfully at my sleeve and I tug my arm away in annoyance.
“Evelyn, do you mind? That’s Calvin Klein you’re pawing at.”
“Sorry. So what do you want to do?”
“Well, I’d quite like to fuck Madonna up the ass and then watch her choke to death on her own pointy bra. Would that suit you, Evelyn?”
Of course she’s not paying attention.
“Because Marcus Halberstam – you know Marcus – says he can book Dorsia for a private function if we arrange it now, so I thought if we did that then we could invite a lot of people. Dorsia has a lot of tables, Patrick, it would be simply amazing.”
“Whatever.” I’m not concentrating. One of the waitresses is bending over the table opposite us, putting some drinks down, and I’m admiring the way her ass shifts inside the material of her dark blue skirt, which is, I think, a not bad piece by Coco Chanel.
I don’t show up for my party because of my pressing engagement with Cindy. The following Monday at Pearce & Pearce, Van Patten taps me on the shoulder.
“Hey Bateman, that was a great party you threw this weekend. Even if Dorsia is kind of out of fashion now. Evelyn organise it?”
“Uh, yes,” I tell him, distracted.
“I really liked the suit you were wearing. Valentino? Wait, crap, I’m late for a meeting. Catch you later.”
He runs off before I have the chance to tell him I wasn’t at the party at Dorsia. He must have got me confused with Hamilton or Allan or Bateman – wait. I’m Bateman.
--
Five months ago I moved to London, basically because of company business but also because I needed a break. Evelyn came with me. I couldn’t really stop her – we’re married now. It was a low-key affair, comparatively. She wore a tailor-made Dior dress and I slit the reverend’s throat in the vestry after the service.
Now we’re in the Ritz, which would be nice if it weren’t for the German tourists in shell suits littering the place up and making it look as trashy as hell. Evelyn has something to tell me, but I’m too distracted. It’s getting worse, my attention span. Recently I’ve been having spells where I zone out completely and come round maybe half an hour later with no recollection of what I’ve done. I’m worried it will happen when I’m at work one day. My father is already concerned for me; if I had an episode on company time he would have to do something about my frankly unacceptable behaviour.
“So, anyway Patrick,” Evelyn is saying, picking apart a cucumber sandwich with her over-manicured nails, “the gist of it is, I’m pregnant.”
“What?”
“I said, I’m pregnant. Do you understand what that means?”
I shake my head no, but actually I do understand perfectly well what it means. I wonder what a child of me and Evelyn will be like. A well-groomed, vacant psychopath, I imagine. It’s a wonder that I can create life, when it doesn’t seem like there’s anything at all inside me. Sometimes I freak out because I don’t think I can feel my heartbeat. Then again, the child might not even be mine.
“You’re okay with it, then? I mean, Cecilia just had a baby and she said giving birth was the most blissful experience she’d had. They pump you full of drugs and you don’t feel a thing except absolute euphoria. Can you imagine?”
I can try. I treat Evelyn to my best smile.
“I would like to abort our baby by shoving a large knitting needle up your cunt. In fact, I think I would jump on your stomach first, you stupid fucking bitch, because I’m pretty sure you told me you were on the Pill.”
“What’s that?”
“I said, I thought you were on the Pill.”
“Oh. I was – I, I am. It must not have worked, I guess.”
I get the feeling she’s lying, but I can’t summon the energy to call her on it. Just then, I hear a voice belonging to someone I had hoped to avoid for the rest of my life.
“Coo-ee, Patrick!”
Luis Carruthers. Christ. The last time I saw him, he was clinging to my knees in Bloomingdale’s and snivelling like the pathetic faggot he is. I make to ignore him, but Evelyn turns round and greets him loudly enough that I can’t pretend not to have seen him. He’s wearing a stylish, if somewhat too flamboyant, green Yves St Laurent suit with wide lapels and no shoulder pads.
“Hello, Luis, whatever are you doing in England?”
Luis bows faggily to Evelyn and kisses her hand.
“Oh, you know, this and that. I broke up with Courtney, did you hear?”
Evelyn makes her aghast face.
“I didn’t know. How dreadful! Well, I guess we all have news to share. It’s a little early to be telling anyone, but I suppose you can know – Patrick and I are having a baby.”
There’s a moment of silence, in which the waiter brings a fresh tray of sandwiches. Shreds of cucumber decorate Evelyn’s plate like droplets of green blood on linoleum. Finally Luis kicks into action.
“A baby? Oh that’s wonderful! Patrick, you must be very proud.”
He looks at me with wide wet eyes and I feel suddenly sick, even though I really haven’t eaten that much.
“Would you excuse me? I have to use the bathroom.”
I stand up and push my way blindly through the throng of badly dressed, overweight tourists. None of them are as rich or attractive as me, and even through my nausea I manage to be thankful that I’m not one of them.
--
After I use one of the cubicles (which looks good for doing coke in, although I don’t have any coke and I haven’t really used it since I came to Britain, because it seems to be the favoured drug of television actors, who are all fags with bad teeth), I turn on all the cold taps and lurch from one sink to the next, throwing handfuls of water on myself. Some goes down my front and makes me look like I’ve pissed myself. I’ve just stuck my head under a tap and am sucking on it as thought it were a tit when the bathroom door swings open and Luis walks in.
“Patrick? What are you doing? You know they sell Evian here, right?”
He giggles at his pathetic joke. I surface and gasp at him, “Fuck off, Carruthers.”
He looks hurt.
“Patrick. It’s been three years. Aren’t you even a little bit pleased to see me?”
“No.” I tell him, “I never want to see you again. You can rot in hell for all I care.”
“Pat-rick,” he singsongs, moving towards me, “There’s no need to be so aggressive. I’m pleased to see you.”
Breaking up with Courtney seems to have made him more forward, the bastard.
“Luis,” I say patiently, “don’t touch me.”
He runs his hand along my collarbone, coquettishly, but his touch is firmer than it was the last time this happened. God, I have got to stop ending up alone with Carruthers. His fingertips trace a path down my bicep, then they slide across and he’s drawing patterns on my $500 herringbone Gucci shirt.
“Jesus, Carruthers,” I say.
“What, you like that?” he says in a faggy lisp that makes me want to cut out his tongue and feed it to him.
“No,” I reply.
“I can’t believe you and Evelyn are having a baby! You’re going to be a father, Patrick.” and as he says ‘father’ his hand moves even lower and he squeezes, Jesus I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming, he squeezes my cock through the linen of my lightweight Versace pants.
I zone out.
--
I come round to find myself in one of the ornate toilet cubicles. Luis is kneeling on the salmon coloured bathroom floor, sucking my cock. He’s making disgusting slurping noises like a kid sucking on a popsicle and I come very close to vomiting. But I don’t vomit, instead I come in his mouth and he swallows it with a little grunt of pleasure or surprise, blinking up at me with his watery blue eyes.
I pull my cock out of his mouth and do up my pants quickly, before he has a chance to react.
“Stand up” I tell him, and he gets to his feet adoringly. I could probably tell him to cut his own throat right now and he’d obey me. When he’s standing I kneel down in front of him, thankful for the relatively clean floor because linen is one of the harder materials to get thoroughly clean, particularly as it doesn’t respond well to harsh detergent. He’s already hard and almost whimpering with desire when I unzip his pants and take his small pale cock in my left hand. As I do this, I’m reaching into my jacket pocket with my right hand and I pull out my switch knife. Carruthers doesn’t see me do this because he’s staring at the chandelier on the ceiling and making small sighing noises.
“Oh,” he starts to say, “I always knew you wanted me too. It’s all right, Patrick, don’t be –“
I interrupt him rudely by bringing the knife’s blade down sharply on his cock, half severing it. Luis doesn’t scream because he’s in shock, which is what is I had banked on when I decided to do this. Blood spurts out and spatters my horn-rimmed Oliver Peoples glasses and, probably, my Gucci shirtfront.
He passes out from the pain and I cut his jugular as neatly as I can in the circumstances. After I’ve washed my face and sponged my shirt off as much as possible (I have to button my jacket up to hide the stains, and it looks kind of dorky but I don’t have any choice), I leave Luis bleeding to death in the cubicle farthest from the door, so that the pooling blood will take a long time to seep into the Baroque tearoom and upset the ornamental cherubs.
Evelyn is bored.
“Jesus, Patrick, where have you been? Some Japanese are eyeing up our table.”
“Sorry,” I tell her, “I was taking a crap.”
“That’s so lovely. Thank you for sharing.”
“You did ask. Come on; let’s get out of here. These tourists are driving me crazy.”
Evelyn gets to her feet and rests one hand lightly on her stomach.
“We’ll all leave,” she says. “You and me and Patrick Bateman the Second.”
“Excellent,” I mutter as I pay the check. “I just can’t wait until little Patrick Junior comes along.”
The doorman bows to us and holds the door wide open, and we step out into the sunshine on Piccadilly.
