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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 26, 2020 20:37:34 GMT
"Wed 3/22/00 11:47 AM Subject: Sex and Guilt
It seems that society at large feels the need to attach a certain level of guilt to all sexual activity. The level of guilt varies on a scale dependant on the sexual act in question. In the case of consenting adults who are both married and desirous of procreating, the guilt should be negligible. In the case where one of the participants realizes after the fact that the temptress he has just seduced is a minor, then the guilt level could hover somewhere around enormous.
No, I do not condone this, I am just making a point.
The problem with analysis is that those trained in the art of delving into the confines of another man's psyche often get lost in the depths and lose sight of the fact that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
Also, an essential part of sex is the fantasy that is attached to it. While there are no boundaries, there still might be guilt. But guilt must be acknowledged before it can have any effect. I tried to confess once, but no one would listen. I agree with your statement that fantasy doesn't always need to become reality in order to be satisfying.
I do feel, however, that the boundaries of sexual behavior have been significantly expanded by the Internet in an inverse proportion to the anonymity that it provides.
The joke, of course, is that Internet sex is not sex at all, only typing.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
Source Brain Kotek, link above
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 26, 2020 20:40:44 GMT
"Wed 3/22/00 1:39 PM Subject: Sex Sells
Sex sells. Everything.
Does anyone really read "Playboy" for the Jokes? "Hustler" for Larry Flynt's views on politics? Watch "Baywatch" for the story line? No, it's about skin tight bathing suits revealing more the wetter they become, and the grabbing of perfect bodies under the guise of being saved. When was the last time you saw somebody from "Baywatch" in a Merchant-Ivory movie? Howard's Rear End? I don't think so.
The porn videos of the "80's" are not much more revealing than today's HBO. Sex, in the city, and in prison. It's everywhere you look. On your TV. It's all about immediate gratification. And the selling of it.
Gucci. Buy these clothes and have sex with the models. Even the designers are great looking. How many of his customers fantasize about Tom Ford? But does any woman really want a roll in the hay with Yves Saint Laurent? Compared to Bill Blass, Ralph Lauren is Tom Cruise. And how many gays have a thing for Marc Jacobs? Have you noticed how the Vuitton men's line has taken off..
And what about music? It's not a recent phenomenon. From Sinatra, to the Beatles, to Mark McGrath of "Sugar Ray." Girls everywhere scream "Take me! Take me." From suburban mansions to trailer parks, girls everywhere fantasize about the rock star of their dreams. All one has to do is study an emerging market to realize the importance of sex in the marketplace. Latin Media. Ricky Martin or Marc Anthony, who has the better voice or the bigger career? The answer is the better ass.
The "Backstreet Boys," could they be more obvious? And how brilliantly they are managed and marketed. Little girls everywhere bemoan the fact that two of the band's members are engaged, while "I Want it That Way" has become the Gay national anthem.
What I do find greatly ironic, in this "mine's-bigger-and-better-and- hotter" world, is the competition over the cellular phone. In what other category is the winner the one who can boast, "mine's the smallest"?
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
Source Brain Kotek
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 26, 2020 20:42:42 GMT
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 26, 2020 20:43:51 GMT
"Thu 3/23/00 11:08 AM Subject: Indulging your Kids
It is very hard to say no to your child. My parents rarely said it to me. I was told either "yes" or my request was met with a stony silence that I understood to mean "no".
There was not much communication growing up in the Bateman household. As it never existed in the first place, I never missed it. It just wasn't there.
My son, P.B., always knows how to reach me. He has been Emailing since he was six, and received his first cellular phone at seven. By then, all of his friends already had them.
I am charmed by his innocence. Last month, some friends of his from school flew him down to Palm Beach for the weekend. He came back all excited about how big their plane was and about all the people who were on it. And it had big red letters on the side. A "T," a "W," and an "A." How come the letters on our plane are so small, and why are there are only 12 chairs? And, Jason Berns has a horse so can I have one, too?"
I reminded him that horses made him sneeze. He realized I was correct, so he offered a compromise. "How about if I don't ride him and we just watch him run around?"
His point was well made.
"P.B.'s Prince of Pleasure" sired by the great-grandson of "Secretariat" is favored 3-to-1 to win at this year's Kentucky Derby.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 26, 2020 20:45:59 GMT
"Thu 3/23/00 10:16 PM Subject: I Love the Nightlife
I've got to Boogie. To the Disco at Niiiiight!
Ricardo, at the wheel of the Mercedes "G" Wagon, black, of course, picks me up at 9:00 P.M.
I am wearing a deep charcoal Valentino three button suit over a Les Copains cashmere turtleneck, in black. Gucci square toe slip-ons with a discreet silver insignia that you would have to be on your knees in front of me in order to read, and a White Gold Vacheron-Constantine Chronograph, with a black suede band and a deployant buckle.
I've been told that the only other one in existence belongs to Tom Cruise.
We go to "Il Cantinori", one of my favorites. A discreet place on East 10th Street that is run by Frank like an Italian railroad during the era of Mussolini. Perfection. I am joined by a star of the biggest grossing film in history and his "It Girl" date, one of the world's highest paid magicians, a writer from the "Times" who is begging to profile me for the Business section, and the writer of "The Morning After", the hottest column in New York who I have known since she did captions for the Bendel's catalogue.
I start with Lobster Risotto and follow with a Grilled Sole that is both weightless and intense with flavor. After our fourth bottle of "Far Niente", we leave the table and head for our cars. No check is ever presented and a 25% gratuity is added automatically.
We head to "Pop", Roy Liebenthal's brilliant Swedish Airport inspired bistro on Fourth Avenue and 12th where Tim gives us the big round table in the center of the Dining Room. After several rounds and assorted desserts which nobody finishes we head to "Lot 61" where Amy informs us that our guests have already been seated at my usual banquette, on the left just after the fireplace.
Eventually, my dinner companions wander off and I am left alone with a Victoria's Secret model and a co-star of the latest digitally enhanced action movie, who discreetly passes me some coke, which I do in the bathroom next to a stall that is obviously occupied by three people, all of them men. We then go to some place in the way East Village where I recognize the doorman from "Life", and dance until the lights go on, and then pile into the Mercedes for the trip uptown, where the night becoming day blurs into one long nice place what do you do, do you have any Xanax, I've never been with a woman before, yeah right, she's so soft you have a great body for a guy your age, shut up you dumb bitch, you have a lousy body for a 20 year old like you'll ever see 27 again would you both mind terribly leaving as I have a conference call in twenty minutes and Ricardo will get you both taxis.
Some things never change.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 0:20:16 GMT
"Fri 3/24/00 3:31 PM Subject: Evelyn
After my conference call from London was over, I had just under two hours to sleep before meeting Evelyn for lunch at the Carlyle.
I awoke with a killer hangover, and was tempted to cancel, but the last thing I needed now was to subject myself to even more of Evelyn's self pity. The best hangover remedy is as follows: Copious amounts of ice cold spring water followed by a well spiced steak tartar, ground Filet, with capers from Fauchon in Paris, followed by Clamato juice mixed with fresh sections of lemon.
Though I view "Casual Fridays" as an excruciatingly middle class invention, I slip on an ecru Polo cashmere turtleneck over chocolate brown suede pants and matching Bottega Veneta loafers. I finish this off with a Vicuna Zegna Blazer that I had made for me in Rome last season, and a Rose Gold Rolex from the early 1940's that once belonged to Porfirio Rubirosa.
As I plan to head out to the country after lunch, I drive myself to the Carlyle in my cobalt blue Aston Martin Volante, the same color as the one owned by Prince Charles, only mine has the Vantage engine.
I deposit the car with the doorman, who pockets the $50, and announce myself at the front desk. "The Countess is expecting you," I am told and take the elevator to 32, all the while noticing the heavy breathing of the operator who is there more for show than anything else.
The mahogany doors swing open and a rather delicate man of blended ethnicity announces me to Evelyn, Duchess of Risborough, formerly The Princess de Vestota, and before that La Comtesse D'Erlanger, in vintage Mainbocher, lying provocatively on a chaise facing Central Park. He backs his way out of the room, bowing all the while.
"Patrick, I haven't had an orgasm in three years."
"Of course you haven't," I reply, "All of your husbands have been Gay."
She begins to cry, which infuriates me. "I haven't had an orgasm in three hours" I reply. "What's for Lunch?" I ask, and find out as she hurls a Caesar salad at me, garlic croutons littering a floor that once graced a gallery leading to The Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.
"Sorry," I say, "but I can't have any bread because I'm starting Atkins today," and head towards the elevator, saying we must do this again soon, call me when the swelling goes down, no thank you I can get the door myself but you better call housekeeping or someone might slip on an anchovy in there.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 0:22:00 GMT
"Sat 3/25/00 4:24 PM Subject: Be It Ever So Humble
There's no place like Home.
"Dark Cove" was built by the family that controlled Standard Oil of Indiana long before "Monopoly" was considered a bad word, or was the name of that game where each time the car or the hat or the dog passed 'go' the player was entitled to collect two hundred dollars.
It remains today one of the largest undivided parcels of waterfront land in the metropolitan New York area, and will remain so, as the trust my Grandfather created upon it's purchase during World War II, so decrees. The frontage is so extensive that one could dock the "Intrepid" along the sea wall and still not obstruct the view to the Connecticut shoreline across the Sound.
The house, a one half size recreation of the Czar's Summer Palace as interpreted by Mott Schmidt in 1929, boasts a forty-by-sixty-foot Ballroom with a triple height ceiling emblazoned in Gold Leaf with all twelve signs of the Zodiac, that is only slightly closer to the black and white marble floor than the actual night sky.
At one time or another, this room hosted Cole Porter, George Gershwin, and The Marx Brothers as they performed, though never at the same time, for an assortment of guests who included The Duke and Duchess of Windsor, those unfortunate Woodwards, several of our less liberal Presidents, and the even less liberal Shah of Iran during the early days of the Peacock Throne.
It is to "Dark Cove" I escape when I want the kind of peace and solitude that only the sea, the sand, the sky, and twenty-one in staff can provide. As the sun begins to slowly descend into the navy blue chop of the Sound, I swing gently back and forth on the little rope swing P.B. and I put up ourselves last Summer by the waters edge.
The one that I will not see him swing on again until I agree to pay his mother One Hundred and Eighty Nine Thousand Dollars a Month in Alimony. Or he turns 18, whichever comes first.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 0:25:17 GMT
"Sun 3/26/00 4:45 PM Subject: 10 Things I Hate
I Hate False Hope.
Don't tell me everything will be fine when you know in advance that it won't.
I Hate Bad Service.
You're an Actor, fine. Go sleep with a Producer, and allow a trained professional to filet my Salmon.
I Hate people who refer to themselves in the third person.
It's only acceptable if you're already dead, as in the opening scene of "Sunset Boulevard."
I Hate Davis Ferguson.
I believe I've already touched on that.
I Hate Bad Albee.
Don't bring up your inner demons to share with the others at the table. We really don't care to know if you're afraid of Virginia Woolf. Stay home and freak out. Buy a Chainsaw.
I Hate The Work of Jean Michel Basquiat.
Let's see what he could do sober.
I Hate Politicians Who Comb Over Their Bald Spots.
If you are going to lie about the state of your own head, how can anybody trust anything you have to say about anything important?
I Hate False Modesty.
Why bother?
I Hate Beggars.
They CAN be choosers, like in choose to get a job.
I Hate Not Being Understood.
Do I make myself clear?
I Hate Davis Ferguson.
All right, that's 11.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 0:27:56 GMT
"Tue 3/28/00 10:23 AM Subject: My Boat's Too Slow
Simone De Reveney is my favorite person.
Because he makes his own rules. And lives by them.
In the early 1950's growing up as a teenager in the shadow of Coney Island, Brooklyn, he determined it was his destiny to be neither poor nor heterosexual. He has succeeded brilliantly at both.
Though he claims not to remember the exact spelling of his original family name, nor his exact date of birth, he has memorized the various home phone numbers of the Finance Ministers of the eleven countries that claim him as their richest citizen.
At the Grimaldi's, prior to the start of last years Grand Prix, when jokingly asked if he had Ten Billion Dollars on him to lend to the ruler of a Third World Country, he replied "No, but would you take a check?"
It is rumored that he paid Twenty Five Million Dollars to one of the World's Biggest Movie Stars to engage in an orgy with himself and the Russian in charge of disposing of the Gold Reserves from the former Soviet Republic, on board his Three Hundred and Sixteen Foot Yacht, "Le Beaux Simone" during last year's Cannes Film Festival. The only part of the story that CAN be confirmed is that De Reveney et Cie has become the largest refiner of Russian Gold in the World, netting Simone nearly Two Billion Dollars so far, and that a Certain Star is now the owner of a slightly used Gulfstream 4.
"You know," he said to me last month on board "The Gillian V" as we cruised from Palm Beach to Lyford Cay, "If you're going to have a boat that's under Two Hundred Feet, the least you can do is have one that's fast." He continued, "The Aga Khan's "Shergar" is about this size but it can cruise effortlessly at over Sixty Knots. I DO hope you plan to upgrade when we have finished this situation with that horrendous Davis person. And pardon my staring, but I could swear that Steward you have assigned to my Stateroom is the twin brother of that underwear model."
"It is him," I reply
"You always were a Fabulous host."
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 0:33:56 GMT
"Tue 3/28/00 3:58 PM Subject: We've Been There Before
I am early for my lunch with Luis Carruthers. I would prefer to be late. I would most prefer not to attend at all. For an incredibly pretentious individual, Luis has incredibly poor table manners. To make himself even less tolerable, he insists that the bulk of his conversation be whispered directly into your ear, which eventually becomes coated with tiny bits of his lunch.
Wearing a Grey Spring Weight Cashmere Cerruti suit, I walk up Madison Avenue towards "La Goulou," a classic Bistro filled with soon to be ex- wives who will spend the remainder of the afternoon shopping away their loneliness. Ricardo, who has been following discreetly behind me in the Navy Bentley, pulls up along side of me to announce that Mr. Carruthers just called, will be late, is very sorry, would I mind terribly waiting just a bit? As if I would ever allow myself to be seen in public anticipating the arrival of Luis Carruthers.
I cross Madison Avenue, walk up one block to Cerruti, am greeted by the store manager, who discreetly points out several items that would work perfectly with the rest of the Spring Line that I already have. He tells me that Nino Cerruti will be coming to New York to receive yet another fashion award and wants me to sit at his table. I send my best to Julian, Nino's handsome and talented son, and head back to the restaurant.
The Bentley is waiting out front, and Ricardo is standing outside, smoking, which looks thuggish. I point this out while demanding to know what is he doing outside of the car while the motor is running, and he points to the tinted rear window, which I knock on, and is lowered sheepishly by Luis who is in the middle of an intense conversation with someone who clearly does not want to hear from him again. Luis has been crying so much that I fear his tears will short circuit the phone.
I ask him what is wrong and pretend to listen as I scan the menu.
I order the Salmon Napolean to start, followed by the Chicken with Orzo, followed by Luis weeping some more, followed by Luis coming out to me, again, followed by Francois, the Captain growing impatient, followed by Luis finally ordering the Boulliabase.
I feign interest in his love life until he suddenly blurts out the name "Terry Davis" as the most recent in a series of desirable young men who have given Luis the "shaft."
Suddenly, I am the interested, considerate friend that Luis so desperately needs, suddenly willing to hear all that Luis has to say about the beautiful young man who models under the name of Terry Davis, whose real identity I know from reports given to me by a private detective in my employ, whose sole function is to gather every bit of information there is that can be used against his father, Terence Davis Ferguson, who is, as we speak, blissfully unaware of the true nature of his son's relationship with Luis Carruthers.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 1:03:48 GMT
"Wed 3/29/00 12:18 PM Subject: Like Father, Like Son
In 1982 the Justice Department decreed that a certain Monopoly controlling over 80% of the production of Silicate, a key ingredient in the manufacture of micro-processing components, must surrender what had become a controlling position in this market.
Without missing a beat, T. Davis Ferguson, the Country's largest individual owner of Silica mines, sold his interests at a handsome profit to an offshore entity owned by a trust whose chief beneficiary was totally unaware of just how rich he truly was, and who was coincidentally, at this very minute, mining for a natural resource of his own, only this one came from Peru.
Terry Davis awoke at the crack of Noon, early for him, in the Tribeca loft purchased for him by a different trust for nearly Five Million Dollars, before the most recent surge in New York real estate prices. He spent the next twenty minutes rummaging through his Pratesi sheets, Prada shoes, DVD's, empty bottles of Cristal, Ketel One, and Vicodan, and several sleeping bed companions (whose names and fetishes escaped him at the moment) until he found the last of the Amber vials, which was almost empty. He had enough to propel him the Fifty or so yards that stretched from his bed to his Eleven Hundred square foot bathroom, the one that appears in the next Gucci ad, which is how Terry, for the most part, supports himself -- by renting things out that he didn't have to pay for in the first place. His home, his face, his body, whatever it takes.
For you see, Terry has virtually no money.
After nearly a decade of Rehabs, (Why don't you write a book rating them all, his Father mocked him at their last meeting, the one which ended their relationship and the flow of money to Terry!) Terry has found himself living in the lap of luxury without a proverbial pot to piss in. That's why he eagerly accepted the luncheon invitation that was hand- delivered to his door, finely engraved on watermarked paper, and bearing the crest, of Simone De Reveney.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 5:18:14 GMT
"Wed 3/29/00 7:27 PM Subject: Media Madness
It's Madness!
Utter madness. The ink-stained wretches of the past have a new name, The Media Elite. In the media obsessed world in which we live, those who chronicle the Lives, Loves, and Losses of the Rich, Famous, and Powerful have become as well known as their subjects.
The press of today are courted with a deference formerly reserved for the celebrities themselves. Their names are in bold face in each other's columns and magazines. Their attendance at an event validates the existence of whatever is being celebrated.
Public Relations people have their own public relations people. They too have become as famous as those they are enlisted to promote.
Suzy Liz Smith George Rush Joanna Malloy Richard Johnson Jared Paul Stern Cindy Adams Paula Froelich Neal Travis Frank DiGiacomo Peggy Siegel Lizzie Grubman Lauren London Bobby Zarem Tina Brown Ron Galotti Anna Wintour Howard Rubinstein Maer Roshan and on and on.
That is barely even the first name of the Media Elite. I haven't even gotten to athletes movie stars tycoons politicians heads of state doctors teachers composers writers criminals murderers restaurateurs publishers editors inventors socialites sociopaths artists photographers and people on the WB network.
Today's version of the old question: "If a tree fell in the woods and no one was there to hear it, would it still have made any noise?" is "If something happened and nobody was there to cover it, did it really happen?"
I've given up wondering, and am just glad that my favorite publications, The New York Observer, Wall Street Journal, Forbes, Baron's, The Financial Times, Paris Match, Country Life, In Style, Robb Report, Vanity Fair, Architectural Digest, World of Interiors, Yachting, and the new Us Weekly, are printed using Ink that doesn't come off on your hands. Everything else I read Online.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 5:19:03 GMT
"Thu 3/30/00 1:43 PM Subject: My Book List
Bookstores are the discos of the new Millennium, a place where there is more drinking and cruising than anything else. One of the most surprising developments in the past few years is the emergence of the celebrity book promoter. How ironic that we turn to stars of the small screen for big ideas.
My book list, recorded scrupulously in a belted and hand-sewn Florentine journal, first introduced to Europe in the early middle-ages and featuring paper from the Amalfi paper mill, makers of fine paper since the 14th century, offers superior reading recommendations.
Sun-Tzu's THE ART OF WAR is a powerful guide for those who strive for success.
MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA, so rich in similes and subtle shadings, is a contemporary classic.
Anna Pavord's THE TULIP offers an expressive history of the unique flower that changed global economies through the ages, accompanied by lavish and memorable botanical illustrations that bring the flower to life.
Finally, John Berendt's MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL, now a perennial on the bestseller list, is notable for its intensely charismatic central character (who is equally compelling alive or dead) and its extensive details about high and low life in Savannah.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 5:27:11 GMT
"Thu 3/30/00 5:13 PM
Jean Therapy
You asked me if I want to let her go, or if I am most interested in being the one who decides when it is over. Before I can properly address that, you must understand our shared past. Jean was there for me when I was at my lowest point. I was vulnerable. I HATE being perceived as vulnerable. She knows that, and it gives her a power over me that leaves me no choice but to hate her as well.
Your question "If I have transferred that hate to Jean, and therefore now hate her, can I direct that hate elsewhere, and then be more rational in the negotiations needed to finish the divorce?" Yes, I always have a place, or two, or three, where I can more effectively channel the energy that fuels hate. But I can't separate her from that yet, because she is trying to control me through P.B. I can't let her get away with that.
"Maybe you're just projecting your way of reacting to the situation onto her," you said. No. You must realize that Jean is much smarter than she appears to be. I must deal with her the way I would with any other opponent.
It is not a matter of If I win, only When.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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Post by RhodoraO on Dec 27, 2020 5:29:53 GMT
"Fri 3/31/00 3:53 PM Subject: The Laddies Who Lunch
Terry Davis pushed open the heavy iron door that led out onto Hudson Street. He was startled by the sun, which was rather bright for 3:30 P.M., and struggled with his wrap-around Titanium sunglasses as his Nokia cell phone and Motorola pager rang simultaneously. He threw them both into his Gucci Backpack and gazed at his own reflection in a puddle amid the cobblestones.
Dressed in an Yves Saint Laurent Couture Charcoal suit over a Black Cashmere mock turtle tee shirt with Richard James socks and Black Lobb Oxfords, one of which was untied, he scanned the assorted vehicles lining the street for his ride to Balthazar for his lunch with Simone De Reveney.
Suddenly, a diagonally parked garbage truck began to lumber away from a loading dock, revealing a 1966 Rolls Royce Phantom V PV22 Limousine with a James Young coach-built body lacquered the identical color of a Pigeon Blood Ruby, New York License Plate SDR. A liveried chauffeur stood at attention as Terry crossed the street to the majestic automobile, one of Six in existence.
The chauffeur opened the rear door as Terry pointed to his shoe that was untied. The chauffeur knelt before Terry as he settled into the Connolly Leather, Wilton Carpet, and glistening Zebra-patterned Macassar Ebony of the interior.
"Thank you," Terry said, long used to being knelt in front of.
Simone De Reveney, accustomed to the company of beautiful men, gasped at the magnificence of Terry Davis as he was shown to the Banquette, to the left of where Madonna usually sat. Perhaps this would be more than Business after all, he thought, as Terry removed his enormous glasses, revealing eyes the color of a Sable Coat, and cheekbones so defined you could open a can with them.
Simone rose and kissed each of those cheeks, as Terry settled in next to him.
"I haven't seen you since last year's Cannes Film Festival," Terry began, "It was at the Hotel du' Cap. You were with that actor and that Russian guy."
"Was I? I don't remember," said Simone, who could tell you what he had for lunch on Bastille Day in 1967.
"I've heard you're not getting on with your father," he continued. "Join the club, which I'm afraid is not very exclusive. Your father seems to be collecting enemies as voraciously as he once collected casinos and call girls."
"Are you into me, or is this about my father? If this is about him, I'm outta' here."
Terry stood up, trembling, and spun his shoulders away from Simone, looking remarkably frail beneath the vaulted tin ceiling of the restaurant.
"You are too short for that gesture." Simone said in that friendly but firm way of his. "Anyway, you don't have cab fare and those shoes are not made for walking, only for making an entrance, which you do rather well."
Terry sat back down.
"And might I add Ramon is trained in Tae Kwan Do and is a Black Belt in both Karate and Jujitsu, not to mention licensed to carry firearms internationally. If you want someone to tie your shoe, hire a valet."
"I don't have enough money for lunch, let alone a valet," Terry laughed.
"Well, actually, you do. But not if you order the fish." said Simone, as he pulled an ecru envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it Terry. Inside was a detailed list of all of Terry's available cash, credit, and overdraft privileges, detailed down to the change he kept in the Imperial Jade bowl given to him by that oil minister.
"Yeah, so, I'm a little tight right now. But my agency still owes me."
Simone cut him off with a slight wave of his hand. "Please, you sound like a pitiful fool. Read this," he said as he removed a folder from an Hermes portfolio at his side.
Terry scanned the document, headed "Trey Corporation, 12 bis Rue D'Angleterre, Geneve," that identified several U.S. mining corporations among it's many assets, the total of which came to nearly Two Billion Dollars, U.S.
"So," Terry asked, "who is this Trey Corporation?"
"Actually, my dear boy, that would be you," replied Simone, as the waiter inquired as to what they would be having for lunch.
"I'll have the fish," answered Terry.
I saw it all from my seat at a nearby table.
Virtually yours, Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com"
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