Well. It had happened again. The axe sits firmly in his veined, manicured hands, it's handle polished and gleaming. He looked down at it with what could have been the closest thing to love he knew. And the blade, his trusty blade, had dirtied itself for him. It had lost the pure silver of metal and instead sullied itself. A brave sacrifice. Honorable. Negative, necessary.

Patrick Bateman's gloves were slick with gore, raincoat splattered with ichor and face stained. He had done it again. Whoops.

Patrick strips off his transparent plastic raincoat. He walks to the mirror and looks at himself. He looks great! Blood on half his face, hair freed of its gelled back prison. He laughs again, maniacal. And then, just like that, the laugh is gone.

He practices smiling in the mirror.