Post by bateman on Jan 15, 2010 17:59:36 GMT -5
The alarm-clock goes off. Patrick Bateman awakes from his beauty sleep, and reluctantly, sits up in bed. Stretching, Bateman
yawns, and stands to his feet. Exiting through the open doorway, Bateman heads into the kitchen. Opening up the fridge, he pulls
out a carton of eggs. Trailing over to the counter, Bateman opens up the carton, and pulls out two white eggs. Setting them down
for a moment, Bateman reaches over to the blender, and takes off the lid, placing it right beside the eggs. One at a time,
Bateman cracks open the two eggs, and pours them into the confines of the blender. Plugging it in, Bateman stares, watching every
movement the trusty blender makes. When everything is scrambled up, he opens up one of the cupboards, and reaches for a glass.
Pulling out the smooth, fancy glass, he picks he picks the blender up, and pours the egg whites into the cup. Setting the blender
back down on the counter, Bateman chugs the egg whites. Letting out an over-exaggerated yawn of refreshment, Bateman puts on a
smile, and strolls over to the bathroom. Once inside, he locks the door, in case some pervert breaks into his house, films him
nude, and posts it on YouTube.
Retrieving his underpants, he carelessly tosses them to the floor, and opens up the shower door. Inside, he makes sure he uses
every one of his facial/body lotions. Shampoo, hair scrub, anti-dandruff, body wash, conditioner. You name it. Taking
approximately three hours, which is a ridiculous amount of time, Bateman comes out, looking like a movie star. Walking over to
the sink, Bateman peers into the mirror, still as a statue…
Five minutes later, Bateman is dancing around the bathroom, throwing out poses, as if he’s some kind of model. Something a ten
year old does. He makes an attempt at perfecting the moonwalk, but fails miserably, slipping on the wet floor, and smashing his
face. Letting out a sigh of pain, Bateman stands to his feet, and again, peers into the mirror. A look of terror arises.
Bateman’s eyes grow wide with fear. He.. He’s bleeding! Bateman shrikes, and quickly opens up the cupboard behind his mirror.
Reaching for his special protective lotion, Bateman applies it over his face, but remembers that he forgot to wash the blood off
first. Holly cow! The blood is now mixed in with the special protective lotion! Bateman frantically begins to wash it off.
Eventually, he completes the task, and re-applies the lotion. Bateman then reaches for his toothbrush, but notices something very
horrifying.
His toothbrush has a missing hair!
Patrick Bateman: What the fuck next?
As he stands there, trying to figure out the question, a giant floor tile lands on his head, knocking him to the ground.
A few hours later, approximately 11:30 AM EST, Bateman awakes, still lying on the floor. Glancing around, he stands to his feet,
and peers into the mirror, for a second time. Noticing a large goose-egg atop his cranium, Bateman sighs, and trails out into the
hallway, and back into his bedroom. Opening up the first drawer, he rips out a pair of fresh underpants, and quickly applies
them. After this, he reaches for a pair of black socks, and applies them as well. Heading back out into the hallway, he strolls
down to his living-room, which holds many workout machines, including a treadmill, which Bateman ignites to maximum speed. Ten
minutes later, he shuts her down, swearting like a pig. Grabbing a white towel, which formally layed upon the sofa to his right,
he wipes off his face, and throws it around the back of his neck. Step after step, Bateman reaches the kitchen, yet again, and
opens up his clear white fridge, YET AGAIN.
Retrieving a nice, ice cold bottle of Dasani water, Bateman, in one sip, chugs the entire thing. Afterb this, he tosses the empty
bottle into the confines of the recycling bin, and makes his way back into the living-room, where he flops down on his black,
expensive, thousand dollar leather sofa. Gripping the remote, he powers the TV, and begins watching the discovery channel.
Realizing that it just involves two rhinos having sex, he immediately changes stations, and that of Fox News. With nothing
interesting going on in The Big Apple, he gets a thought... A devious thought. A thought of chaos. Murder. Rape. This city needs
some spice, and he's the man to throw it on!
Later that day...
9:00 PM, EST.
The sounds of a woman's high pitched scream can be heard, but not by any living human, except for one... Out in the middle of
nowhere, Patrick Bateman stands, a smile from ear to ear. To his lower right, a horrified young lady sits, backed up against a
tree, by a long, white rope. Bateman glares at her, calm as fuck, before raising his hand, and bringing it down upon the poor
woman's face. Laughing maniacally, she begins to wimper.
Patrick Bateman: Shut the fuck up, you pathetic little bitch!
Spitting right in her eye, Bateman smirks.
Patrick Bateman: Why don't you say hello to the camera, little whore?
She begins to mumble something, but is greeted with a hard, solid boot to the face.
Patrick Bateman: HURRY THE FUCK UP! I DON'T HAVE ALL NIGHT!
Reluctantly, she begins to speak.
Little Whore: H-H-Hello. M-My na-
Cut off in mid-sentence, Bateman wraps his right hand around her throat, intensity burning in his eyes.
Patrick Bateman: THEY DON'T WANT TO KNOW YOUR FUCKING NAME! RIGHT NOW, YOU GO BY LITTLE WHORE!
Letting go of the grip, Bateman executes a brutal, disgusting kick to her stomach. Letting out a yelp, the tears begin to stream.
Patrick Bateman: AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! WHAT'S THE MATTER? LITTLE WHORE BEEN HURT? WELL NOBODY GIVES A FUCK, INCLUDING MYSELF! IN
FACT, AFTER I FINISH RECORDING THIS SHIT, YOUR ASS IS AS GOOD AS DEAD!
Pushing the back of her head into the tree, Bateman laughs.
Patrick Bateman: This little ho is pathetic. Filthy. I found her on the street corner. Just waiting for a customer. Dumb move, on
her part. Great move, on mine, because now, I get to fulfil my urger of killing a lil' bitch. And in just a few short days, I get
to fulfil my needs of killing a few more lil' bitches... Well, not actually killing, because that would be no fun. I want to make
them suffer. Roll around in agony, like the pathetic little ingrates they truly are. PWN is my chance to... Well... PWN, and
believe it or not; such will occur. I may not seem like a type who would excel at wrestling, but come on... I excel at every
single thing I do! There's no stopping Patrick Bateman, okay? I am a procreator of excellence. An innovator of sexiness. And most
of all; a disposer of waste. Waste like this little missy, laying helplessly before my very presence, just as my opponents, come
this Monday, shall be doing. Wrestling is like... so n my blood. And I'm not talking ancestors; i'm talking naturally. This
gauntlet match is going to be a piece of cake. And once I reign supreme, it will be the same case for a little nigga named
Terrell Odom. A little nigga of whom I generally dislike. Not just because of his laughably lame race, but because of his
attitude. Thinking he's better than everyone else. Well, all I have to say is when the show rolls around; you will be proven
incorrect. You are not better than everyone else. I own that title, and I forever will. Even when I'm not around to be justifying
this. No one will every match my intellectual, and physical attributes. It's a matter of fact. It's life. Get over it.
Un-tying the rope, Bateman yanks the young lady to her feet, and slaps her hard across the face. Lifting off his jacket, Bateman
throws it down hard against her face. Un-doing the tie, surrounding his white undershirt, Bateman procees with the assault,
giving her a kick in the arse. Laughing all the way, he steps on the back of her head, and pulls out a cig, proceeded by a white,
Marilyn Monroe lighter. Bursting it up, he blows a puff of thick, white smoke into the night air. Dabbing the hot ashes down onto
her skin, she lets out a howl. Smirking to himself, Bateman finally finishes it up, and uses Little Whore's skin as an outer. Stepping back, and leaning against a tree, he watches, as she frantically begins to run around in a circle, screaming like a banshee. About five minutes later, she lays there, on the ground, burnt to a crisp.
Patrick Bateman: What a shame. If only she would have stayed in school. Got an education. This never would have happened. But oh well.
Bateman sarcastically shrugs, and heads away from the scene, hopping into his red, Dodger Viper, and squealing away.
On the way home, Bateman stops at the local stag shop, and buys himself a few porno flicks. All night long, he wanks, until he can no longer produce. Having his second, three hour shower of the day, Bateman brushes his teeth, and heads off to bed.
The next morning, he continues with his regular routine. Breakfast, shower, work-out, etc., only today, he has an appointment with a little something called "work". He hates his job. A Wall St. Broker. While in the overall case, it may be a high paying, and well mannered job, it annoys him to shit. All the annoying co-workers he has to deal with. All the phone-calls. The one thing he did enjoy, was break. It eased his mind to get out, and unleash all his frustrations out on some random bum in an alley way, or whoever else appeared behind the scenes in his walk to the Malibu restaurant; his favourite place to eat. But today, there was none of that. No random hobo, and the food was terrible New cook, Bateman guessed. He deserves to die.
On the way back, he stopped to think about the rest of his tenure with the office that day, and some other things, like... Well, the following.
Seating himself on the bench, a porno mag in hand, some old granny walks up, and sits alongside him. Peering over, a disgusted look forms on the old woman's face.
Old Woman: What in the fuck is wrong with you? Can't get laid or something?
No reply.
Old Woman: It's people like you that make this World a bad place to live upon.
Bateman's face completely changes.
Patrick Bateman: People like me? No, I think you have it all wrong. It's people like you, not me, but YOU, that make this World a bad place to live upon. People who have to make their stupid comments. How about you just shut up, and go die of a heart attack or something. In the mean time, I have to get back to my job, something of which you probably don't even have. And then on top of that, I need to prepare for a match. Peace!
Bateman leaves the scene, porono mag still in tact, as the grandma just sits their, frozen in shock.
yawns, and stands to his feet. Exiting through the open doorway, Bateman heads into the kitchen. Opening up the fridge, he pulls
out a carton of eggs. Trailing over to the counter, Bateman opens up the carton, and pulls out two white eggs. Setting them down
for a moment, Bateman reaches over to the blender, and takes off the lid, placing it right beside the eggs. One at a time,
Bateman cracks open the two eggs, and pours them into the confines of the blender. Plugging it in, Bateman stares, watching every
movement the trusty blender makes. When everything is scrambled up, he opens up one of the cupboards, and reaches for a glass.
Pulling out the smooth, fancy glass, he picks he picks the blender up, and pours the egg whites into the cup. Setting the blender
back down on the counter, Bateman chugs the egg whites. Letting out an over-exaggerated yawn of refreshment, Bateman puts on a
smile, and strolls over to the bathroom. Once inside, he locks the door, in case some pervert breaks into his house, films him
nude, and posts it on YouTube.
Retrieving his underpants, he carelessly tosses them to the floor, and opens up the shower door. Inside, he makes sure he uses
every one of his facial/body lotions. Shampoo, hair scrub, anti-dandruff, body wash, conditioner. You name it. Taking
approximately three hours, which is a ridiculous amount of time, Bateman comes out, looking like a movie star. Walking over to
the sink, Bateman peers into the mirror, still as a statue…
Five minutes later, Bateman is dancing around the bathroom, throwing out poses, as if he’s some kind of model. Something a ten
year old does. He makes an attempt at perfecting the moonwalk, but fails miserably, slipping on the wet floor, and smashing his
face. Letting out a sigh of pain, Bateman stands to his feet, and again, peers into the mirror. A look of terror arises.
Bateman’s eyes grow wide with fear. He.. He’s bleeding! Bateman shrikes, and quickly opens up the cupboard behind his mirror.
Reaching for his special protective lotion, Bateman applies it over his face, but remembers that he forgot to wash the blood off
first. Holly cow! The blood is now mixed in with the special protective lotion! Bateman frantically begins to wash it off.
Eventually, he completes the task, and re-applies the lotion. Bateman then reaches for his toothbrush, but notices something very
horrifying.
His toothbrush has a missing hair!
Patrick Bateman: What the fuck next?
As he stands there, trying to figure out the question, a giant floor tile lands on his head, knocking him to the ground.
A few hours later, approximately 11:30 AM EST, Bateman awakes, still lying on the floor. Glancing around, he stands to his feet,
and peers into the mirror, for a second time. Noticing a large goose-egg atop his cranium, Bateman sighs, and trails out into the
hallway, and back into his bedroom. Opening up the first drawer, he rips out a pair of fresh underpants, and quickly applies
them. After this, he reaches for a pair of black socks, and applies them as well. Heading back out into the hallway, he strolls
down to his living-room, which holds many workout machines, including a treadmill, which Bateman ignites to maximum speed. Ten
minutes later, he shuts her down, swearting like a pig. Grabbing a white towel, which formally layed upon the sofa to his right,
he wipes off his face, and throws it around the back of his neck. Step after step, Bateman reaches the kitchen, yet again, and
opens up his clear white fridge, YET AGAIN.
Retrieving a nice, ice cold bottle of Dasani water, Bateman, in one sip, chugs the entire thing. Afterb this, he tosses the empty
bottle into the confines of the recycling bin, and makes his way back into the living-room, where he flops down on his black,
expensive, thousand dollar leather sofa. Gripping the remote, he powers the TV, and begins watching the discovery channel.
Realizing that it just involves two rhinos having sex, he immediately changes stations, and that of Fox News. With nothing
interesting going on in The Big Apple, he gets a thought... A devious thought. A thought of chaos. Murder. Rape. This city needs
some spice, and he's the man to throw it on!
Later that day...
9:00 PM, EST.
The sounds of a woman's high pitched scream can be heard, but not by any living human, except for one... Out in the middle of
nowhere, Patrick Bateman stands, a smile from ear to ear. To his lower right, a horrified young lady sits, backed up against a
tree, by a long, white rope. Bateman glares at her, calm as fuck, before raising his hand, and bringing it down upon the poor
woman's face. Laughing maniacally, she begins to wimper.
Patrick Bateman: Shut the fuck up, you pathetic little bitch!
Spitting right in her eye, Bateman smirks.
Patrick Bateman: Why don't you say hello to the camera, little whore?
She begins to mumble something, but is greeted with a hard, solid boot to the face.
Patrick Bateman: HURRY THE FUCK UP! I DON'T HAVE ALL NIGHT!
Reluctantly, she begins to speak.
Little Whore: H-H-Hello. M-My na-
Cut off in mid-sentence, Bateman wraps his right hand around her throat, intensity burning in his eyes.
Patrick Bateman: THEY DON'T WANT TO KNOW YOUR FUCKING NAME! RIGHT NOW, YOU GO BY LITTLE WHORE!
Letting go of the grip, Bateman executes a brutal, disgusting kick to her stomach. Letting out a yelp, the tears begin to stream.
Patrick Bateman: AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! WHAT'S THE MATTER? LITTLE WHORE BEEN HURT? WELL NOBODY GIVES A FUCK, INCLUDING MYSELF! IN
FACT, AFTER I FINISH RECORDING THIS SHIT, YOUR ASS IS AS GOOD AS DEAD!
Pushing the back of her head into the tree, Bateman laughs.
Patrick Bateman: This little ho is pathetic. Filthy. I found her on the street corner. Just waiting for a customer. Dumb move, on
her part. Great move, on mine, because now, I get to fulfil my urger of killing a lil' bitch. And in just a few short days, I get
to fulfil my needs of killing a few more lil' bitches... Well, not actually killing, because that would be no fun. I want to make
them suffer. Roll around in agony, like the pathetic little ingrates they truly are. PWN is my chance to... Well... PWN, and
believe it or not; such will occur. I may not seem like a type who would excel at wrestling, but come on... I excel at every
single thing I do! There's no stopping Patrick Bateman, okay? I am a procreator of excellence. An innovator of sexiness. And most
of all; a disposer of waste. Waste like this little missy, laying helplessly before my very presence, just as my opponents, come
this Monday, shall be doing. Wrestling is like... so n my blood. And I'm not talking ancestors; i'm talking naturally. This
gauntlet match is going to be a piece of cake. And once I reign supreme, it will be the same case for a little nigga named
Terrell Odom. A little nigga of whom I generally dislike. Not just because of his laughably lame race, but because of his
attitude. Thinking he's better than everyone else. Well, all I have to say is when the show rolls around; you will be proven
incorrect. You are not better than everyone else. I own that title, and I forever will. Even when I'm not around to be justifying
this. No one will every match my intellectual, and physical attributes. It's a matter of fact. It's life. Get over it.
Un-tying the rope, Bateman yanks the young lady to her feet, and slaps her hard across the face. Lifting off his jacket, Bateman
throws it down hard against her face. Un-doing the tie, surrounding his white undershirt, Bateman procees with the assault,
giving her a kick in the arse. Laughing all the way, he steps on the back of her head, and pulls out a cig, proceeded by a white,
Marilyn Monroe lighter. Bursting it up, he blows a puff of thick, white smoke into the night air. Dabbing the hot ashes down onto
her skin, she lets out a howl. Smirking to himself, Bateman finally finishes it up, and uses Little Whore's skin as an outer. Stepping back, and leaning against a tree, he watches, as she frantically begins to run around in a circle, screaming like a banshee. About five minutes later, she lays there, on the ground, burnt to a crisp.
Patrick Bateman: What a shame. If only she would have stayed in school. Got an education. This never would have happened. But oh well.
Bateman sarcastically shrugs, and heads away from the scene, hopping into his red, Dodger Viper, and squealing away.
On the way home, Bateman stops at the local stag shop, and buys himself a few porno flicks. All night long, he wanks, until he can no longer produce. Having his second, three hour shower of the day, Bateman brushes his teeth, and heads off to bed.
The next morning, he continues with his regular routine. Breakfast, shower, work-out, etc., only today, he has an appointment with a little something called "work". He hates his job. A Wall St. Broker. While in the overall case, it may be a high paying, and well mannered job, it annoys him to shit. All the annoying co-workers he has to deal with. All the phone-calls. The one thing he did enjoy, was break. It eased his mind to get out, and unleash all his frustrations out on some random bum in an alley way, or whoever else appeared behind the scenes in his walk to the Malibu restaurant; his favourite place to eat. But today, there was none of that. No random hobo, and the food was terrible New cook, Bateman guessed. He deserves to die.
On the way back, he stopped to think about the rest of his tenure with the office that day, and some other things, like... Well, the following.
Seating himself on the bench, a porno mag in hand, some old granny walks up, and sits alongside him. Peering over, a disgusted look forms on the old woman's face.
Old Woman: What in the fuck is wrong with you? Can't get laid or something?
No reply.
Old Woman: It's people like you that make this World a bad place to live upon.
Bateman's face completely changes.
Patrick Bateman: People like me? No, I think you have it all wrong. It's people like you, not me, but YOU, that make this World a bad place to live upon. People who have to make their stupid comments. How about you just shut up, and go die of a heart attack or something. In the mean time, I have to get back to my job, something of which you probably don't even have. And then on top of that, I need to prepare for a match. Peace!
Bateman leaves the scene, porono mag still in tact, as the grandma just sits their, frozen in shock.
![azazelJAKOB[[kane]] Avatar](http://i47.tinypic.com/of54as.png)
