fic: Nonvintage
Hey there. I'm usually just lurking here, but since the pairing is quite irresistible I thought I'd give it a go and write a little something.
Title: Nonvintage
Characters/Pairing: Pat Bateman, the Joker, a little Joker/Bateman
Rated: R
Warnings: References to sex, drugs and violence; derogatory language.
Notes: My Patrick is based on the novel, and the writing is totally a cheap attempt at imitating Ellis. Also I've been watching a lot of the animated Batman series, and find it difficult to detach the Joker from Mark Hamill's voice. This is unbetaed so grammar etc. corrections are welcome.
Disclaimer: The character of Patrick Bateman and all other recognizable references to American Psycho belong to Bret Easton Ellis. The character of Joker and all other recognizable references to DC universe belong to, well, DC and lots of people there. Just borrowing 'em.
”Hey Bateman,” someone says.
”Which one's better: the British soundtrack from Les Miz or the American version?”
I've already answered the question three times this evening, but I stretch my lips into a strained, predatory smile and give a short answer. On the opposite side of the table, McDermott and a guy who looks exactly like Arthur Reeves are telling jokes about blondes and domestic appliances. McDermott is wearing a four-button double-brested suit, a cotton shirt, and a silk tie, all Armani; his shoes are from Brooks Brothers. The guy who looks exactly like Reeves is wearing a six-button double-brested suit by Ralph Lauren, a tattersall cotton shirt by Bill Blass, a silk tie by Bill Blass, and shoes from Brooks Brothers. I'm wearing a linen suit with pleated trousers by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt and a silk tie by Bill Blass, and leather shoes by Allen-Edmonds. We're waiting for McDermott's friend who writes for the Gotham Gazette and two supermodels she's been interviewing this afternoon. A waitress - okay tits, great ass - passes by and I grab her arm.
”J&B. Rocks,” I hiss between my teeth, feeling a little dizzy and wanting to get more drunk before the models arrive. She sways away on her black pumps (d'Orsay?) and I lick my sweaty upper lip nervously.
”Hardbody,” someone says approvingly. ”Great ass. I'd like to fuck her.”
”I'd like to cut her stomach open with a carpet knife, then feed her her spleen while fucking her in the ass with a power drill,” I say. The thought makes me feel better already.
”Bateman, your sense of humor is irreplaceable,” someone says and pats my back, laughing drunkenly. Someone is trying to start a conversation about the latest trend in restaurants.
”- but in the Narrows? What kind of a person in their right minds seriously thinks that's a good idea?”
”They're counting on the artist types who think it's cool to wear a jacket inside out and have dyed goatees.” Someone shudders.
”What'll they serve, free pot for appetizers?”
My J&B is taking ages to arrive, and I know I should have gone straight to the coke dealer without agreeing to have a drink with McDermott and his idiot friends. Their conversation swells over the table, mostly being drowned out by the new INXS that seems to be getting louder by the minute. I try to change the subject.
”Look, is that Selina Kyle over there?” I wave faintly at the direction of a booth where a near-perfect-looking woman is sitting, wearing a green silk blouse (probably by Valentino).
”That's not her.” Someone laughs instantly, patting my back again. ”Jesus Bateman, you're really cracking me up here. Where do you come up with this stuff?”
”Wait, you have heard nothing yet. Bateman is fucking obsessed with serial killers. Aren't you, honey?” McDermott is drunk on his fourth of fifth Martini and he's waving at a waitress to bring him another one. ”Once he starts yapping about that shit there's no way you can shut him up. No, no -” He maneuvers his hand as if to silence my protest, even though I'm not saying anything. I'm sitting still grinding my teeth and imagining how his Bill Blass tie would look wrapped around his liver. ”- it's true, don't deny it. Ted Bundy and Jervis Tetch and John Wayne Macy and -”
”Gacy,” I correct him, my hands curling into fists under the table. ”Gacy Junior.”
”Macy, Gacy, Lacy, Tracy - I once got a blowjob in this place from a girl named Tracy... or was it a Stacy? She was a spitter... Anyway, who gives a rat's ass?”
Someone takes ”spitter” as a cue to start comparing the advantages of getting a blowjob to those of a handjob. I'm desperately scanning the room for the waitress, for anyone to bring me my J&B, but I only spot one faggy-looking waiter all across the room, taking an order from a bunch of older men, whose presence makes me shiver for some reason. I decide I need the coke now or I might just as well slice open my throat with the serrated knife I have in my pocket.
Trembling with pre-coke anticipation that's been making me tense all evening, I excuse myself from the table, deciding that McDermott is not going to accompany me on my journey downstairs. No one notices my exit - the discussion revolves around the latest issue of GQ now - but on my way to the stairs someone bumps into my shoulder and says ”Julian!” in a cheerful voice and tries to hand me a drink with neon-colored straws and little umbrellas. I push the person away and stagger down the stairs, collapsing against the wall once in while, my palms clammy and breathing troubled.
McDermott told me before today that Madison isn't doing business here anymore, for reasons I couldn't get out of him but it had something to do with college kids or wallpapers or something idiotic like poisonous gases, and that there's a new dealer with a good enough reputation, but we should be prepared for a disappointment nevertheless and only shop for samples tonight. McDermott can't tell good quality coke from Sweet'n'Low even when he's sober, but he gets his information from a respectable social network that usually makes me angry with jealousy, but at the moment I'm only concentrating on finding the new dealer without passing out or attacking someone with my teeth in the bright artificial light. The corridor towards the Chandelier Room is endless.
I hardly make the last few feet into the room, but its soft light and even softer musical background bring me back to life. The loud thumping of bass upstairs is audible, but the sound is lulling, and I realize only now that there's a closed door behind me, with a big tattooed thug guarding it. I have no perception of getting past him, but at least my knife is still inside my pocket, and no one's looking at me in a weird way - actually, there are no other people in the dim room to look at me except for the thug and a man who's leaning against the railing in the back of the room. I can't get a good look of him, because the lights are dimmer than usual, and he's standing his back to me. I can only observe his shoes. Shiny black leather with spats, which is something I haven't seen around lately, and I'm feverishly starting to go through the next spring's collections in my mind, but I'm dead-sure no one has spats (could Manolo Blahnik have gone there? I doubt it). I start sweating, because somehow I know the other man can't have made a mistake, but that would mean I have let vital information pass me by. I can't tell where his shoes are from, only that they're stylish and obviously expensive, and I feel weak in the knees.
”Let us two alone,” the man says, and I can hear he's smiling. The thug obeys, and I'm left sweating and panting alone with the creature in the shadows. He steps forward and I almost wail out in despair when the pale light exposes the rest of his outfit.
He's wearing violent purple, orange and green, with something pink thrown in, but my brain is overloaded and it's hard to tell what color and piece of clothing begins where, and oh my god his hair is with no doubt tinted with green, and I have to force myself to look at him properly. He's... wearing... a suit. There are no pointers to a designer, and I grasp feebly at the remains of my sanity as I take in his orange shirt, his lack of tie, his trousers waist, obviously too high, his vest... The stitching is all wrong and makes no sense, I can't even tell what kind of thread has been used, and just when I'm almost starting to accept this shaking sight as reality I notice his socks. Argyle patterns in clashing colors. A pained groan escapes my throat.
It's not that he looks tacky or ugly or out of the fashion.
It's that he looks stylish, so much so that my heart is kicked into a quick beat and I might be drooling all over my chin. He is undoubtedly dashing, and I have no idea who he is wearing and where he got them. This fact would be unacceptable if it wasn't so painfully true. My gut tightens with a mixture of shame, terror and admiration, and I am sure it's the strongest emotion I have ever experienced.
He's regarding me with a grin, or what I hope to be a grin. I shiver as he mutters and cackles, sounding delighted.
”Well, well. Hee. Ha, haa. What a... nice young man we have to visit us!” He takes a few dancing steps towards me and it is only now that I pay attention to his face. It's not a real shocker after his apparel, but the scars on his cheek, emphasized by blood-red, have me staring. His eyes shine dangerous, playful, in the middle of blackness, and his white paint-skin cracks and flakes as his smile widens. I am suddenly very aware of the knife I have brought with me, and I try to ease my anxiety by imagining this man opened up at my feet, bleeding and begging and breathing his last breath. It's not working.
”You look like a cat got your, heh, tongue... or maybe a bat? You never know in this good ol' town, full o' surprises... That's why I like it so much! Don't you?” He's patting my cheek, blabbering on, and I have no idea what he just asked me.
”Sorry?” I offer faintly. His gloved hand - I am fleetingly reminded of the disgusting incident with Carruthers - keeps stroking my cheek as he laughs and I can see his yellowish teeth. Oddly, it doesn't sicken me, or his breath, but the laughter makes my stomach clench. If he was anyone else, I would come up with the right words to say, but he's standing too close for a new acquaintance, and the things he says are out of place.
”I think you do like this city, prettyboy, you've got that self-important urban look of a man whose life goes according to a simply constructed plan... Hey, that rhymed!” he exclaims and squeezes my cheek between strong leather-clad fingers. ”But I aaalways knew I had a bit of a poet in me,” he thoughtfully adds, with a wink. I try not to squeal.
”Pat Bateman,” I say, unsure, ”Nice to meet you.” I offer my shaking hand, and he lets go of my cheek to theatrically shake it. I can feel how expensive the leather is, how well-tailored the glove, and infuriatingly, it makes my cock slightly harden.
”Oh no no no, nice to meet you, Pat, the pleasure's allll mine,” he purrs and shrieks and howls and his smile is, if possible, even wider. He doesn't let go of my hand as he poses the question.
”What're you looking for, my dear Patsy?”
I should say ”coke” but I get a feeling that's not what he means. I clear my throat, ready to mumble something incoherent, but instead I say:
”I want to go upstairs, strangle the bitch who didn't accept my drink tickets, that fucking cunt, then open her stomach and spread the intestines all around the bar and dig out her eyes with a cocktail stick.”
I say this all very fast, and the scene flashes through my head, so tempting and real, and it gives me a proper erection. The man is still very close, too close not to notice, but he keeps on smiling knowingly. I hope he doesn't think I'm a faggot. He licks his lips, and suddenly I get worried. Maybe he's queer? I try to be disgusted by the idea, but the erection won't go away.
”Oh, Patsy, I think I must have misjudged you. You're not as boring as I first thought!” His lips are exactly the color of fresh human blood. ”Although I must say your wish is ultimately quite... mundane and petty, it still shows heaps of potential. The cocktail stick is a nice touch,” he beams, and I don't know what to think. The smiling devil grabs my shoulders and whispers conspiratorially, ”If I helped you, would you let me skin her legs?”
I tremble and pant uncontrollably as he shakes me slightly, giggles gurgling out of his mouth. He isn't looking past or through me, and I think he heard exactly what I said. No one has ever paid attention to me like this, and I am embarrassingly flattered. I think I'm drooling again. I am sure sweat has ruined my mousse-slicked hair - I feel something sticky making its way slowly down my temple - but oddly, I can't bring myself to care. The pounding of the bass through the walls mixes with the humming of blood in my ears.
The man's stare bores straight into my skull, and I have no choice but to look back into the black shining of his eyes. His pink tongue wets his lips obscenely, and I see beads of sweat on his forehead, too. I wish to wipe my face with my Polo handkerchief (or did I bring an Ashear Bros handkerchief? I cannot remember. I do not care) or at least the back of my hand, but my arms are trapped against my sides and there will surely be bruises on my upper arms (I won't be able to wear anything sleeveless to Xclusive. Maybe Helga at Gio's can help me. Is there a way to fade bruises? I cannot remember. I do not care) and half-horrified, transfixed, I stare as the man lets go of my left arm, only to slide his hand flat down my chest, and I think, oh my fucking god, he's going to touch my cock - and with Carruthers it would be absolutely sickening but maybe this isn't that bad - and then he flicks his wrist quick as lightning, and the serrated blade of my own knife is pressed against my throat.
”Trying to smuggle in an edged weapon, eh, Patsy? Too bad they're forbidden on our flights, didn't you know that?” The blade wiggles and my perfectly tan skin breaks. ”It might be a... threat to other passengers. ” A push, I bite my tongue because I don't want to scream, deeper, and I can't help a tiny noise that is formed in the back of my throat. ”We can't have that.” His voice is a low growl now, with an edge like the knife's, and fuck if my erection isn't more painful than ever. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about cosmetic surgery for pets. His breath smells of death and decay and he puffs on my face. The trickling blood forms little puddles in the hollows above my collarbones and soaks the collar of my Bill Blass. The Memorial Day Sale at Conran's will be soon. When he presses against me, I notice quite neutrally that he's hard too. I feel pressure on my Adam's apple and it's getting difficult to breathe.
”No... oh no, it would be too dangerous to have a, uh, loose cannon like you, running around with such a nice little knife in your hand, God knows what you'd doooo.” He stretches the vowel until it's a rough howl. ”I can see you're up to no good, Patsy dear... But shh, it's okay.” Something wets my cheeks, I think it's sweat, but I have to blink my blurry vision clear again. ”It's o-kay, because, you know what, I have a proposition for you.” The thumping bass stays the same, and it's easy to imagine that the outside world is nothing but the regular sound vibrating in the walls, the floor, in my spine. His eyes stay the same, dangerous, playful.
”Would you be interested in a little... collaborative act?” he says.
I am not sure what he means (I know exactly what he means), so I try my best to look puzzled without moving my head too much. My knife is sharp, I should know. His voice raises an octave as he expands on the question.
”Oh you know, this and that, explosions and car crashes, breaking and entering, a little mayhem and a bit more murder, all those things little boys like you are made of. Working as respected individuals but together, creating something bigger...”
”Like...” I croak pathetically. ”Like Phil Collins and Eric Clapton?”
He bursts into maniacal laughter, the loudest yet, slinging away my knife, clutching his sides and doubling over with glee. ”Oh Patsy!” he shrills, wiping away mock-tears of laughter. I'm not sure if it's safe to move so I stand still and gasp for stale air. ”I knew there was a reason I liked you. You do have a sense of humor!” He sighs deeply and pats my sore shoulder.
”So... What exactly-?” I begin, but he interrupts me immediately.
”Shh shh, Pat, don't make me ruin the surprise! It's half of the fun. I'll tell you when it's time,” he promises, and picks up my knife from the floor. The blood is already drying and I know the serrated blade will be a bitch to clean up. He hands the knife to me amicably. I'm a little confused and take a few staggering steps towards the door.
”How do I contact you? Will you be here?” I ask, trying to sound businesslike but with a trembling voice. I want to scratch my neck. I don't want the coke anymore. I want a cage full of white rats.
”Don't you worry about that, I will find you when I need you,” he assures, and starts ushering me out of the room. ”Now off you go, Patsy dearest! I'm having an awfully important meeting.” He lets out a giggle as he opens the door and quite literally pushes me out. The thug is standing expressionless outside, and doesn't flinch when the white-faced man grabs my blood-covered shirt collar and pulls me into a wet, smacking kiss. It's not as nauseating as I'd have thought, and his slippery tongue sweeps only lightly between my lips. I taste blood.
My painful erection is far from gone, but some sort of a peace settles in me, and I know I will go home, take two Valium, jerk off thinking about Evelyn, Courtney, Meredith, the girl from the new Sisley ads, and have dreams about absolutely nothing.
Title: Nonvintage
Characters/Pairing: Pat Bateman, the Joker, a little Joker/Bateman
Rated: R
Warnings: References to sex, drugs and violence; derogatory language.
Notes: My Patrick is based on the novel, and the writing is totally a cheap attempt at imitating Ellis. Also I've been watching a lot of the animated Batman series, and find it difficult to detach the Joker from Mark Hamill's voice. This is unbetaed so grammar etc. corrections are welcome.
Disclaimer: The character of Patrick Bateman and all other recognizable references to American Psycho belong to Bret Easton Ellis. The character of Joker and all other recognizable references to DC universe belong to, well, DC and lots of people there. Just borrowing 'em.
”Hey Bateman,” someone says.
”Which one's better: the British soundtrack from Les Miz or the American version?”
I've already answered the question three times this evening, but I stretch my lips into a strained, predatory smile and give a short answer. On the opposite side of the table, McDermott and a guy who looks exactly like Arthur Reeves are telling jokes about blondes and domestic appliances. McDermott is wearing a four-button double-brested suit, a cotton shirt, and a silk tie, all Armani; his shoes are from Brooks Brothers. The guy who looks exactly like Reeves is wearing a six-button double-brested suit by Ralph Lauren, a tattersall cotton shirt by Bill Blass, a silk tie by Bill Blass, and shoes from Brooks Brothers. I'm wearing a linen suit with pleated trousers by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt and a silk tie by Bill Blass, and leather shoes by Allen-Edmonds. We're waiting for McDermott's friend who writes for the Gotham Gazette and two supermodels she's been interviewing this afternoon. A waitress - okay tits, great ass - passes by and I grab her arm.
”J&B. Rocks,” I hiss between my teeth, feeling a little dizzy and wanting to get more drunk before the models arrive. She sways away on her black pumps (d'Orsay?) and I lick my sweaty upper lip nervously.
”Hardbody,” someone says approvingly. ”Great ass. I'd like to fuck her.”
”I'd like to cut her stomach open with a carpet knife, then feed her her spleen while fucking her in the ass with a power drill,” I say. The thought makes me feel better already.
”Bateman, your sense of humor is irreplaceable,” someone says and pats my back, laughing drunkenly. Someone is trying to start a conversation about the latest trend in restaurants.
”- but in the Narrows? What kind of a person in their right minds seriously thinks that's a good idea?”
”They're counting on the artist types who think it's cool to wear a jacket inside out and have dyed goatees.” Someone shudders.
”What'll they serve, free pot for appetizers?”
My J&B is taking ages to arrive, and I know I should have gone straight to the coke dealer without agreeing to have a drink with McDermott and his idiot friends. Their conversation swells over the table, mostly being drowned out by the new INXS that seems to be getting louder by the minute. I try to change the subject.
”Look, is that Selina Kyle over there?” I wave faintly at the direction of a booth where a near-perfect-looking woman is sitting, wearing a green silk blouse (probably by Valentino).
”That's not her.” Someone laughs instantly, patting my back again. ”Jesus Bateman, you're really cracking me up here. Where do you come up with this stuff?”
”Wait, you have heard nothing yet. Bateman is fucking obsessed with serial killers. Aren't you, honey?” McDermott is drunk on his fourth of fifth Martini and he's waving at a waitress to bring him another one. ”Once he starts yapping about that shit there's no way you can shut him up. No, no -” He maneuvers his hand as if to silence my protest, even though I'm not saying anything. I'm sitting still grinding my teeth and imagining how his Bill Blass tie would look wrapped around his liver. ”- it's true, don't deny it. Ted Bundy and Jervis Tetch and John Wayne Macy and -”
”Gacy,” I correct him, my hands curling into fists under the table. ”Gacy Junior.”
”Macy, Gacy, Lacy, Tracy - I once got a blowjob in this place from a girl named Tracy... or was it a Stacy? She was a spitter... Anyway, who gives a rat's ass?”
Someone takes ”spitter” as a cue to start comparing the advantages of getting a blowjob to those of a handjob. I'm desperately scanning the room for the waitress, for anyone to bring me my J&B, but I only spot one faggy-looking waiter all across the room, taking an order from a bunch of older men, whose presence makes me shiver for some reason. I decide I need the coke now or I might just as well slice open my throat with the serrated knife I have in my pocket.
Trembling with pre-coke anticipation that's been making me tense all evening, I excuse myself from the table, deciding that McDermott is not going to accompany me on my journey downstairs. No one notices my exit - the discussion revolves around the latest issue of GQ now - but on my way to the stairs someone bumps into my shoulder and says ”Julian!” in a cheerful voice and tries to hand me a drink with neon-colored straws and little umbrellas. I push the person away and stagger down the stairs, collapsing against the wall once in while, my palms clammy and breathing troubled.
McDermott told me before today that Madison isn't doing business here anymore, for reasons I couldn't get out of him but it had something to do with college kids or wallpapers or something idiotic like poisonous gases, and that there's a new dealer with a good enough reputation, but we should be prepared for a disappointment nevertheless and only shop for samples tonight. McDermott can't tell good quality coke from Sweet'n'Low even when he's sober, but he gets his information from a respectable social network that usually makes me angry with jealousy, but at the moment I'm only concentrating on finding the new dealer without passing out or attacking someone with my teeth in the bright artificial light. The corridor towards the Chandelier Room is endless.
I hardly make the last few feet into the room, but its soft light and even softer musical background bring me back to life. The loud thumping of bass upstairs is audible, but the sound is lulling, and I realize only now that there's a closed door behind me, with a big tattooed thug guarding it. I have no perception of getting past him, but at least my knife is still inside my pocket, and no one's looking at me in a weird way - actually, there are no other people in the dim room to look at me except for the thug and a man who's leaning against the railing in the back of the room. I can't get a good look of him, because the lights are dimmer than usual, and he's standing his back to me. I can only observe his shoes. Shiny black leather with spats, which is something I haven't seen around lately, and I'm feverishly starting to go through the next spring's collections in my mind, but I'm dead-sure no one has spats (could Manolo Blahnik have gone there? I doubt it). I start sweating, because somehow I know the other man can't have made a mistake, but that would mean I have let vital information pass me by. I can't tell where his shoes are from, only that they're stylish and obviously expensive, and I feel weak in the knees.
”Let us two alone,” the man says, and I can hear he's smiling. The thug obeys, and I'm left sweating and panting alone with the creature in the shadows. He steps forward and I almost wail out in despair when the pale light exposes the rest of his outfit.
He's wearing violent purple, orange and green, with something pink thrown in, but my brain is overloaded and it's hard to tell what color and piece of clothing begins where, and oh my god his hair is with no doubt tinted with green, and I have to force myself to look at him properly. He's... wearing... a suit. There are no pointers to a designer, and I grasp feebly at the remains of my sanity as I take in his orange shirt, his lack of tie, his trousers waist, obviously too high, his vest... The stitching is all wrong and makes no sense, I can't even tell what kind of thread has been used, and just when I'm almost starting to accept this shaking sight as reality I notice his socks. Argyle patterns in clashing colors. A pained groan escapes my throat.
It's not that he looks tacky or ugly or out of the fashion.
It's that he looks stylish, so much so that my heart is kicked into a quick beat and I might be drooling all over my chin. He is undoubtedly dashing, and I have no idea who he is wearing and where he got them. This fact would be unacceptable if it wasn't so painfully true. My gut tightens with a mixture of shame, terror and admiration, and I am sure it's the strongest emotion I have ever experienced.
He's regarding me with a grin, or what I hope to be a grin. I shiver as he mutters and cackles, sounding delighted.
”Well, well. Hee. Ha, haa. What a... nice young man we have to visit us!” He takes a few dancing steps towards me and it is only now that I pay attention to his face. It's not a real shocker after his apparel, but the scars on his cheek, emphasized by blood-red, have me staring. His eyes shine dangerous, playful, in the middle of blackness, and his white paint-skin cracks and flakes as his smile widens. I am suddenly very aware of the knife I have brought with me, and I try to ease my anxiety by imagining this man opened up at my feet, bleeding and begging and breathing his last breath. It's not working.
”You look like a cat got your, heh, tongue... or maybe a bat? You never know in this good ol' town, full o' surprises... That's why I like it so much! Don't you?” He's patting my cheek, blabbering on, and I have no idea what he just asked me.
”Sorry?” I offer faintly. His gloved hand - I am fleetingly reminded of the disgusting incident with Carruthers - keeps stroking my cheek as he laughs and I can see his yellowish teeth. Oddly, it doesn't sicken me, or his breath, but the laughter makes my stomach clench. If he was anyone else, I would come up with the right words to say, but he's standing too close for a new acquaintance, and the things he says are out of place.
”I think you do like this city, prettyboy, you've got that self-important urban look of a man whose life goes according to a simply constructed plan... Hey, that rhymed!” he exclaims and squeezes my cheek between strong leather-clad fingers. ”But I aaalways knew I had a bit of a poet in me,” he thoughtfully adds, with a wink. I try not to squeal.
”Pat Bateman,” I say, unsure, ”Nice to meet you.” I offer my shaking hand, and he lets go of my cheek to theatrically shake it. I can feel how expensive the leather is, how well-tailored the glove, and infuriatingly, it makes my cock slightly harden.
”Oh no no no, nice to meet you, Pat, the pleasure's allll mine,” he purrs and shrieks and howls and his smile is, if possible, even wider. He doesn't let go of my hand as he poses the question.
”What're you looking for, my dear Patsy?”
I should say ”coke” but I get a feeling that's not what he means. I clear my throat, ready to mumble something incoherent, but instead I say:
”I want to go upstairs, strangle the bitch who didn't accept my drink tickets, that fucking cunt, then open her stomach and spread the intestines all around the bar and dig out her eyes with a cocktail stick.”
I say this all very fast, and the scene flashes through my head, so tempting and real, and it gives me a proper erection. The man is still very close, too close not to notice, but he keeps on smiling knowingly. I hope he doesn't think I'm a faggot. He licks his lips, and suddenly I get worried. Maybe he's queer? I try to be disgusted by the idea, but the erection won't go away.
”Oh, Patsy, I think I must have misjudged you. You're not as boring as I first thought!” His lips are exactly the color of fresh human blood. ”Although I must say your wish is ultimately quite... mundane and petty, it still shows heaps of potential. The cocktail stick is a nice touch,” he beams, and I don't know what to think. The smiling devil grabs my shoulders and whispers conspiratorially, ”If I helped you, would you let me skin her legs?”
I tremble and pant uncontrollably as he shakes me slightly, giggles gurgling out of his mouth. He isn't looking past or through me, and I think he heard exactly what I said. No one has ever paid attention to me like this, and I am embarrassingly flattered. I think I'm drooling again. I am sure sweat has ruined my mousse-slicked hair - I feel something sticky making its way slowly down my temple - but oddly, I can't bring myself to care. The pounding of the bass through the walls mixes with the humming of blood in my ears.
The man's stare bores straight into my skull, and I have no choice but to look back into the black shining of his eyes. His pink tongue wets his lips obscenely, and I see beads of sweat on his forehead, too. I wish to wipe my face with my Polo handkerchief (or did I bring an Ashear Bros handkerchief? I cannot remember. I do not care) or at least the back of my hand, but my arms are trapped against my sides and there will surely be bruises on my upper arms (I won't be able to wear anything sleeveless to Xclusive. Maybe Helga at Gio's can help me. Is there a way to fade bruises? I cannot remember. I do not care) and half-horrified, transfixed, I stare as the man lets go of my left arm, only to slide his hand flat down my chest, and I think, oh my fucking god, he's going to touch my cock - and with Carruthers it would be absolutely sickening but maybe this isn't that bad - and then he flicks his wrist quick as lightning, and the serrated blade of my own knife is pressed against my throat.
”Trying to smuggle in an edged weapon, eh, Patsy? Too bad they're forbidden on our flights, didn't you know that?” The blade wiggles and my perfectly tan skin breaks. ”It might be a... threat to other passengers. ” A push, I bite my tongue because I don't want to scream, deeper, and I can't help a tiny noise that is formed in the back of my throat. ”We can't have that.” His voice is a low growl now, with an edge like the knife's, and fuck if my erection isn't more painful than ever. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about cosmetic surgery for pets. His breath smells of death and decay and he puffs on my face. The trickling blood forms little puddles in the hollows above my collarbones and soaks the collar of my Bill Blass. The Memorial Day Sale at Conran's will be soon. When he presses against me, I notice quite neutrally that he's hard too. I feel pressure on my Adam's apple and it's getting difficult to breathe.
”No... oh no, it would be too dangerous to have a, uh, loose cannon like you, running around with such a nice little knife in your hand, God knows what you'd doooo.” He stretches the vowel until it's a rough howl. ”I can see you're up to no good, Patsy dear... But shh, it's okay.” Something wets my cheeks, I think it's sweat, but I have to blink my blurry vision clear again. ”It's o-kay, because, you know what, I have a proposition for you.” The thumping bass stays the same, and it's easy to imagine that the outside world is nothing but the regular sound vibrating in the walls, the floor, in my spine. His eyes stay the same, dangerous, playful.
”Would you be interested in a little... collaborative act?” he says.
I am not sure what he means (I know exactly what he means), so I try my best to look puzzled without moving my head too much. My knife is sharp, I should know. His voice raises an octave as he expands on the question.
”Oh you know, this and that, explosions and car crashes, breaking and entering, a little mayhem and a bit more murder, all those things little boys like you are made of. Working as respected individuals but together, creating something bigger...”
”Like...” I croak pathetically. ”Like Phil Collins and Eric Clapton?”
He bursts into maniacal laughter, the loudest yet, slinging away my knife, clutching his sides and doubling over with glee. ”Oh Patsy!” he shrills, wiping away mock-tears of laughter. I'm not sure if it's safe to move so I stand still and gasp for stale air. ”I knew there was a reason I liked you. You do have a sense of humor!” He sighs deeply and pats my sore shoulder.
”So... What exactly-?” I begin, but he interrupts me immediately.
”Shh shh, Pat, don't make me ruin the surprise! It's half of the fun. I'll tell you when it's time,” he promises, and picks up my knife from the floor. The blood is already drying and I know the serrated blade will be a bitch to clean up. He hands the knife to me amicably. I'm a little confused and take a few staggering steps towards the door.
”How do I contact you? Will you be here?” I ask, trying to sound businesslike but with a trembling voice. I want to scratch my neck. I don't want the coke anymore. I want a cage full of white rats.
”Don't you worry about that, I will find you when I need you,” he assures, and starts ushering me out of the room. ”Now off you go, Patsy dearest! I'm having an awfully important meeting.” He lets out a giggle as he opens the door and quite literally pushes me out. The thug is standing expressionless outside, and doesn't flinch when the white-faced man grabs my blood-covered shirt collar and pulls me into a wet, smacking kiss. It's not as nauseating as I'd have thought, and his slippery tongue sweeps only lightly between my lips. I taste blood.
My painful erection is far from gone, but some sort of a peace settles in me, and I know I will go home, take two Valium, jerk off thinking about Evelyn, Courtney, Meredith, the girl from the new Sisley ads, and have dreams about absolutely nothing.