American Roommates
By Mary C. Paul
Jerricaangel@yahoo.com

**Disclaimer: This story is a crossover between Daniel Waters' Jason Dean of the 
movie "Heathers" and Patrick Bateman, the subject of Bret Easton Ellis' novel, 
American Psycho. This is a non-profit fan fiction short story combining J.D. 
with Patrick Bateman based on the movie "American Psycho", which is the 
adaptation of the novel as a screenplay by Mark Harron and Guinevere Turner. The 
character of Patrick Bateman is the property of Bret Easton Ellis.**


	When I first moved in with Patrick, I didn't know what to expect. I was on 
my way to college with a whole new identity. I got into NYU, which is perfecto. 
Where else can an intellectual borderline psychotic get the mental nourishment 
needed to excel in this world. Problem was my father was committed elsewhere, 
and I thought NYU would be a highly intriguing experiment in insanity. There are 
people who don't know any better and pump themselves full of hallucinogens and 
psychedelic drugs, and these top-notch universities were full of lab rat medical 
students and tiger shark lawyers who popped pep pills and prescription drugs and 
stole and copied exams. It was a crumbling hypocrisy democracy if I ever saw 
one. I thought it would be a great experience for my first time in college. You 
want to learn lessons about humanity, go straight to the place they strip you of 
it.
	My father pulled some strings and the main string went by the name of 
Patrick Bateman. He was some hot shit business man my father did business with a 
while back. He was the one who got me into NYU under doctored credentials. No, I 
didn't have transcripts from Westerberg that read "Graduated at the top of his 
class, well-recommended for his homicidal tendencies." I had transcripts from 
some school I'd never heard of in Wyoming that gave me an insanely high GPA and 
a pretty accurate IQ test score. I'm through the roof, and with my intelligence, 
you'd expect it.
	Anyway, like I said, my father was committed else where. The construction 
and demolition business is booming. Whatever we put up, we must bring down. I'm 
positive one day they'll call upon my Dad to destroy Mt. Rushmore and build the 
world's first cliffside shopping center in its place. So, the question came up, 
where would I stay. It would be better to have a place away from the cramped 
dorms where the word keg wasn't just a buzz word, it was a way of life. I needed 
privacy, not just to retain my mystique about my identity, but to steer clear of 
temptation. The less interaction outside the classroom the better. This was 
supposed to be an objective study-observation only. No disassembly necessary. 
Besides, I was dead. I couldn't draw attention to my safe haven of rebirth. My 
father talked to Patrick, and the bottom line was he had no problem with  me 
staying with him.
	Let me explain a little about Patrick Bateman. Patrick is your typical 
80's business freak. It's all he knows, it's all he wants. Status symbols and 
object d' power. At least, that was my initial impression of him. 
Patrick...understood me. Let's put it that way. When I told him about the 
tragic, Dickensian suicides and Freudian politics of Westerberg, he knew right 
away that I was directly responsible, and the best thing about Patrick was he 
didn't care. Not just about my refusal to be held accountable or my ethics and 
morals, but about everything. Patrick didn't care about anything. He was highly 
competitive as is typical of his profession, but he plays Wall Street like a 
blood sport. He went to Harvard, so he's overly anal retentive or pristinely 
refined, depending how you look at it. He's all head, no heart. When the 
prospect of rooming with him came up, I saw an opportunity and I took it.
	There was a lot of shit I was not prepared to deal with, like his 
excessive interest in the worst 80's music there was. I couldn't stand Phil 
Collins by the end of the first week. It wasn't bad enough he played that shit 
day in, day out, but he talked about it and analyzed it like it was classical 
compositions for an opera. After two weeks, we had our first argument. It was 
over Big Fun.
	"J.D., I think there's some redeeming qualities to their music, but I'm 
not saying it's 'In the Air Tonight' because I know it is on a quite a lesser 
level."
	"Oh, come on! Don't give me this saving grace merit shit! They're washed-
up, prom-playing hacks that think high school is the apex of society and that 
suicide is suggested research material everyone should check out of the library. 
They define it like it's the natural end to life as teenagers know it."
	"Now, J.D., don't act like you're outraged just to win an argument. 
Pretense doesn't suit you. You yourself think suicide is the natural end for 
apex predators like Heather Chandler. I would watch what I say if I were you. 
You're starting to sound like your ex-girlfriend, Veronica." One thing I hated 
about Patrick, he was a control freak. He controlled himself and was always able 
to control his vantage point. He saw things very clear, cut and dry, and you 
couldn't win an argument with him, because he pulled punches without so much as 
a twitch in his calm, carbon-copy executive exterior.
	"Fuck you. Are you seriously defending a band whose greatest hit was named 
in some acid frenzied feeding period 'Teenage Suicide: Don't Do It'!?"
	"It's catchy." He stood up and threw his long overcoat on top of his 
absurdly expensive suit that screamed insecure lemming.
	"Where the fuck are you going?" I was pissed! Right in the middle of our 
conversation, he just has this compulsion to get up and walk away. So those are 
the manners you get from Harvard! "Don't tell me you're going to the office. 
It's 9 p.m.!"
	He turned quickly mid-step to give me this particularly blank expression 
and say rather mindlessly, "I have to return some videotapes."
	The music thing wasn't the first problem I had living there. Every time I 
went to take a shower, I was bumping into all this botanical, herbal body-oil 
bath shit! Gels and oils and lotions and perfumes! This was the kind of 
eccentric lengths the ancient Greeks went to for absolutely pampered skin and 
lifestyles. That night, I took a shower, and I moved everything around, mixing 
and matching bath products with facial products. Not at all extreme, but I knew 
I'd hear about it. I didn't care. I was already in the unsavory clutches of the 
mid-terms from hell, and his abrupt departure pissed me off.
	When I came out of the shower, I walked through the living room and 
noticed a big difference. There was newspaper all over the floor. I shook my 
head and kept going. I didn't care what he was doing as long as it wouldn't 
disturb my studying. Yes, at NYU, I had to study, and actually cared about my 
grades. Remember, I was trying for a whole new, entirely different life. I had 
given myself the gift of a fresh start and I wasn't going to waste it.
	Then, a half-hour later, I hear Patrick screaming my name, and rapidly 
approaching the door to my room. "J.D. Open the fucking door!" Spoken like a 
true nut, stern and demanding but without the tiniest hint of emotion. I opened 
my door and he stared into me with those cold, vacant eyes. "What the fuck did 
you do to my skin care products? They're in complete disarray."
	"Patrick, get the fuck over it! So what? Now, you can rearrange them all 
in practical and alphabetical order as part of fun in your daily cleansing 
rituals!"
	He started to walk away, and I realized he was wearing a transparent 
slicker over his suit. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me! Is that a fucking 
raincoat?"
	He kept walking and in all mechanical seriousness replied, "Yes, it is."
	I spotted dark red trickling down the back and side of the ugly thing, and 
I was drawn to it. Like the proverbial moth to the flame I followed the 
attractive bright red color to the perilous extent of getting burned, but my 
little exploratory was more fruitful and rewarding than the moth's. Patrick led 
me straight to the living room, where the newspaper on the floor was now 
stopping blood red pools from seeping into the high-wax wooden floor. 
Apparently, it's not a sin in the Bateman bachelor pad to murder unless you do 
irreparable damage to the opulent surroundings and accoutrements. There he was, 
some poor sap who probably just did his job a bit too well and somehow managed 
to upstage Patrick. Hmmm. Cause of death? Gee, could it have anything to do with 
the ax sticking out of the back of his head. I looked over to Patrick, who was 
enjoying a refreshing drink at the counter behind me.
	"Not very subtle, are you."
	"Would you rather have me let the blood forever mar the wood? Do you know 
how many people would kill for real hardwood floors like this one?" He 
completely missed my point! What's frightening is I know he didn't miss it on 
purpose. He honestly thought I was referring to the newspaper everywhere as 
opposed to the corpse with an exotic foreign object and obvious premeditated-
murder weapon lodged deep in his brain.
	"I'm going to bed. I have mid-terms in the morning."
	"What about my bath oils? My oatmeal body lotion? My lavender and jasmine 
facial-peel masque? They're in total disorganization."
	"Fuckin' fix them yourself."
	The next morning we were back to neat and sitting down for breakfast. 
Every morning Patrick woke up and did a certain number of exercises. It was the 
jump-roping that always made me laugh. I couldn't watch him do it without 
wanting to crack up. He looked so ridiculous, like it was an Olympic event and 
he was picked to carry the torch for that mile or two. He'd just watch me laugh 
and shake his head, as if I should be right beside him hopping up and down to 
stay fit. I was in good shape. I could run down two football athletes in the 
rough terrain of the woods.
	Patrick and I got along pretty well most of the time. After I aced my mid-
terms, Patrick was determined to take me out to celebrate. I met him at his 
office. I came up in the elevator in my trench coat, which was not such a unique 
item amongst NYU students for some reason, so I had pulled the old girl out of 
retirement. I missed her anyway. His leggy, blonde secretary was wearing a 
pants-suit today, which didn't look right on her. I was used to coming to visit 
Patrick and being able to see right up her skirt. She took me in, and grandly 
announced my arrival, then showed me in. I felt kinda like royalty, but if you 
knew Patrick, you sort of were royalty around here.
	Patrick stopped her before she left. "Jane."
	"Yes, Patrick." Spoken like a true imperial slave, while she batted her 
thick eye-lashes at him.
	"Don't wear that ever again. A skirt."
	"Yes, Patrick." Spoken like a true defeated imperial slave. She lowered 
her head as she was leaving, like she had disappointed her lord and emperor.
	Patrick called out to her just before she went out his office door. "And 
high heels."	She just nodded and made her rather sad looking exit.
	I watched Patrick pick up the phone and those damned Zagat restaurant 
guides every personal business office had to find the most politically 
segregated and socially discriminating hot spot for business and entertainment 
dinners.
	"What ever happened to your old secretary, Jean?"
	He started speaking rather absent-mindedly at first. "She quit, just left 
a few years ago." Then suddenly, eye contact and he spoke much more 
deliberately. "There was some...unpleasantness. She never came back." Then 
attention swiftly shifted back to the phone. "Yes, I'd like a reservation for 
two tonight at 8...Yes, I'll hold."
	I grabbed his schedule planner off his desk. He saw me take it, but if it 
had been anyone else, he would have snatched it out of their prying clutches. I 
started flipping through it and the deeper I got into the blank pages, the more 
scribbling appeared on the pages. Then suddenly, Jesus Christ! Little drawings 
of women decapitated and blood spewing from every orifice. Men in little 
crudely-drawn business suits hanging by their little black ties. All of it done 
in black pen, and more and more of it with each turn of the page. It was kind of 
cute. A grin started spreading across my face. I looked at Patrick, who looked 
back at me. "What?"
	"Do you leave this in the office when you go out?"
	"It's my business planner. Where else would I leave it?"
	I finally burst out laughing, and I tried to make words come out, but I 
was in hysterics, and they all sounded like boisterous eruptions of laughter.
	"What is so funny?"
	I was able to stop just long enough to lay my thoughts out on the table 
and see if Patrick was playing with a full deck or just bluffing. "Did this by 
any chance have anything to do with Jean's sudden departure?"
	He looked less than amused. "Give me that." He swiped it out of my hands, 
opened his desk drawer and placed in inside, abruptly shutting the drawer, when 
he perked up at finally getting a live person on the phone. "Yes, I'd like to 
make a reservation for tonight." I just kept on laughing, but suddenly something 
twisted in his face, in his cold eyes. He slammed the phone down, clenched his 
fist, and pounded on the desktop. "Fuck!"
	"What? Are they booked?"
	"I can never get a reservation at this place! That asshole just laughed at 
me."
	I couldn't help myself. I started laughing again, and harder this time. 
"So fucking what! Call someplace else." He seemed so crushed. His entire being 
hinged on his acceptance at the upper crust restaurant with the Wall Street 
Mafia, so the elite could meet to eat. I felt a little sorry for him. He could 
be using his wonderful evil for good instead of letting it go to waste on these 
yuppie snobs that are dead already. High School is where the action is. That 
thought was depressing. I had already passed my prime, the pinnacle of my being, 
the peak of enlightenment. High School was the absolute bottom, and I had made 
it the best times of my life, just like my Dad always told me it would be, and 
to think, I never believed him. Damn, I should've killed more of them! I blame 
Veronica, and Big Fun.
	Anyway, we finally arrived by limo-Patrick never went anywhere unless it 
was a limo or he was at least being driven-at Patrick's second choice, which was 
where he went every time he tried his first and got laughed at by some dick on 
the phone. We sat with his usual socialite entourage, all of them practically 
bowing down before him. I was Wall Street royalty by association. They bored me 
to death as soon as we sat down with the most vacuous remarks about their 
equally vacuous work, and every phony fuck at the table praised Patrick for his 
remarkably unremarkable business card. This one was eggshell white and that one 
was hospital wall off-white in extra bright. Semi-gloss font with some 
ludicrously obscure name. They were all white with black lettering to me.
	I grew more and more bored with every bullshit comment made, so I just got 
up and headed for the bar for a good, hard drink. Maybe drunk, they'd make 
sense. Who the hell knows. After a few minutes and six shots of tequila, Patrick 
joined me at the bar to get a stiff drink for himself, and see what I was up to, 
keep me company for a bit. He was a pretty good friend, not that I'd ever had or 
wanted one before, but he seemed to enjoy having someone around who was more on 
his intellectual and psychological level. I overheard conversations guys around 
the bar were entranced by which I was almost put to sleep by, and I remember 
thinking the tequila wasn't working. They didn't seem the slightest bit more 
interesting or make a lick of sense. I was out of my element here, and I'm sure 
Patrick noticed.
	Then, some short little man who looked more like he should be a freshman 
in high school than a Wall Street business man approached Patrick, and greeted 
him rather excitedly. "Alex! How the heck are ya? I haven't seen you since the 
company retreat a few years ago. Did you get that position on the board of 
directors? How's the wife?"
	The idiot wouldn't shut up. He had Patrick confused with some hot shit hot 
shot who looked nothing like him, and was going on and on and on, completely 
convinced without a doubt he was this Alex asshole. This sort of confusion 
happened all the time. That's what happens when you work and live in a culture 
so hell-bent on conformity that you are absolutely indistinguishable from any 
other interchangeable, lackluster zombie in it. What I loved about Patrick was 
that he never corrected these instigators and played the part like a treacherous 
spy, and often the gamble paid off as it did that night.
	"I'm great, Andrew. How about you? I'm still married to Margaret. Are you 
still seeing that Delia? She's quite a woman." I sat to the side, so I wouldn't 
interfere. I loved seeing Patrick work outside the office. His skills were honed 
just perfecto, and he managed to take on the life and personality of whomever he 
was mistakenly identified as. "Are you here with Delia tonight?"
	"No, I was here with some associates." In Patrick's world they were always 
partners and associates and acquaintances, not a friend among them. There were 
no friends in that kind of society, just like high school. "I'm leaving now 
though. I heard Patrick Bateman is here, and I'm getting the heck out of here in 
a few minutes, because I don't want to run into that asshole. Did you hear what 
he did to Evelyn? Broke her heart, was cheating on her for months during their 
engagement."
	Andrew was a relative of Evelyn's and vendettas here were all business, 
and anything personal became business. This was apparently one of the guys who 
had tried getting Patrick put under investigation for Paul Allen's murder years 
after he was identified-mistakenly-elsewhere at the time of the murder. All 
because of some bitch that should've known better than to fall in love with a 
cold-blooded executive and psychopath. All these executives fucked around on 
everyone and most of them lusted after prostitutes like Patrick, but something 
tells me they didn't have the same thing Patrick had in mind when picking one 
up.
	"Well, I've gotta run, but you take care, Alex."
	"You too, Andrew." It's amazing watching Patrick's face twist underneath 
the skin without the slightest difference on the surface. Maybe that was why he 
used all that shit on his face. The only indication to the eye that didn't know 
any better that anything had changed was his eyes. Always empty, but they 
chilled instantly when the temperature dropped inside him, and they warmed up 
again just as fast.
	Andrew headed for the bathroom while Patrick and I followed. Patrick put 
on his black leather gloves and we walked into the men's room where Andrew was 
at a stall all alone. We walked up behind him, as he finished taking his leak. 
He turned and stared at us both with a questioning we were glad to answer. 
"Alex?"
	"No, Andrew." We both shot him devilish smiles, then Patrick grabbed his 
head and whacked it against the ceramic tiles on the wall, and just kept 
pounding and pounding and pounding his head into it. Patrick's mouth was wide 
open, all his teeth showing like a wolf that was going to eat his prey after 
hunting and killing it. Blood started spurting out of his ear and his forehead. 
Patrick was enjoying himself immensely, so I hated to interrupt, but I had to 
show some sign of reason.
	"Patrick, this is taking too fucking long." I produced my faithful 
revolver and fired a shot right into his head, and ended the extremely noisy and 
drawn out ordeal. I needed my power fix, besides it felt good to break out my 
good old, reliable six-shooter.
	"You didn't have to do that, J.D."
	"I'm sorry, but we don't have the luxury of enjoying it that much right 
now. Besides, it's no fun to sit back and watch you do everything. Let's get out 
of here before someone gets suspicious." I unlocked the bathroom door and headed 
out the back of the restaurant through the kitchen. Patrick didn't want to leave 
so rudely though, so he took a minute to run over to the table where his mind-
numbing entourage was still filling the air with inane chatter.
	"Bateman, where are you going? You only just got here."
	"I have to return some videotapes." His typical excuse, and his even more 
typical manner devoid of any signs of an actual human being in there somewhere.
	That wasn't the first time we did something like that, and it wasn't the 
last, but it was the most fun. The last time was much closer to the end of the 
semester in late November. We were coming home from a particularly dull dining 
experience at the same restaurant, only we had stayed the whole fucking night 
and we hadn't killed anyone...yet. We were headed back to the condo after the 
restaurant closed, and we took a short cut down this deserted alley for some 
reason Patrick wouldn't divulge to me. It wasn't a big secret, more like an 
unexpected surprise. There was this transient lying against the wall at the far 
end of the dark alley. Patrick approached the guy, and I kinda hung back until I 
could figure out what Patrick was doing. He talked to him in a strange sort of 
light-hearted, encouraging way.
	"How are you doing? You look hungry. How about we get you something to 
eat? You know what? I'm going to set you up. I can get you a job, a place of 
your own, and everything." The man just brightened up from underneath a long 
white beard and tired, sagging eyes. Then, Patrick switched gears on him like 
lightning struck. "Never mind. You're really not worth it. You're pathetic, 
actually."
	I saw him pull out his rather large pocketknife. He started jabbing the 
poor bum with it, and I did nothing. I stood there. I didn't want to participate 
this time. I couldn't believe I was even standing idly by, but I was and I did. 
He was dead in a matter of seconds, and I was frozen where I was. Patrick 
carefully folded his knife and replaced it inside his long overcoat. He walked 
back up to me, curious as to why I hadn't come closer or helped him do it, like 
all the other times.
	"What the fuck was that?" My voice was steady, calm, still disapproving.
	"Oh, please, J.D., don't tell me you feel sorry for THAT! The man was 
nothing, never would be anything, a loser in every way."
	I had bad flashbacks to Veronica thinking what I did was psychotic, 
Heather Chandler heading her own entourage, a time when I disapproved of how 
people like her treated people like me, people like Ms. Dumptruck. HOLY FUCK! I 
was everything I ever hated at that moment. Patrick was Heather Chandler, and 
here I was, Veronica fucking Sawyer! I was Veronica standing there watching 
Martha Dumptruck approach Kurt Kelley with that disgusting note I'd written in 
his handwriting as per Heather Chandler's orders. I glanced around the alley, 
like I might see myself sitting at a table in the corner looking on, and shaking 
my head. I remember shaking my head at Veronica then, disgusted by what she'd 
done, and disapproving of what she stood for, just another lackey carrying out 
the wishes of the reigning monarch of that one society, and here I was in a 
different society, lackey to another reigning monarch. I didn't care about Ms. 
Dumptruck, but I never tried to slit her wrists and make it look like a suicide 
either. There was something amazingly hypocritical about this entire situation, 
and extremely fucked up about what had just happened.
	Patrick was still staring at me awaiting a reaction from me. He looked 
down on these people that did nothing to him the way Heather Chandler did, the 
way the whole school did. Wasn't that something I was petitioning against as 
recently as 3 and a half months ago? "Yeah, well, that's just...," I was going 
to hate myself for saying this in the morning, "not my style." Veronica's words 
coming out my mouth.
	"J.D., don't romanticize what you did at Westerberg. You killed those 
kids. Teenagers being teenagers and you set out to destroy them for it. Correct 
me if I'm wrong, but weren't you going to blow them all to kingdom come? Aren't 
those your words? That sounds awfully 'Kill them all and let God sort them out' 
to me. You were going to explode innocent, pathetic saps along with those 
gossipy bitches and jock assholes you hated so much. Don't tell me you're now 
having a crisis of conscience."
	"I didn't stab Betty Finn to death!"
	"No, you were just going to blow her to bits with the enemy-yours and 
hers."
	He had me. He had me by the balls. I knew he was right, but this had 
become more about winning an argument than about the moral and ethical 
implications and political values of my social consciousness. "I was crazy then. 
I'm sane now!"
	I had the most solemn expression on my face, but when Patrick smiled at 
what I said, then proceeded to burst out laughing, I went into hysterics too. We 
just kept on laughing the entire way home. We didn't mention it after that ever. 
Patrick refrained from his back alley tactics for a while. I guess he did it 
because I was his friend. We really didn't like arguing. We just got along way 
too well. It wasn't long before I moved out of Patrick's though. It happened a 
few weeks later, very abrupt. I was tired of fucking NYU, tired of Patrick's 
silver, business-card case packing entourage, tired of the fucking immaculate 
condo, tired of being in the same fucking place. All I needed was an excuse to 
leave, and it wasn't long before I had one.
	Patrick had an affinity for prostitutes, and on many occasions he offered 
to get one or two for me. Sometimes I took him up on his magnanimous offer, and 
boy, the fun we all had, but this night, I was not in the mood for anything. I 
was just plain tired of the whole fucking deal. The nuance of everything had 
worn off a while ago.
	The week finals began, the night before my most important final, 3 a.m., a 
tumultuous roar wrenched me from the most beautiful dream where I was about to 
kill Veronica. Right before the ax hit-I admit I stole Patrick's idea, because 
even if it wasn't subtle, it was perfecto-this unbelievably loud commotion came 
from the hallway. I jerked open my door, sleepy, irritated and lacking the 
coherency to reserve judgment. Think before you act was not a thought in my mind 
at that moment. I watched a fleshy blur rush by me with the metallic, rusty roar 
moving with it, and I shouted out in frustration.
	"PATRICK!" If you could get blue balls from lack of sleep, this would be 
that feeling. I watched as my eyes opened wider, feeling heavier and scathing 
staring at the blur as it became clearer. It was Patrick. Completely naked, 
except for his white high-top sneakers, standing there au natural holding a 
chainsaw in front of his crotch. This was the motherfucker of all phallic 
symbols. I heard some girl screaming and screeching downstairs, probably dying 
of some chainsaw-related injury. I had fucking finals the next day, damn it!
	He looked at me as calm and casual as I've ever seen him, an unnerving 
sight, no matter who the fuck you are. Ted Bundy would've looked at Patrick 
cock-eyed. He spoke politely with all the manners I'd ever seen him extend to 
his fellow businessmen-that is the ones he didn't callously murder. "Yes, J.D.?"
	"It's 3 in the fucking morning! I've got finals tomorrow, man. I'm trying 
to fucking sleep!"
	"I'm sorry, J.D. I'm still not used to the company..." He trailed off and 
turned his attention back to the girl downstairs. This vicious fire flicked on 
in his eyes like a light switch had been flipped in his head. 0 to Psycho in no 
seconds.
	I rolled my eyes, rushed back into my room and climbed back into bed. That 
was it. I couldn't take it. I got right back up. This is no way to start over! I 
should've just gone west like I had planned to in the beginning. I'd never pass 
my finals without any sleep and this shit on my mind. I threw every belonging I 
brought with me, and some stuff I swiped because I figured he owed me such nice 
parting gifts just for surviving four months living with him without going 
stark-raving mad!
	I walked into the bathroom, and opened the little window by the shower. I 
sent every one of his fucking little bottles sky-rocketing into the night from 
more than a dozen stories off the ground. I chucked his oatmeal body lotion. I 
tossed his mint julep, jasmine and lavender facial masques. I flung his scented 
oils and perfumes out too. I emptied his herbal conditioner and his all-natural 
shampoo onto his pristine hardwood floor in the living room. I took all of his 
liquor, tonics and upscale liqueur shit and smashed the bottles into the same 
precious flooring. I was beyond spiteful and disgusted with Patrick's fucking 
uptight, vacuous clone lifestyle. I wanted to experience a fucked-up society, 
and that was exactly what I found, but not where I expected. Well, Patrick can 
fucking have it! I don't want anything to do with it.
	I grabbed my luggage and headed for the elevator, but Patrick came back up 
spattered with blood, and minus the chainsaw. He gazed at the mess on the floor 
and rushed into the bathroom, then came out staring at me with wide, stunned 
eyes.
	"What the fucking fuck?"
	"Patrick, I gotta get out of here! I fucking hate this place. I hate your 
fucking friends, and I hate your evil fucking life. If I see one more dick in a 
suit ask to see my business card, I'm going to fucking upchuck all over his 
fucking Gucci shoes. I can't take this anymore. The next conversation I have to 
listen to about mergers and acquisitions is going to send me straight to fucking 
Bellevue."
	"You didn't have to destroy all my stuff, J.D."
	"I didn't destroy all your stuff. And yes, I did."
	"It's 3 o'clock in the morning, J.D. Where are you going to go at this 
hour?"
	"Thank you for the time check, Captain Obvious. I'm gonna fucking 
hitchhike. I need to get out of here now. I'll catch the first flight to 
Sacramento, stay with my Dad for a while."
	"What about NYU? You're almost finished with the semester."
	"Thanks again for the update. Forgive me, but I don't give a shit. Fuck 
NYU, and fuck you very much too."
	He just stood there as I rushed by him, out the door, and pushed the 
button for the elevator, frantic to get off the premises and out of this whole 
fucking city. Now, I was going to have to walk the streets in the dead of night, 
flag down a taxi, pay like fifty fucking bucks just to get to the nearest 
airport, figure out which is closer and more convenient, JFK or LaGuardia, sit 
there for hours while I waited to get on any plane that would get me anyhow to 
Sacramento...
	"Let me call a limo and get dressed, and I'll go with you."
	...and I'll have to... "Okay."


"American Roommates" Copyright Mary C. Paul. February 2001

American Psycho and Patrick Bateman Copyright Bret Easton Ellis

    Source: geocities.com/jadenslater1