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AmPsycho 2000 Emails

These are the Am2000 Emails sent to date, in the order they were recieved. Enjoy! Also, these are ALL the emails and associated graphics, so it may take a moment to load! I may break them down individually later, I just don't have the time right now, but wanted to get them up for you.



Wed 3/15/00 11:48 AM

Subject: Take Off

My problem came from being a young man with a lot of money in Manhattan. As a direct result of my position and perceived good fortune, the word NO did not apply to me. Can I have this suit, this phone, this girl? YES. This drug, this apartment, this deal? YES! This car, this table, this stretch of oceanfront? YES! Could I change the boundaries that define society? Could I create my own set of rules and live by them? YES. YES! Everything but NO! Was I searching all this time for that someone who would finally say NO to me?

No.

I was searching for Teterboro, the most convenient of New York's private airports, even though it is in New Jersey. And by 92 I had found it. I haven't seen the inside of a commercial plane, except the Concorde, in nearly a decade.

The French. Their cars suck but their aircraft are glorious. My Falcon 50, tail number N522PB, has the best short field performance of any of the heavy iron, and is far less nouveau than a Gulfstream, which, by now, everybody in the top tiers at Goldman and Microsoft owns. And, I should have known that after a weekend in Aspen's thin air, this normally invigorating bottle of Far Niente would induce a sense of remorse in me that is about the only thing I can't afford right now.

Especially now.

No thoughts can enter my mind that don't focus exclusively on THE DEAL.

For future reference. Remind me to never pick up anyone who appears regularly on the WB network. If I have to hear one more time about how if she had known how cold Aspen was she never would have become a spokesperson for PETA and then she would have been able to wear her Fendi sable poncho to the Caribou Club, I will throw her out of the plane as soon as we're over the Meadowlands.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

From:Patrick Bateman
To:Dr. M
Sent: Thursday, March 16, 2000 11:50 AM
Subject: Therap-e

You are to use Eastern Standard Time as a basis for scheduling all E sessions, which will take place twice a week. Any and all confidentiality documents must be notarized prior to transfer of any and all funds. E sessions will be terminated at the sole discretion of PB. I will set the agenda and insist that we adhere to a straightforward plan. I write: you read. You never had anything interesting to say, anyway.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman

----- Original Message -----
From: Dr. M.
To: Patrick Bateman
Sent: Thursday, March 16, 2000
Subject: Issues and Ethics

>I feel it is my obligation as your doctor to insist that we examine your motivation
>for such an unconventional undertaking as online therapy. The long term effects
>of such an arrangement on the health of the patient must be carefully evaluated.

>Will "therap-e" be beneficial or harmful...especially considering your state of mind?

>-Dr. M.

From: Patrick Bateman
To: Dr. M.
Sent: Thursday, March 16, 2000 11:50 AM
Subject: Cut to the chase

Do you want the money or don't you?

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Fri 3/17/00 11:41 AM

Subject: Jean Again

HOW QUICKLY THEY FORGET,

I am reminded as I scan Jean's latest request for temporary alimony. Dear Jean, sweet Jean. Jean who knows all, who understands me better than anyone else. Jean, who only wanted to love me. Jean, who balked at the idea of being sent home to Queens by car service. Jean, who grew up in a FORTY THOUSAND DOLLAR HOUSE, just can't seem to make it these days on anything less than ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY NINE THOUSAND DOLLARS A MONTH.

I knew she wasn't the old Jean anymore when she sent a body double into Valentino to be fitted for FALL '91 because she was pregnant.

By SPRING '93, she really didn't think it was a good idea that she and little P.B. Jr. fly commercially anymore, what with all that recycled air, he was sneezing on the boat all the way to Mustique. And you know, it looks just terrible when there are not enough seats and some of the help has to go coach.

Evelyn called. She is in between European gay aristo-trash husbands, and will be at her place in the Carlyle after the 24th but will be out of commission after the 27th, (Evelyn-speak for facelift), and she read about the divorce and is terribly sorry but that's what happens when you don't marry one of your own.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Fri 3/17/00 3:10 PM

Subject: Best Accessory

My son P.B. Jr. was wise enough early in his life to dispense with any aspect of his physicality or character that I would find even the slightest bit objectionable. He looks as if he were sculpted out of ivory, all the more remarkable when you consider the mutt-like ancestry of his mother.

As an infant, the only sounds he made were both pleasant and knowing. His ability to choose correctly was apparent long before he was able to speak. He preferred catalogues printed on the heaviest stock glossy paper to those books about that purple dinosaur that evolution should have rendered extinct by now. And, as far as anything involving a mouse was concerned, they were far too close to their biological relation, the rat, to amuse him in the slightest.

It is impossible to ignore the obvious superiority of this child, and on more than one occasion the current cover of Vogue or star of the latest teen angst movie would stop me on the street and ask me where could she get one of those?

Hermes, I'd reply, and head towards the Frick, which Jean always thought could possibly be for sale if I called enough people.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Sat 3/18/00 4:46 PM

Subject: Artwork

My son's gift to me.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Sat 3/18/00 8:48 PM

Subject: The Deal

The two great motivators are greed and hate.

Everybody wants more. Everybody hates someone. And why do you hate them? More likely than not, it's because they are in your way, or have something you want.

I hate Davis Ferguson.

Davis Ferguson has something I want.

And it's not his wardrobe. In the Midwest, even the Billionaires shop at Today's Man.

Davis Ferguson is in my way.

For now.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Sun 3/19/00 11:45 AM

From: Patrick Bateman
To: Dr. M
Subject: Time

According to my Platinum 1938 Breguet Minute Repeater, (a lesser version in Rose Gold recently sold in London for the equivalent of $217,000.00), I see that it is time for our Therap-e session. I must advise you in advance that if it were not for The Issue, and my desire to retrieve my child from his mother, I would not devote the time to this exercise. You asked me if I am interested in solving my problems or if I just want to give the impression that I have solved them so I can win custody of my child. I am interested in winning. Period. On all fronts. You suggest that I use arrogance and hostility as a mask to hide behind. I thought that's what the Internet was for.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Sun 3/19/00 6:40 PM

Subject: Prada

I have long ago given up worrying about man's ability to devise new ways in which to spend a disproportionately huge amount of money in order to show his fellow man that he has amassed huge piles of it. Forget cocaine. It's place in the luxury goods market has been usurped triumphantly by Prada. I applaud the brilliance of those minds behind this phenomenon. Where else can merchandise made primarily of nylon and leather be fought over by patrons wearing Diamonds and Sable? Prada. More than a brand; A mantra. A greeting. "Prada?" Soon to be right up there with Shalom, Ciao, and Aloha.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Mon 3/20/00 11:57 AM

Subject: Man at Work

The weather has never affected me much. Occasionally we are forced to modify a flight plan, and for certain social engagements a Top coat is appropriate, but that's only for fashion's sake. People like me never get wet.

I go from the elevator to the car and back. The elevator that is reserved for my use alone. The illusion that I am present and available is necessary.

I remain in contact through technology. Between the Sat phone, Satnav, the DSL lines that radiate from wherever I may be like a web, I am never out of touch, be it by voice or digital command. I am only unreachable when I choose to be.

During the coming month, I will be forced to make myself available to many I'd choose to ignore, permanently. Marcus Halberstam wisely chose to leave New York after some rather unpleasant innuendo regarding Paul Allen seemed to attach itself to him. Friend that I am, I offered him an opportunity that for the most part keeps him out of the country. Luis Carruthers, on the other hand, has proven himself quite useful at sucking valuable information out of some of the most important media and entertainment figures there are, thus rendering himself far more useful than even he realizes.

It is Davis Ferguson whom I abhor the most. It is almost as if he knows that my total revulsion at his mere existence gives him an upper hand.

He is almost correct.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Mon 3/20/00 3:40 PM

Subject: I Dress for Combat

In the Art of War, Sun Tzu states that intimidation is the only acceptable initial impression one can give his opponent.

In the wars that I choose to fight, I intimidate through an initial precise physical and sartorial impression that, stated simply says, "The first move is mine." There is an appropriate tailleur for every requirement.

My suits and evening wear, by such maestros of fashion as Cerrutti and Valentino, convey an aura of quiet superiority. My shoes, by Lobb and when appropriate, Gucci, are superior in both quality and fit. I can't allow my time to be intruded upon by the mundane aspects of tailoring. I have maintained both my weight and muscle tone in the exact same proportions for nearly two decades. Whatever I desire is sent to me by the vendors already familiar with my tastes, which tend to anticipate trends rather than follow them.

I have a great affinity for watches and complicated timepieces. I respect that beneath the simple beauty of their faces lie complex articulations of machinery that are at the same time both minute and grand.

When venturing out after hours, I wear concealing eyewear and rarely the same outfit twice.

I can be invisible when I choose to be.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Tue 3/21/00 10:28 AM

Subject: Why I Hate Davis Ferguson

I hate Davis Ferguson because he mocks my respect for perfection.

And because he is a liar. The image he conveys is one of down home Americana that is as fake as the artificial twang in his Yale educated voice. Though it is obvious that he descends from peasant stock, by the time the Second World War was to commence his family's various enterprises and ill gotten gains made them one of the richest in Pre- Internet America.

Our last meeting, at his insistence, took place at a Denny's restaurant near Lincoln, Nebraska, a chain he doesn't even own. His goal in taking me there was to make me uncomfortable enough so that I might inadvertently reveal why I have been buying up shares in his various corporations.

As he consumed enormous quantities of bright yellow food covered in rivers of maple syrup mopped up with the whitest of bread, I thought at least Elvis had the class to keel over and die after a lifetime of consuming such victuals. This wildebeest had the gall to guffaw in my face, (I detest even the notion of a guffaw), and boast that there is another group interested in his various corporations, and he might just go ahead and meet with them, to teach me a thing or two about how good ‘ole boys do things down around his way.

Go ahead, I say to this evolutionary misstep, and keep to myself that this other party reports to me.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Tue 3/21/00 3:30 PM

Subject: Lunch with Jean

Lunch with Jean

One of the most notable changes in the ritualistic dining habits of jaded New Yorkers and other nationals who frequent the city's most prominent restaurants is the advent of the female Maitre' d.

This disruption in the natural order of things, of course, cannot be found in the stalwarts of the best city restaurants. Walter is still in charge at "21" and Benito maintains his guard at the palace that is "Le Cirque," but at many of the priciest and hardest to get into of the current group of temples to trend-dining, women seem to be in charge. Sarah guards the portals of "Nobu," Phoebe plays Noah to the ark that is "Pastis," and Amy runs "Lot 61" as if it were the Concorde lounge at Orly.

But of course, this is only an illusion, for when an unruly patron crosses the boundaries of acceptable behavior, or those told to wait for a table that is most likely never to become available realize that they have been played, it is a man, usually a pair, who dispatch those whose position has been demoted from unlikely patron to that of squatter.

It is at one of these "Vadiners" that Jean suggests we meet for lunch. As usual, she is late. So we have to rush through the usual how are you, you look fine, I'll have the fish, no butter, I feel fat today.

When what she really means is how much longer do you plan to keep me in this legal vice that is squeezing the desire to live right out of my body, and I really don't like using our child as a bargaining device but I have gotten quite used to an unlimited amount of money so please can't we agree on something and stop this torture?

Jean, dear, if that Jil Sander suit you had on didn't look a little snug, I'd offer to share the Creme Brulee.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mon 3/27/00 10:58 AM

Subject: Take Good Care of Yourself

You Belong To Me.

Youth is about two things: Optimism, and Moisture.

Though not nearly as chic as any of the Lauder products, I find that the Kiehl's men's line currently fulfills the bulk of my grooming needs.

For cleansing purposes, though, nothing beats the various cleansers manufactured by Neutrogena.

My shower automatically turns on at a time preset on the control panel to the right of my bed. Also preset is the temperature and the various water jets designed to stimulate the areas of my body most susceptible to stress.

Three times a week I begin the day with a massage by Manfred, who leaves the club only to administer to the needs of an agoraphobic Rockefeller and myself. Everyone else must wait his or her turn for his world-renowned light- tissue Shiatsu.

Anthony from Oscar Blondi cuts my hair very slightly every twelve days. I never look as if I need, or have just had, a haircut.

I train according to a selection of videos prepared by the same orthopedically trained specialist who tones the bodies of the New York Giants, Oscar de la Hoya, and "La Cirque du Soleil." I can't stress enough how important it is to remain limber. I supplement these sessions with a bi-weekly visit from Billy, who, though he now runs "The Chelsea Piers," has kept me as a private client.

Khan, from "Jiva Mukhti" tutors me in Yoga four times a week. Unlike his many devotees who flock to his Lafayette Street studio, I prefer to perfect the "Lying Down Backward Dog" in the privacy of my own home.

And, I usually awake to the song "One Singular Sensation" from "A Chorus Line" as it is the most optimistic song ever written.

And, No, I am Not Gay, not that there's anything wrong with that.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sat 4/1/00 6:02 PM

Subject: Evelyn Calls

Evelyn called to say:

"I'm so sorry about my behavior did I get any of the Caesar Salad on your suede pants I am being sued by one of the Carlyle's maids who slipped on an anchovy in my apartment but that's what happens when you behave badly in front of the help."

"Are you on Drugs?" I reply.

"Yes for my face I never should have done the Laser peel at the same time as my facelift I can't move my jaw have you ever tried eating Tuna Tartar through a straw?"

"Put it in a blender with a light Sauvignon Blanc, never a Chardonnay, which tends to foam when mixed with seafood in a high speed appliance, and set the dial to liquefy for 30 seconds" I reply, hoping she'll hang up on me.

"Stop making fun of me everyone's making fun of me Courtney called from Arizona and said I must be in trouble and invited me to come out and stay with her."

"At where, Sierra Tucson?" which I understand she has confused with the "Canyon Ranch."

"No, Patrick, she donates her time and money to a youth hospice near her family's ranch and hasn't done anything since she and Tim Bryce broke off their engagement after her thing with Luis and I heard David Van Patten was turned down by CAA because he wasn't good-looking enough to work there and he didn't quite get the Lichtenstein in the lobby anyway and I am looking at the most beautiful flowers from Robert Isabell but I can't find the card oh here it is thank you Corrado."

"It says: 'Don't worry my darling, you will be more beautiful than ever, Love Oscar.' I wonder which Oscar, De La Renta or De La Hoya?"

I answer "Maybe Oscar Meyer."

"Who's Oscar Meyer?" she asks as I hang up the phone.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Sun 4/2/00 7:45 PM

Subject: I See Real People

I took P.B. to the movies on Sunday. Actually, he took me. He wanted me to enjoy his favorite movie with him, "The Sixth Sense." I think he likes it because the kid is in charge.

I picked him up at The Plaza where he was having brunch with his mother. Ricardo was driving the Black Mercedes Gelandewagen, identical to the one Arnold Schwarzenegger and Tommy Hilfiger have. P.B. likes riding in it because it's high off the ground so he can see everything.

But today, he asked if it would be okay if we just walked up to the Lincoln Square Theaters on 68th Street and Broadway. So I motioned to Ricardo to follow us until P.B. asked would it be okay if Ricardo didn't follow us because people are looking at the car and he didn't really like that, so I said fine and told Ricardo to meet us at the theater. But P.B. asked if it would be okay if Ricardo met us somewhere else in case he ran into some friends and he didn't want to be seen getting into that car. So I said "Well, P.B., what if it begins to rain, what will we do then?" He reached into his pocket and took out these little coins with holes in them and held them up and said "These." He placed one in my hand and I said they were very nice but what country were they from?

"They're bus and subway tokens!" he laughed. "Mom said you never saw one before!" and he continued laughing all the way up Broadway.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Mon 4/3/00 12:21 PM

Subject: I Think My Mask Of Sanity Is About To Slip



Mon 4/3/00 2:38 PM

Subject: All The Rage

I spent the day with P.B. yesterday. After the movie, at his insistence, we took the BUS home. He spent the whole time laughing, and not exactly with me, either.

At first I was furious with Jean. Where does she come off asking me for over TWO MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR, and then make the kid take the bus? But he seems to like it, knows all the routes and schedules, and says all his friends from school, even those who DO have Drivers and Planes, much prefer taking the bus. I guess it's their first step toward independence. He's always laughing, much more than I ever did, or do.

You asked me if I were jealous of the simplicity of the relationship he has with his mother as opposed to the complexity of his relationship with me? Yes. You then wondered if it were one-sided, and the issues mostly mine. No, because I'm still being "played." P.B. is the pawn, and I am the King who is under attack. You wondered what Jean would have been like had she married someone else?

Obviously, she would not have grown in the same way. She'd have a nice life and an inferior child to the one she has with me. Then you jumped on the word "with," as if I were conceding a point to her.

What I have come to realize is that I DO want to have a relationship with my Son, and be a part of his life. I don't want to be an ignorant clown like Davis Ferguson, who is too busy screwing people over and gorging himself on artificially-colored food at truck stops while his son is getting more action than a Bookie on Super Bowl Sunday, and he doesn't know and doesn't care.

I Hate him for that, too.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Tue 4/4/00 1:21 PM

Subject: The Hills Are Alive

In spite of Rap Artists' protests to the contrary, music today, for the most part, has lost it's soul. Actually, "Killed" is a better word, for the call to violence that is such an integral part of today's music betrays what music was meant to be. From the first caveman who noticed the haunting chant of the wind over an entrance to his cave, all the way to the most contemporary interpretations of techno-pop by artists such as Tangerine Dream, music is meant to glorify life -- to be a treat for the soul, an exclamation point, an expression of hope, a celebration. Not an outlet for hate.

The mood and needs of a Society are best expressed by the work of the Artists of the day, who speak for a people better than any politician or pundit.

Bob Dylan expressed the need for self-evaluation during Vietnam. Cole Porter spun fantasies as the world faced depression. Elvis liberated the youth of America born during a time of War. The Beatles were perhaps the world's first cultural happening, bringing together the children of the world across the boundaries of geography and culture.

Madonna doesn't just sing about freedom for women. She IS freedom for women. It is fascinating that after the turn of the Millennium, the world has found a renewed appreciation for artists such as Burt Bacharach and Santana, comfort food for the ears.

Meatloaf, if you will, both literally and figuratively.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman

Tue 4/4/00 3:09 PM

Subject: The Art of the Deal

Davis Ferguson awoke to feelings of Nausea and Helplessness.

For you see, it was only last night, in the middle of the night to be exact, that Davis Ferguson discovered that the shares of a Trust he had set up to seemingly comply with a decree against him by the State Department were being sold to Simone De Reveney.

For you see, as a Legal Safety Net, Davis Ferguson's name does not appear on any of the ownership documents or stock certificates. These papers bear the name of his son, Terry, who according to his father, has no idea that he even owns them, or how much they might be worth.

But you see, you CAN teach an old Dog new tricks.

And this lesson was taking place on board "Le Beaux Simone" somewhere off the coast of Crete.

The pupil, Terry Davis, quickly grasped the concept that he was in a position to pay back his Father for his various "kindnesses." For you see, as Simone wisely pointed out, Davis Ferguson must reveal himself to defend himself, thus exposing himself to criminal sanction. Therefore, Terry felt that to go along with Simone was a sure way to claim his money.

Davis Ferguson knew that, too. And he also knew that there was no more honest relationship than the one between people who don't like each other and don't trust each other.

So he called me, and decided we needed to talk. So I said, Fine. Come into town and we'll talk. I'll take you to Le Cirque for lunch, and please dress appropriately.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Wed 4/5/00 7:30 PM

Subject: Architectural Digestion

If I had realized what an invasion of privacy it would turn out to be, I never would have allowed Architectural Digest to photograph my apartment for the next "New York Issue." They have been here so long it's beginning to feel like "The Man who Came to Dinner," only this unwelcome guest brought a florist and a stylist with him.

I live on the most prime stretch of Central Park West in one of architect Emory Roth's fabled "Mansions in the Sky." Quite a cutting edge choice, considering my family's penchant over the last several generations for living within the confines of 10021, New York's toniest Zip Code.

But I needed a change after leaving Jean, and I didn't feel like running into her or her friends each time I ventured onto Madison Avenue.

My apartment faces Central Park from the 19th and 20th floors. The main rooms on 19 open out to a terrace that spans the width of the apartment, and can accommodate dinner for 60 as well as an orchestra. The bedroom level on 20, which also houses my gym, sauna, spa, and media center, is reached by a beautiful Mahogany staircase with brushed steel accents.

My Furniture is, for the most part, Museum-quality family pieces mixed in with some Josef Hofmann and Ruhlman that work together quite nicely.

I am most proud of my art.

Upon entering the thirty-six foot long gallery you are met by Warhol's Double Elvis, which shares wall space with a Damien Hirst Dot painting and a Donald Baechlor Ice Cream Cone.

The living room is filled with mostly monochromatic or muted works by masters such as Leger, Picasso, Balthus, and Rothko.

The dining room is where I keep my collection of Motherwell, Kenneth Noland, Morris Louis, and Frankenthaler, all of which look remarkable by candlelight.

The library is where I keep my collection of 20th Century Photographs. I was one of the earliest collectors. Stieglitz, Mapplethorpe, and Sherman are my favorites. And I have a collection of Hurrell photographs in my dressing room that inspire me.

Oh yes, and plenty of mirrors.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Thu 4/6/00 12:52 PM

Subject: Sometimes You Win By Losing

I am developing an unusual feeling for me, and that is Trust.

I never felt trust before. When I married Jean it was about controlling her. And when P.B. came along it was about controlling and possessing him.

Lately, though, I'm beginning to trust them and their judgment as to how they need to live their own lives. And it doesn't mean that I was wrong and they are right. It just might mean that sometimes compromise CAN work out for everybody. And, surprisingly, I am viewing my son for the first time as a person, not a possession or a pawn.

He called me at the office today and said he didn't really care about moving out of the big apartment as long as the new place he and his mother moved to was near enough to a movie theatre so that he and I could walk there on Sundays. And if that didn't work out, he'd let Ricardo drive us. It didn't matter to him as long as we were together.

And I thought I was the one who did the manipulating here.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Thu 4/6/00 4:22 PM

Subject: Dining with Caligula

Davis Ferguson was more uncomfortable at Le Cirque than I ever was at Denny's.

"I thought you told me this place didn't have a dress code," Davis said, looking remarkably ridiculous in the jacket he was forced to borrow from the management when he arrived without one.

Anticipating this, I had over-tipped the coat check girl to hide all but the mustard and rust colored plaid one that sat opposite me encasing Davis Ferguson. A jacket that instantly turns its wearer into a used car salesman.

"We all have some things we need to keep hidden," he said, his mouth full of Chilean Sea Bass wrapped in potatoes in a red wine glaze with shallots. "I think we both know what I am talking about."

"Your face is too fat for you to ever come off as sly," I was tempted to tell him.

"I need someone to make a higher bid to the Trust for those shares, someone who might want to sign an exclusive deal for a fixed price for the Silica mined after a transfer of the shares to a third party, at a profit, of course."

"That someone you are referring to is me, am I correct?"

He nodded as he removed a bone from his mouth with his thumb and pinky.

"I'll think about it," I said, and then asked the waiter to get him a finger bowl.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Fri 4/7/00 1:26 PM

Subject: Talkmania

It's not a Talk Show, but an incredibly lifelike simulation.

I am bombarded by the number of channels available to me on the Sony 52 inch flat screen monitors I have placed strategically around my home. Yet, I am unable to watch anything.

Between the offerings on Broadcast Television, basic cable, premium cable such as HBO, Direct TV, Pay-per-view, the History Channel, the Fashion Channel, MTV, VH-1, channels devoted to Romance, Biography, War, Travel, Food, Psychics, Entertainment, Style, Sports, Classic Movies, Independent Movies, Old Television, New Television, Kids' Television, Shopping, CNN, ESPN, CNBC, FNN, I have become catatonic with Channel Fear as I stare at yet another channel that exists only to be an automated TV Guide.

What exactly am I afraid of?

Why of missing something, of course. Consequently, I miss everything because I'm so distracted by all the choices.

Well, except maybe Talk Shows. And not really the good kind, such as Leno, and Conan. The shows that book White Supremacists who throw chairs at Geraldo's nose, or women who learn on air that their spouse is Gay, Cheating, Married to Someone else in a different trailer park, the father of his own grandchild, the lover of a Transsexual, or a man contemplating the big snip, but who still wants to be friends for the sake of the children.

How do they find these people? For Jerry Springer, it must be easy, being the former Mayor of Cleveland. But what about the other shows? Is there a central casting service out there for freaks of all kinds?

Yet in a strange way, society finds this sideshow very satisfying.

Why? Because the people who watch these shows say to themselves,

Thank God it's not ME up there.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman

Sat 4/8/00 5:31 PM

Subject: Beyond Viande

The best turkey sandwich in New York can be found at Viande, a narrow little coffee shop just north of 61st Street on the East side of Madison Avenue. In spite of the astronomical rents along what is arguably the chicest shopping street in the world, Viande, and its proprietor George have been there for as long as I can remember.

After a morning of shopping at Barney's across the street, I enter the restaurant and settle into my usual booth, one person wide, at the rear next to the wall, decorated with newly-installed mirrors that allow you to spot any errant Russian Dressing that may have escaped from the sandwich and onto your face.

I never have to order. They immediately bring me white meat Turkey sliced fresh off the bird, crisp white lettuce and their home made Russian, on slightly toasted whole wheat bread, along with a club soda, no ice, and lemon. I follow this up with a cup of coffee that I usually get in a paper cup, so I can walk up Madison and sip slowly as I window shop, careful not to spill any on my buckskin Hermes driving gloves.

I am stopped by a youngish man with a glazed look in his eyes and a plea for some change. I ignore him and walk on towards Citibank to get some cash from the ATM. I have my bags from Barney's in one hand and my coffee in the other, so I reach awkwardly for my card in order to open the door to the vestibule, Just north of 65th Street. As I do so, I sense the presence and stench of the glazed young man, who follows me inside.

I ignore him as I remove a Thousand Dollars in Twenties from the machine, until be positions himself in front of the door, blocking my exit.

"How about something for me?" he sneers, looking at the wad of bills I still have in my hand, the one that is also grasping the black shopping bags with the silver Barney's logo.

"I don't think anything I have in there would complement your stench," I reply and drop some Twenties on the ground away from the door. He ignores them and reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a stiletto, fumbling with the release as it refuses to open.

In the moment he looks down, I kick him, pushing him to the floor beneath the counter that contains the deposit slips. I kick him again in the jaw, which snaps on impact and begins to bleed from the tear where his lips used to meet. I stomp on his neck until the air escaping from his collapsing trachea begins to turn pink with blood. Finished, I suddenly turn and retrieve my receipt from the machine where I left it.

You can't be too careful nowadays.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Sun 4/9/00 6:03 PM

Subject: Dorsia

I was told by the Stylist who came with the photographer from Architectural Digest that he has seen many great places, but that mine was "Key" and except for the sconces in the Dining Room, my apartment was perfect.

It bothered me immensely to hear that something in my home was inferior enough to elicit comments from others. I decided to devote Sunday to the acquisition of a pair of perfect sconces.

I went to the Gallery 1950 on Lafayette Street near Indochine to examine a pair of Nickel Plated sconces from an Art Deco Passenger ship, "The Normandie," attributed to Delaneau, but unsigned, and a deal at Thirty Seven Thousand. I continued walking down Lafayette Street to Gueridon, near Bleeker where I found a pair of wrought iron sconces with parchment shades attributed to Royere but alas, not signed. They could be mine for just over Twenty Thousand. Moving on, I turned the corner of Bond Street.

I found myself standing in front of what used to be "Dorsia" and what was now a place without a name. Through plenty of white gauze could be seen the makings of yet another you'll-never-get-in Manhattan night spots: an "I know the P.R. person I went to Donatella's party nobody goes there any more" kind of place.

I kept walking south on Broadway, thinking how much time has gone by. Has it really been 12 years since Paul Allen disappeared? I can't believe I married Jean have a son am in the middle of a divorce the biggest deal of my life a custody fight and I'm out looking for sconces.

I noticed that, while walking on auto pilot, I had found my way to the building where Pierce and Pierce still have their offices, the offices I haven't been to since the "issue" made it better for all concerned if I went out on my own It's about time The company will stake you It would be better if this were kept hush-hush.

I suddenly felt as if the buildings were beginning to bend down over me and turned and headed back uptown, doing my best to think about nothing but lighting fixtures and there were no cabs but I found one of those tokens P.B. gave me so I took the Subway Uptown but realized I was claustrophobic so I had to get out at Houston Street where I found this store on Crosby Street that had these stainless sconces with aluminum shades with signs of the Zodiac punched through in little holes and I had to have them and they were One Hundred and Seventy Nine Dollars.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Mon 4/10/00 12:14 PM

Subject: And Good Morning To You, Davis Ferguson

I was awakened by the incessant ringing of the private line on my bedside table.

"Hello?" I answered in that too confident tone one uses to hide the fact that they have just been awakened.

"It's Simone. You must come to the Pierre immediately. I can't say anything more on the phone." He hung up. Within minutes I was in the lobby, announced myself, and was deposited at Simone's private vestibule on the 39th floor.

He answered the door in an Hermes dressing gown over matching silk pants and Velvet Slippers monogrammed with the De Reveney family crest, a Lion looking backwards over crossed swords. He made his way over to an elaborate serving cart covered in crisp white linen, on which lay a Silver Tea Set from the Windsor auction and woven silver baskets brimming with fresh-baked croissants and blueberry muffins, surrounded by silver pots of strawberry preserves and marmalades. He lifted the cover from the Silver Tureen in the center, revealing a rainbow of freshly-sliced fruit, when, suddenly, a look of concern caused his surgically-refined brow to crease.

He turned to me and said, "They have forgotten the Papaya. And by the way, Davis Ferguson is dead. Coffee?"

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Mon 4/10/00 1:19 PM

From: Patrick Bateman
To: Dr. M
Subject: The Death of Guilt

You seem to imply that there is a need for guilt to be felt before one can begin to heal "Thyself," a concept I find incredibly self-serving, a rationalization.

Whatever I have done in my life is in the past. And like a photograph, no matter how beautiful, or how haunting, the image represented no longer exists in the same state in which it was photographed.

We are changing, always. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. But there is one fact that is undeniably consistent in all our lives, and that is constant change.

It happens to us all every moment, for each impulse and stimulus causes a reaction. And reaction is the catalyst for change.

You asked me if I'm avoiding an issue with this response. I have no issues with my past. I have accepted it for what it is, and have moved on with my life. Like everyone else, I must deal with the realities of today. In no time at all, they too will be in the past.

As far as regrets, I believe Willie Sutton, perhaps America's most notorious robber of Banks, said it best when asked if he regretted robbing those banks.

His response?

"I regret getting caught."

I have no regrets.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Tue 4/11/00 1:08 PM

Subject: Jean Again Again

Jean and I were about to enter the "Discovery" phase of our divorce proceedings. Discovery being legalese for "you look up mine and I look up yours."

We had been legally separated for nearly two years, and for the most part, it turned out to be the most pleasant two years of our relationship. I was in no rush for it to end.

Unfortunately, she was. She had met someone else. Someone else who would trust her with his secrets. Someone else who knew what a bus token was. Someone else who knew how to build a swing.

She told me all of this at lunch, at some place I had never been to off Madison, a commercial Italian place that wasn't very fashionable but had great Fusilli. I entered, saw her, and suddenly lost the last trace of my antagonism against her.

I was prepared to give her whatever she wanted. My goal was no longer to win, but to move on with my life.

"I think you know Robert," she said as I sat down, not expecting a third party to be present, a third party whose hand she held under the table.

"I don't think of you in terms of a first name," I replied to Dr. M., who looked far less owlish than I remembered.

"I think you'll have to agree that it might be best for us all if we terminated our sessions. But I am hopeful that we can enter this new phase of our relationship together, the three of us becoming friends and a mutually supportive family after Jean and I marry..."

But I didn't hear him over the sound of the wine glass shattering in my hand as I broke off the stem. I just stood up and walked out of the restaurant, a tiny trail of blood marking my trail as I headed to the door.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Tue 4/11/00 4:57 PM

Subject: The Fugitive

I am sitting in a deck chair from the French Liner "Liberte" one of a set of twelve I bought at Phillip's last auction of Maritime Art and Furnishings. There is a slight haze over Central Park, much like the fine salt spray of the Atlantic that, over many crossings, has given these chairs a patina all of their own.

The Buildings opposite on Fifth Avenue glow a pale orange as the sun begins to set behind me. I am finishing my second glass of "Far Niente" as Ricardo steps out onto the terrace to announce that "Police Commissioner Donald Kimball is in the lobby and would like you to help him dispose of some Cohibas he was forced to confiscate."

"Send him up, and bring out the old cognac."

"Do you mean Napoleon's or President Roosevelt's," he asks?

"Napoleon's," I reply and settle back down in my chair.

Kimball steps out onto the terrace with the Cohiba already in the side of his mouth and hands me mine. I light them both, with the Faberge lighter that was the Czar's last Christmas present to himself, specially constructed to block out any wind that might interfere with the lighting of His cigar.

"Your suits have improved since we last met," I say to Commissioner Kimball as he settles into his chair.

"Thank you. I had a good teacher. What happened to your hand?"

"I tried to kill the waiter at Bice but the ax slipped and shattered the dessert cart. Panne Cotta, Creme brulee, Tarte Tatin everywhere."

"I'll watch for it on the 6 O'clock News. What do you know about Davis Ferguson?"

"You mean that fat guy with the place at the Hampshire House whose son hates him, but who secretly placed all his assets in a trust to get around the State Department, whose last meal consisted of the Sea Bass wrapped in Potato Skins at Le Cirque, which he ate with his mouth open, and who is now officially identified as "The Late Davis Ferguson?"

"Yes, that sounds like him," Kimball smiled.

"Nothing," I replied to the sound of Kimball laughing.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Wed 4/12/00 5:15 PM

Subject: Weather

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Wed 4/12/00 8:37 PM

Subject: Le Corps du Davis

I know what happened to Davis Ferguson. I know everything, because my spies are everywhere, in places great and small. Terry Davis charmed the desk man at the Hampshire House into giving him the key to his father's Penthouse.

The apartment faced Central Park from the 36th floor, as do all front apartments on Central Park South. To the left, lining Central Park West, can be seen the apartments of Calvin Klein, Yoko Ono, Steven Spielberg , and yours truly.

To the right can be seen the even grander Fifth Avenue homes of the surviving Rockefellers, Jean, and others who would rather remain anonymous.

Terry Davis, who lived in Mortal Fear of his father, had taken a Xanax and was smoking a joint as his father entered the living room.

"What are you doing here?" he bellowed to the son he had not seen since their last encounter, which had left Terry devoid of any sense of self-worth and any disposable cash.

"I know about the money! I know all about the Swiss company. It's my money, and you give it to me or I'll swear I'll turn you in!" he screamed right back at his suddenly ashen father, who began to slump into a chair, but missed and crashed through a glass table that was rather dated, shattering it and severing an artery in the process, splashing Terry and his Jil Sander pale tweed suit, and then impaling himself on the wrought iron base that was a bad copy of a Giacometti design anyway.

Terry, being the trooper that he is, immediately fled the apartment, announced to the deskman that his father had fallen and couldn't get up, and ran to the Pierre, and the apartment of Simone De Reveney.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Thu 4/13/00 1:57 PM

Subject: Final Therap-e

You asked me how the revelation that you are now seriously involved with my soon-to-be ex-wife Jean is going to affect our therapy sessions.

ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODDAMNED MIND? THE FACT THAT YOU ARE NOT AS WE SPEAK PULLING YOUR LAP TOP OUT OF YOUR ASS IS BLINDING TESTIMONY TO HOW WELL I HAVE MASTERED MY OWN RAGE AND LEARNED TO CONTROL MY DESIRE TO DESTROY, MAIM, AND KILL.

Which would indicate to some that you have done a remarkable job in a rather brief time, but I think it would be safe to assume that the professional part of our relationship is over.

It is comically ironic that I sent her to you in an attempt to gain information that I could use against her in the divorce proceedings and that you ended up falling in love with her.

I guess I deserve it. Not that I'm happy about it.

I do agree with your advice to Jean that, in order to be truly happy and free, she must not continue a lifestyle that is dependant on my money.

The irony is that I was willing to give her what she wanted, just to spare P.B. any more heartache.

I wish you happiness. Surprised? I bet you are.

Just one thing, though. Don't ever ask him to call you "Dad." That name's been taken.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Thu 4/13/00 6:13 PM

Subject: Dinner For One

The lawyers for Davis Ferguson's estate were swift in accepting the offer Simone De Reveney had made on my behalf for the deceased's shares in the Trey corporation. The de facto beneficiary, still shaken by the events immediately preceding his father's death, was at this moment on board "Le Beaux Simone" somewhere off the coast of Ischia, not fully convinced that he is not guilty of some sort of crime. Though in reality, considering Davis Ferguson had a cholesterol level so high that it approached his net worth, it is surprising he lived as long as he did.

It is greatly ironic that on the very day I am to be honored for my Foundation's gift to the Manhattan Children's Center, I have also agreed to a divorce that will keep Jean in comfort, but not splendor, and P.B. in tokens for the next millennium or two.

After a massage and a steam at home, the Romano Sisters of Salon AKS (www.salonaks.com) arrive, Susanna to do my hair and Maria to apply a light bronzer to even out my tan for the photographers who will be recording the event.

I slip into my Cerruti Arte Tuxedo (www.cerruti.net) with its signature buttons and cut that make even those without perfect bodies look as if they have a perfect body and head downstairs, where Ricardo waits in the Navy Bentley.

The evening is a smash success, and the massive egos of the invited A-list fuel a bidding war for donated items, such as a walk-on role in the new movie "Fashion Victims," that result in the Center exceeding its fundraising goals by over a Million Dollars.

I get up to give my speech of thanks for this honor and stare out into the audience from the podium. People rise to their feet as they applaud.

I begin my speech, but blinded by the hot white light of the cameras recording the event, I hesitate, then stop. I stare out into the ballroom.

And see nothing.

Virtually yours,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

Mon 4/17/00 2:23 AM

Subject: Departure

Teterboro is only six minutes away from the West Side Heliport by helicopter, but by the time I land next to N522PB, my Falcon 50, Ricardo has placed my luggage on board and we have been cleared for immediate take- off.

There is a way of holding a glass, specifically a wine or Champagne flute, that enables one to continue sipping a drink regardless of how many thousands of pounds of thrust are propelling them up into the sky. You hold the stem between your thumb and index finger, and, like a gyroscope, the liquid within seeks a stable level.

Most people don't know that.

We pass over Manhattan as the night sky begins to change from cobalt to pale blue. By the time the sky will flash orange, then become the pale gray of dawn, I will be over Newfoundland, and less than seven hours from Nice.

For as long as I can remember, The Hotel du Cap, at the tip of Antibes, has been my refuge from the world, considered by those lucky enough to be welcomed regularly by Les Messieurs Irondelle and Quiska to be the most perfect spot on the French Riviera.

It is at Eden Roc, the Hotel's pavilion by the sea, that I learned to swim, to dive, and to water ski. And it is there that P.B. learned to do the same.

But this time I am alone, and as it is very early in the Season, I will have the place to myself. It will be me, the sea, and the light reflecting off the mountains that inspired Picasso to paint and Fitzgerald to write.

It is here that I am truly at peace, with myself, and with the world. It is the one place on Earth where I can stand to be alone, and in fact welcome the opportunity to recharge, rethink, regroup, or just stare up into the Sun until everything becomes white and peaceful, like in Heaven.

It is here that I will plan the next phase of my life, and reflect on the last one.

The Steward asks if I would like to see a movie. I say yes, and he slips in the newest release from one of my newly acquired companies.

The film begins with the sounds of a Harp being gently plucked as drops of red fall slowly onto a sea of white.

Virtually Yours,

Eternally,

Patrick Bateman
bateman@AmPsycho2000.com

End of Messages


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American Psycho is copyrighted by Bret Easton Ellis and published by Vintage Books. All rights reserved.