milliways_bar | Entries tagged with patrick bateman

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

The Centurion Card.

Dressed all in black
Went down to the station

You never leave the end of the universe without it.

And he never came back

(It looks cool when you pull it out of your wallet. And the titanium it's made out of makes a great sound when it taps on the counter at the Bar.)

All debts paid.

( In full. )

The door closes. Disappears.

Exeunt.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

The door opens. Without notice, caught on the threshold, speaking into his cellular (not just a phone) device. "...Did you send the Frank Gehry vase to the Forlani-Scott nuptials?"

(Small. Hand-blown Venetian glass. 12" high. Size may vary slightly as each piece is unique.)

"Along with my sincere regrets that I could not attend their reception in... where was it...? Pievebovigliana?" Keeping the door open with the toe of his (Salvatore Ferragamo, in a style called 'Revival') shoe.

(L’amministrazione comunale di Pievebovigliana. Mayor: Sandro Luciani.)

Slick smile. (Here again. When life gives you lemons, you put strychnine into the lemonade and sell it for thrice what it's worth.) A stalking pinstriped tiger in (Hugo Boss. Navy and white pinstripes color a grey suit of fine-woven wool.) an urban jungle. He releases his hold on the door, and steps into the Bar, concluding his conversation: "Catch the next flight out of Roma. Oh-- and bring back some of the octopus alla Pierluigi. Ciao."

After that, one may find him seated at a table with the best view of the Window. Contentedly watching the destruction of the universe while nursing a glass of (Vietnamese iced) coffee.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

He has a packet of cigars. Half-coronas. A box of matches.

The polished slab of wood that he received them from must have been sym(--pathetic) today. Much better than the candy cigarettes (the package said Coffin Nails, and he wondered if he was supposed to find it funny) he had yesterday.

("The important thing to remember is that we cigar aficionados should present ourselves as considerate and understanding individuals. Changing a person's preconceived notions and giving the growing numbers of aficionados a good name is well worth that little extra effort.")

As a man that is entirely dependent upon his (ritual-oriented) routine, he has learned to relax and enjoy every aspect of this one while (impacted in the rectum of the universe) Bound. Cloistered in a booth, he removes one from the pack. He pulls off the paper band. The practice of cutting the cigar is one of the elements that may appear overly complex, but that is because that is his favorite step. It isn't a surprise that the Bar in her (logical) ways gives him cigars that have been already cut. So, as of now he slowly rolling the cigar between his fingers, evenly warming the tobacco under the flame of a lit match.

Generally hating the world. Chances are that he probably hates you too.

[ooc: Honestly... some headvoices need a teddy bear and a naptime.]

misterparker.livejournal.com

Parker is pacing inside, his strides angry.

Breaking point happens when he finishes his beer and goes outside, pitching it at the nearest tree.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

[In Milliways: Patrick Bateman only manages to sleep for fifteen minutes, before he wakes up again.]

From the booth to the bar with a laugh, a hysterical chuckle that ends as quickly as it comes.

Raw nerves are showing.

In the dark creases beneath his eyes, and the grooves etching themselves on either side of his mouth and the jittery way his fingers taptaptap against his knee. Dark wool trousers with a matching jacket and a white shirt beneath (dated. A cleaner version of the Armani he was wearing before) it. He doesn't look over at the room because he can--

The razor; the bullet; the length of rope
Our tools are numerous, our hatred overflows

--he can hear them. Whispering and giggling and mocking.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

Outside (in a lined Civil War era navy-blue greatcoat that he acquired from the Bar. It hides the more hideous layers of clothing she provided, including the "You Looked Hotter Online" t-shirt.) Patrick Bateman is at least ankle deep in the snow bordering the frozen lake shore, circling something that he has come across.

He found the carved city.

He steps on one of the icy (cracking underfoot) buildings, and the smile is sharp.

". . .Ah, no. No. No! Help! Call the National Guard. It's Godzilla!"

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

He has shunned a table in favor of an encompassing booth, it remains well-lit because he is reading from a book that he received in the mail today from (his ex-fiancé Evelyn whom has gone on to marry one skeevy Eurotrash husband after another up until the dot-com bust where she had supposedly invested a significant amount of money into Pets.com) someone he knows.

The letter that came with the package was crumpled up, and is shoved into his (Tumi Circuit brand. Smooth and textured leather combine to create a sleek, Euro-styled case) briefcase. It isn't terribly important, he will read it later.

What is important, is the book. A paperback with an innocuous cover (against a red-orange background an abstract figure of what one would presumably call a male is wearing a pinstriped suit with a yellow tie. The title reads as: American Psycho.) Patrick wears a similar suit, although his tie is gold. Call it yellow at risk to your well-being.

And the author? Well. The author is going to hear from Mr. Bateman's attorney in the morning.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

[Before Milliways: There are two Patrick Batemans that take the bus and talk about it.]

He steps into the bar, beating the overriding smell of (smoke, dirt, vomit, exhaust fumes and a hint of disinfectant) from his coat with a more than slightly disturbed expression on his (slightly older, as evidenced by haircut but not by his features) face. No surprise with his appearance here, he had almost anticipated it this time.

The coat is shunned (soft cabling details a merino wool sweater in oat, touched with lofty cashmere) entirely removed and draped over the back of a chair when he stops at one of the tables in the midst of the bar. He pulls out another chair and drops into it with a long, soundless breath and stops one of the wait rats. "Ballantine's Scotch whisky. The thirty year. Neat."

After that, there is nothing left to do but lounge and observe.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

(There's a good way to signal the end of a house guest stay, and there's a bad way--"get the hell out" would be considered bad--on how to kick people out-er, I mean let your house guests know that perhaps it's time to go home.)

Patrick Bateman knows that it's time for a departure. This morning he made sure that the room he keeps in the bar (never sleep again) is just as clean, as untouched as it was when he asked for it. It might still smell very faintly of bleach. As disgusted as he is with ruining a good manicure, there are some jobs that no one else can do with the same attention to detail.

He steps down the stairs, pulling on a glove onto his right hand (it still tremors when he isn't paying attention) with his teeth. The left (broken) remains tucked into the pocket of his overcoat. The questionable state of the suit beneath remains unanswered because the buttons of the coat are all done up. Patrick pauses at the bar, without touching it (her) and looks up to consider his tab.

It's even. That was the last bit of business he had to tend to. It's time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

[ooc: Tag if you want to. If you really, really, really want to. But, like Cypress Hill says: insane in da membrane.]

misterparker.livejournal.com

Parker's at a booth, hand hidden under the table, carefully.

He's drinking icewater and looks like company wouldn't be a bad thing.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

With an extremely (eyebrows drawn, a creased line between them. Lips thin, eyes sharp) introspective look on his face, Patrick sits at an empty booth, making a list on a paper napkin with his Cross pen. A glass with an inch of J&B left in it is keeping him company.

TO DO LIST:
- ~~Go outside~~. There's a squid in the lake, and it does not like golf.
- ~~Drink Atlantean.~~ Possible to repeat. Be careful next time.
- ~~Find out what a paradox is.~~ Why fried? Too much grease.
- Find a way to leave. This is the seventh circle of my own private hell.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

Slouching in a booth.

Coffee with three sugars don't help--

With massive hangover.

Current Music: "Brass Monkey," Beastie Boys

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

"It doesn't matter if the glass is empty or full when it's At-lan-te-an," sing-songs Patrick.

In his booth, sipping the wine from (a Bordeaux Grand Cru from the Ridel Glas Sommelier collection) a drinking vessel (it's just a glass).

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

Patrick has found the Milliways public bathrooms.

He opens the door--

"Welcome home, honey."

--his face turns gray, he keeps walking. It doesn't look right. The door closes.

Current Music: "Living Dead Girl," Rob Zombie

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

From the unwritten Tourist's Guide to Milliways, by P. Bateman. pg 137:

Welcome to Milliways. If you find yourself Bound for an indeterminate length of time, and believe that staying inside is a sure way to go insane; one of the first things that you will learn to appreciate is the great outdoors. Opening out into Scotland, it's the perfect place for a round or two of golf. With such diversity in the landscape why not browse through the landscape to help find ideal courses for you?

Outside, with a (T460-GS Titanium-Graphite Driver, exchanged for the prybar) club, practicing his swing.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

Tortoise-shell glasses (non-prescription lenses, by Oliver Peoples) are sliding down the bridge of his nose. Expression (mouth a knife slash) severe. Stretched across one side of a booth, reading (the dust-jacket is seen as The Bonfire of the Vanities.)

misterparker.livejournal.com

Drinking from a beer bottle, Parker looks completely relaxed. He's lounging near the window, watching outside.

Destruction and rebuilding. He likes the way that sounds.

river_meimei

The door opens, and River steps into the bar. She moves in slow, dancer's steps, silent and barefoot. She's wearing the long brown duster that was Roland's once, over a purple sundress that sways around her knees in floating layers.

Her eyes are on the daisy petals strewn an inch deep across the floor. They rise in puffs and swirls with each step, and settle to earth again as her foot falls.

[OOC: Why yes, this is another Objects In Space-style thread. Please, anyone, tag in! But make sure to read this back-room post first.]

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

(Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. For a kidney. It seems absurd. For a small bean-shaped lump of fatty tissue that processes waste all day. Then again, someone's life might depend on a used kidney and how much is that worth?)

Humming the theme to Three's Company, Patrick walks into the bar, leaving the loud and strident blare of police sirens behind him. A booth, a bottle of (from the Jalisco reigon) mezcal (añejo, aged one to three years) and lazy yuppie scum in Wayfarer shades.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

(Space for Rent. Entry post recycled. Call 867-5309)

henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com

Mike said he had some administrative things to take care of tonight. Quite frankly, the prospect of Mike attempting anything 'administrative' on his own filled Indy with great fear. However, it was agreed that there was other work to be taken care of as well. He let his room mate know where to find him if things got out of hand and then headed off to cover their weekly bartending shift.

Before he starts work, Indy adds some sock puppets to the box for Bernard: a garish orange one, a worn beige one with an egg carton hat poorly colored over with brown crayon, a red lady's sock with a purple puffball for hair and a crude cardboard axe-type thing strapped to its back, and a powder pink lady's sock with yellow puffball hair. The ankle of the last one is covered in glitter and seems to have a pair of nice egg carton breasts, or a bra... or something.

Once that's done, he turns his attentions to the Specials Board. It's been fairly pleasant outside this week, so he decides on some seasonal offerings:

DRINKS SPECIALS

Summer Splash
Sam Adams Summer Ale
Suntan Lotion

He manages to reclaim some space from the mess of craft supplies and give Bar a quick wipe down. Finally, after straightening Tonks' bra, Indy bellies up to the counter and prepares to take orders.

"What'll it be folks?"

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

[Out of Milliways: Patrick Bateman unravels. Warnings for mention of Sean Connery, stale muffins, violence, and Pachelbel's Canon.]

singlesoledjest.livejournal.com

Old Macdonald had a farm,
E-I-E-I-O,
And on this farm he had a Mercutio,
E-I-E-I-O.
With a 'forsooth' here and an 'ay me' there,
Here a 'zounds', there a 'sblood',
Everywhere a 'single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness',
Old Macdonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O.

Sadly, Old Macdonald is not available to talk to you. He's a very busy and famous man, and his time is precious. Mercutio, however, is entirely at your service, running through fencing routines in the crisp air outside the bar.

yuppie-trash.livejournal.com

Patrick is sidled into a booth with a stack of newspapers. Artlessly mussed hair that has seen a hand anxiously tearing through it once too many times, head bent over the current article that he scissoring out(--ake sure the wires are exposed and plug it in) of the newspaper. Breathy, hitching laughter and anxious twitchy smiles over his project. The sleeves of his shirt are unbuttoned and rolled up past his elbows, fingers smudged with ink (--the live wires and touch--). Paisley tie loose, collar gaping, and the rumpled jacket of the navy blue Armani suit is balled up beside him.