American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

Author:Bret Easton Ellis
Format: mobi, epub, azw3, pdf
Tags: Wall Street, Women - Crimes against - Fiction., Psychological fiction, Fiction - Horror, N.Y.) - Fiction., Popular American Fiction, N.Y.), Rapists, Wall Street (New York, Horror, Horror & Ghost Stories, Manhattan (New York, Horror tales, Women, Crimes against, Serial murderers - Fiction., Horror - General, Fiction, Women - Crimes against, Psychopaths, General, Psychological, Serial murderers
ISBN: 9780679735779
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 1991-08-15T05:00:00+00:00

Nell's

Midnight. I'm sitting in a booth at Nell's with Craig McDermott and Alex Taylor – who has just passed out – and three models from Elite: Libby, Daisy and Caron. It's nearing summer, mid‑May, but the club is air‑conditioned and cool, the music from the light jazz band drifts through the half‑empty room, ceiling fans are whirring, a crowd twenty deep waits outside in the rain, a surging mass. Libby is blond and wearing black grosgrain high‑heeled evening shoes with exaggeratedly pointed toes and red satin bows by Yves Saint Laurent. Daisy is blonder and wearing black satin tapered‑toe pumps set off by splattered‑silver sheer black stockings by Betsey Johnson. Caron is platinum blond and wearing stack‑heeled leather boots with a pointed patent‑leather toe and wool tweed turned‑over calf by Karl Lagerfeld for Chanel. All three of them have on skimpy black wool‑knit dresses by Giorgio di Sant'Angelo and are drinking champagne with cranberry juice and peach schnapps and smoking German cigarettes – but I don't complain, even though I think it would be in Nell's best interest if a nonsmoking section was initiated. Two of them are wearing Giorgio Armani sunglasses. Libby has jet lag. Of the three, Daisy is the only one I even remotely want to fuck. Earlier in the day after a meeting with my lawyer about some bogus rape charges, I had an anxiety attack in Dean & Deluca which I worked off at Xclusive. Then I met the models for drinks at the Trump Plaza. This was followed by a French movie that I completely did not understand, but it was fairly chic anyway, then dinner at a sushi restaurant called Vivids near Lincoln Center and a party at one of the models' ex‑boyfriend's loft in Chelsea, where bad, fruity sangria was served. Last night I had dreams that were lit like pornography and in them I fucked girls made of cardboard. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Aerobic Exercise.

I'm wearing a two‑button wool suit with pleated trousers by Luciano Soprani, a cotton shirt by Brooks Brothers and a silk tie by Armani. McDermott's got on this wool suit by Lubiam with a linen pocket square by Ashear Bros., a Ralph Lauren cotton shirt and a silk tie by Christian Dior and he's about to toss a coin to see which one of us is going downstairs to fetch the Bolivian Marching Powder since neither one of us wants to sit here in the booth with the girls because though we probably want to fuck them, we don't want to, in fact can't, we've found out, talk to them, not even condescendingly – they simply have nothing to say and, I mean, I know we shouldn't be surprised by this but still it's somewhat disorienting. Taylor is sitting up but his eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and though McDermott and I originally thought he was protesting the girls' lack of verbal skills by pretending to be asleep, it dawns on

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