Guess Who's Back?

[[EL PREZIDENTE]]

The scene then opens up with E-man walking down the PWN hallway with a i-pod in his ears listening to some new tracks he had made. He is then walking down the hallway and someone bumps into him, allowing him to drop his walkman. E-man then looks up a little upset.

Emmanuel Jackson:
The fuck is your problem?

[tbc;anyone]

[bateman]

Patrick Bateman stares down E-Man, a look of disgust upon his face.

Patrick|Bateman
Me? I don't have a problem. You, on the other hand, have a HUGE problem. I mean, just look at you. All dressed up like some sort of gangster, listening to your ridiculous Soulja Boy music or whoever the fuck that is on there. Let me tell you something right now, E-Man. I don't like you, nor do I like anything about you. You have horrid musical taste. you dress like a fucking bum, and not only that, but you smell like one too. Go take a shower or something. I can't even stand to be around you. On that note, I have things to do, so if you'll excuse me...

Bateman attempts to push past E-Man, but it isn't happening.

Patrick|Bateman
Let me go, you little piece of shit!

Bateman makes another attempt at pushing past the angered Emmanuel Jackson, but to no avail.

Patrick|Bateman
I swear... IF YOU DON'T FUCKIKG LET ME GO RIGHT THIS INSTANT, I WILL HAVE YOUR BLACK ASS HANGING FROM A FUCKING TREE! GOT THAT, ASSWIPE!?

TBCB: E-Man

[The Realist Untouchable]

"... Please... don't amuse me anymore..."

The words drug along deep. Ghoul. The man in black appeared from the west wing of the hallway. Back posted over bleak, nicotine stained walls of Crown Point, Indiana. Eyes yet to be foreseen by the aviators over his eyes. He shrugged his hulking frame forward to Mr. Bateman; Maverick cigarette clamped between his lips as he drug a last inhale from the deadhead, blowing the fumes over Bateman; whom paused. Staring up at the more tall of a man that set foot in front of him.

"Before this... little child speaks to you in some belligerent state of mind that he is in, I'd just advise you to keep your more... 'inner' form of words to yourself... you know what I mean?"

Flawing away the glasses masking his face, Terrell Odom took his right arm toward his pocket to bring out a mangled pack of Maverick's. A blank stare as his eyes pointed downward at Bateman.

"You see..." He fused the stick... "The fact of the matter is Batey-boy that no one around these neck of the woods really gives a flying flick of a shit about you. Apparently when you're mother shit out the silver spooned bitch boy, she forgot to tell him about the tough ends of life... huh? This air you breathe right now, you feel high to the fucking sky, don't you?

Bateman looks to jump in. Snap. Odom cuts him before he has a chance to utter out a spit.

"Before you give me your penny worth of a rhetoric, remember this kid... this building we sit in right now.. Crown Point... I made the most of my fucking career here. From sleeping in the back of cars and making rest on cardboard boxes. No money to pay off that broken arm you succumbed to after falling twenty feet from a ladder in the ring. The hard ends of the sticks... But may I ask... what made you?"

His eyes remained fixed on Bateman... E-Man looking to open his mouth up after having his restful day interrupted by two pissed off men.