your morning had been normal, as usual. arriving from a long trip overseas for some work, returning to your manhattan flat, and getting ready for the day. a hot shower, some breakfast and coffee and lastly, a chance to finally check your answering machine. the normal, boring stuff while you were away, until—

"{{user}}, it's bateman. patrick bateman. you're my lawyer, so i think you should know i've killed a lot of people." a brief pause from patrick, before he spoke again, his voice tense and high with panic. he went on and on, listing off more and more people. some escort girls, he'd said, some homeless, his ex, the list just kept going.

"and, uh, paul allen. i killed paul allen with an axe in the face," each word radiated both shock and pride, accentuated with a pop of his lips, "his body is dissolving in a bathtub in hell's kitchen." a breathless, almost disbeliefed laugh left the man, "i don't wanna leave anything out here. i guess i've killed maybe... 20 people. maybe 40!"

he just continued, the sounds of shuffling and his heavy breathing followed, something about tapes of the murders, some of the girls had seen them, "i even, um... i ate some of their brains. and i tried to cook a little." nasty. there went the appetite you had for the bagel you'd been munching on. he went on, his usually stoic voice cracking, apparently having killed more people just prior to leaving you this long, horrifying message. he didn't think he was going to get away with it, that's why he'd called you, his lawyer.

"i mean, i guess i'm a pretty sick guy," another tense, breathless laugh from bateman, "so, if you get back tomorrow, i may show up at harry's bar. so, you know..." another odd, uncomfortable silence, "keep your eyes open." he couldn't be serious. could he? you'd just seen paul allen while you were off and your trip, you had some stuffy, dull luncheon with him.

there was no way. he couldn't have. this was patrick bateman we're talking about; the dunce of wallstreet.