Alright, just a little note: if you haven't read the book, I'm sure my writing style might seem extremely weird/horrible to you. And maybe if you have read the book, it's still weird and horrible haha. But anyways, I mainly wrote this for myself, because I wanted to see how close I could get to writing in the style of Bret Easton Ellis, and capturing the insanity of Patrick Bateman. This is in no way a work of art or anything, but I just wrote it for fun. (If you can write such a piece for fun haha.)


The Patty Winters show this morning was about victims of nuclear warfare. I ate a long, purple string of intestines leftover from a girl I picked up at Deck Chairs last week while watching a mutant with what was likely more than one nose being interviewed in a plastic lawn chair.

I found myself weeping this afternoon for no reason while trying to sauté a girl's brain, the lifeless tears hitting the sizzling skillet like fat blood droplets. On the outside, I'm a blank canvas, capable of humanizing myself only when I am shaped and molded by others to do so. On the inside, I'm a boiling geyser, frozen chunks of nothing falling off at regular intervals, something that is occurring within me more and more often lately. Soon all physical evidence of me will cease to exist. I know now that anything that was once stabilizing me, binding me, was long ago eradicated.

Tonight: Another pointless torture of two hardbodies from Le Cirque, more corpses to be dissected, filleted, fucked, drilled, nailed, etc, etc, etc. Even the prospect of testing out the new tools I bought today: a length of barbed wire, a 6 by 4 thin board I shot hundreds of nails into, sticking through the other side in hodgepodged patterns, an Anderson aluminum baseball bat that cost me $250- these all fail to arouse an inkling of excitement in me. I already know the tasks I plan to carry out this evening will accomplish nothing, help anything, which is why I know I'll go through with them.

Midnight. Yasmine, one of the hardbodies from Le Cirque, is bound to the board full of nails, barbed wire wrapped around her face extra tight, her wrists wrapped in it as well. Kara, the other girl, is already losing consciousness, half of her face bashed in with the baseball bat, turned to a sort of soupy, raw mess of meat and muscle. Chunks of flesh are split apart, especially around her jaw, and I can see the whole row of perfect back teeth. Her feet are nailed to the floor by each toe, half of them ripping apart from when she struggled and tried to break free. I made sure the bitch knew there was no chance she would ever escape me, even if she managed to somehow crawl out of here with her bleeding, perforated toes. I would have found her, I tell her, if she hadn't been at Le Cirque tonight. I would have found her wherever she was, because this was where her life was meant to end, ripped and gored like a gutted fish on my living room floor.

I push Yasmine's body deeper onto the bed of nails, sharp, panicky guttural sounds escaping her. Through thinner bits of her skin, the end of some of the nails pierce the whole way through. I pull the barbed wire around her face even tighter, forcing bits of flesh through the holes. When I pull it as tight as I can, her entire face slices into seeping, fat bloody chunks. One of her eyeballs bursts halfway out of the socket, thick runny goo dripping down and mixing with the waterfall of blood. Her body still twitches uselessly, even though her face is now for the most part completely gone. I watch as she goes into her death throes, thrashing herself against the nails, her tongue whipping out like a gory string. Her body finally stills after I take a fork, puncturing it through her throat, ripping apart the veins, digging into it like I would at Harry's while eating a blue cheese crusted filet mignon with Port wine sauce.

After sawing off what remains of the head, I hold the chunks of flesh in my hands, edging towards Kara, who is now quivering uncontrollably, though her own face is half gone. Thrusting the pulp into her face, I'm saying " See, you stupid bitch, this is what happens when you want to fuck Patrick Bateman, when you want to screw some guy who just might happen to be a fucking psychotic sadist!!!" I spit in her face, forcing globs of meat from Yasmine into her mouth, half her teeth broken and chipped from the multiple bashings to her face. I pick up the baseball bat again, thinking of the date with Courtney I have tomorrow at Dorsia, where I was finally able to hold a reservation. I'm thinking what I will order: the grilled butter fish with sugar snaps, bell peppers, and soy glaze, or the Kurobuta pork belly, roasted with southern spices, red rice, and pecans, which Timothy Price has been raving about ever since the stupid bastard went there last week. With each heavy bash of the bat, crushing Kara's face, crushing her legs, her chest, everything caving in on itself, everything just a heap of pointless gore, I think of Paul Allen's head in a bucket in the closet in my hallway, his lips cut off so every time I open the door he smiles widely at me, I think about the breasts in an air tight bag in my freezer, the nipples cut off, which were eaten with brown rice the other night.

All of this is running through my head, as the blood spatters my white cotton shirt from Armani, my naked legs covered in the stuff, I'm halfway deep to my knees in pulp and blood, it's gushing out in geysers, I close my eyes and see torrents of it, but when I open my eyes it's still there,splashed on my wall, on my bed. I finally throw the baseball bat down when I realize all I am doing is beating beating flesh and blood deeper and deeper into my carpet. I sit down on my bed, surveying the scene. I sigh when I remember I promised Jean, my secretary who is in love with me, to go to Arcadia with her on Thursday. This brings upon a deep wave of annoyance and pity in me, though I can't figure out why, and I can no longer work myself up to an erection, no matter how hard I try, and this makes me realize what I pointless void of failure my life has become.