Chapter Text
Paul Allen mastered the art of fitting in. He could even say that he thrived in this corporate world full of empty businessmen; with just a smile and a good business card, he managed to get hold of some of the most important bank accounts of Pierce & Pierce, one of New York's most respected M&A firms. That, and killing one of his co-workers. He found that he could get away with it when he went to confess everything to his boss, a week after guilt began eating him alive and, instead of being yelled at and arrested by the police, he received only a superficial reprimand for "joking about a collegue's dissapearence" and an offer to manage the Fisher account, which belonged to the late Rothschild.
Realizing that no one believed him, not even Meredith, his girlfriend, was heartbreaking for him, but he got used to it. If there was no one who would acknowledge his crimes, he was going to live like a free man.
Paul was already getting used to his new status at the company. Today he didn't even indulge on the fantasies of what would happen if he continued to kill his co-workers because the night before he had unloaded himself by killing a homeless man who was sleeping in the park near his house.
When he arrived at the meeting room, his attention shifted to a man with glasses resting his arm on a chair, turning away to ignore Luis Carruthers, who was talking to him; He decided to approach him while putting on his fake smile, trying his luck with a surname that he was almost certain was the man's.
—Hello Halberstram, nice tie. How the hell are you?
Paul watched as the other man got surprised and put on a tight-lipped smile, so he guessed this wasn't Marcus Halberstram as he initially believed; but if he wasn't brave enough to correct him, he deserved to be addressed by another name.
—So, how's the Ransom account going, Marcus? —Allen asked, leaning on the chair where the other man used to so he could be closer to him, his voice sounding more raspy at the end of the sentence from his deliberate lack of air, showing that he wasn't really interested in having this conversation.
—It’s alright.
—Really? That’s interesting. It's not... it’s not great... —He was hardly able to contain the mockery of his tone so that it wouldn't be taken seriously, but he couldn't help it; men who did not prosper in the easy life of hollow workers that they had were the greatest form of mediocrity to him, along with those who could naturally fit into that model that society demanded of them.
He made a bit of casual chat with the non-Halberstram and then offered his business card to Bryce when he asked to play squash, bragging as he knew that everyone was watching.
—Call me.
When Bryce asked if he could on Friday, he almost couldn't contain the arrogant smile he wanted to wear as he walked out of the room.
—No, can’t do. I’ve got an 8:30 reservation in Dorsia.
Paul didn't know what he was doing with his life; when Mr. No-Name asked him to go out to dinner at a Christmas party, he didn't expect for it to actually happen, or for the other man to insist on making the reservation; What place could he get in that Paul couldn't? Besides, Dorsia was currently the best restaurant in the city.
Either way, he was now in a second-rate restaurant called "Texarkana" and, although Paul had been there for just five minutes, he knew it was a bad restaurant simply by the fact that it was called Texarkana. And to top it off, 'Marcus' was running late.
When the man finally arrived, Allen was arguing with one of the servers about the small amount of food variety the place had.
—Now I wanna know, okay? I came here for the cilantro crawfish gumbo, which after all is the only excuse one could have for being in this restaurant which is, by the way, —Paul turned to look for a second at the newcomer, who had an expression of pure insubstantial seriousness; his eyes scanned the black suit with white stripes and red tie with some kind of green design too small to be identifiable than the other man was wearing— almost completely empty.
They ordered their drinks quickly and when the waiter asked if they wanted to listen to the specials of the day, 'Halberstram' replied: "Not if you want to keep your spleen", which surprised Paul quite a bit, so much so that he had to suppress his laughter; What did this guy know about violence? Did he even know what a real corpse looked like? Not at funerals, but a body that had just been murdered; Why would he make that joke?
Paul was beginning to believe that this man was really weird, he wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be just some faggot who wanted to be around him without having to come out of the closet, although that didn't really bother Allen; if 'Marcus' intended to take him to his apartment, he could easily kill him right there without worrying about hiding the evidence because he could make it look like a suicide. Shit, Paul would even fuck him before ending his pathetic life since he wanted to so bad; Maybe the other man would be turned on by that, considering the perverse jokes he made.
...Why would he do that? Someone so miserable didn't deserve so much attention from him, yet the thought came as naturally as others about murder did and it made him feel just as agitated as he felt before he committed a homicide. Like a predator about to catch its prey, Allen was now struggling to control his breath or sit still.
The fact that his companion refused to accept any criticism about the place he had chosen or about his late appearance (being the child of a divorce doesn’t seem like a good excuse when you're entering your thirties) made Paul decide to hit him where it'd hurt, subtly, as revenge for causing such weird ideas on his mind.
—We should have gone to Dorsia —he said as he leaned over the table to whisper—. I could’ve gotten us a table —He frowned when the fake Marcus looked away, lying about no one going that place now. Was he so in love that he couldn't look him in the eye? His own eye twitched at the implications of that thought as Marcus said something about Ivana Trump, then followed up with, “Oh jeez, Patrick... I mean, Marcus, what are you thinking? Why would Ivana be at Texarkana?”
Paul was honestly surprised for the second time that night, but he hid it by pretending to care about the idea that Ivana Trump would be in that place; at least now he knew his real name: Patrick. Although he shouldn't care, since he would never have to use it because his owner would be dead the next morning.
—So, uh, wasn’t Rothschild originally handling the Fisher account? How’d you get it? —asked the alleged 'Patrick', taking him out of his thoughts.
Clutching his new martini, Paul leaned over the table, resting the elbow of the same arm that held the drink on it, feeling the laughter begin to form in his throat.
—Well, I could tell you that, Halberstram —he paused to look away, biting his lip—, but then I'd have to kill you.
Paul began to laugh as he waited for the other's reaction, being left with nothing more than a tight-lipped smile. Poor idiot, he didn't know that he would be killed regardless of whether he knew his secret or not.
When each one had received their food and tasted it, Patrick let out a strange comment with a totally sober face and even added a smile at the end:
“I like to dissect girls; did you know I'm utterly insane?” To which Paul just laughed a little and changed the subject to tanning beds; this guy's humor was really weird, which was funny to him because he acted on the horrors that Marcus/Patrick joked about.
—And, uh, Cecilia... How is she? Where is she tonight? —asked Paul, feeling as the alcohol begin to take effect.
—Cecilia is... Well, you know Cecilia. I think she's having dinner with, uh... Evelyn Williams.
—Evelyn! Great ass. Goes out with that loser Patrick Bateman, what a dork! —The words were escaping from his mouth before he could process them, the alcohol was catching up with him very quickly and loosening his tongue. He wasn't lying about it, but he didn't really care about Evelyn's ass, to be honest. She was dating a Patrick... what a coincidence, he was with another Patrick right now. But there was no way they were the same guy, he would recognize the insufferable Bateman if he had to have dinner with him.
The drive to Marcus' house was barely registered in his head; how many drinks had he had? He remembered that the man offered him another martini two or three times, and he, for some reason, did not refuse.
Was the non-Halberstram so pathetic that he needed to get him drunk before trying to do anything? He was surprised how desperate the other man was, he knew that effeminate men were more vulnerable, but Patrick was not effeminate, he was just a homosexual; He had a very good taste in suits that helped to consolidate his masculine and attractive image, his hair was long enough to be elegant without becoming too feminine because of its length, he also had a very nice tan (that he had flattered before).
Paul doubled over from nausea and before he knew it, he was gripping Patrick's shoulder so he wouldn't fall to the floor as he held back vomit. Instead of being pushed aside, as he thought he would be, he felt a hand grabbing his waist to secure him and another one on his chest to pull him up, though it moved to grab his keys before Paul was able to process it, the other man's face bore an indecipherable countenance; It was something between disgust and concern.
—For God's sake, Allen! Don't you dare throw up outside my apartment; I'd have to kill you right here to cover up the smell.
Paul should be worried that Patrick kept making those comments, but he was too drunk to really notice; Besides, for a murderer like him, that someone made references to violence so often felt flattering, as if a famous painter had to listen to someone admire works of art without knowing his profession.
So, he decided, or rather, his body reacted reflexively to his thoughts, to rub his hand over Patrick's shoulder, reaching his elbow and climbing back up while the other man opened the door.
—Aww. Promise?
Patrick froze for a second and turned to look at him in horror, but Allen noticed the blush that covered the cheeks of the brown-haired man, as if he was embarrassed to have been heard, so he just pushed Paul into his apartment.
—You like Huey Lewis and The News?
—They're okay.
Allen was starting to get tired. How long was Patrick going to wait to do something with him? Since he sat in an armchair, the taller one had only approached him to give him another drink. And now he was talking about music?
It wasn't like Paul really wanted to fuck another man; he just wanted a chance to kill him and get on with his life. Pure logic.
While he scanned the apartment in the American Gardens building, the other man had gone to the bathroom and back, talking about some of the band's albums he had mentioned earlier.
—Hey, Halberstram?
—Yes, Allen? —The mentioned heard that the voice was coming from behind him and began to feel uncomfortable by not being able to see the other man.
—Why are there copies of the style section all over the place? Do you- Do you have a dog? A little chow or something? —Paul said, sounding more nervous than he wanted to appear, a dubious chuckled leaving his lips.
—No, Allen. —The redhead decided to turn around and saw Patrick buttoning up a transparent suit.
—Is that a raincoat?
—Yes, it is! —Paul couldn't think straight, but despite his drunkenness, Paul recognized that he did the same thing before he killed someone; he could also swear he'd seen an axe next to the wall.
—In '87 Huey released this, ‘Fore!’, their most accomplished album —Patrick said as he held the CD before inserting it and a song began to play—. I think their undisputed masterpiece is ‘Hip to be Square.’ The song’s so catchy, most people probably don't even listen to the lyrics. —He stood behind Paul again, who had begun to evaluate his options. Allen needed to get out of there, but he didn't trust that his legs would keep up when he tried to get out and his head was still spinning; How come he didn't notice this before? His ears were buzzing, and he could barely see the rest of the living room.
—But they should! Because it's not just about the pleasures of conformity and the importance of trends, it's also a personal statement about the band itself!”
—Hey, Paul! —Before Patrick said his name, Allen was already running out of the apartment, hearing the other man's complaints because he had driven the axe into his surely very-expensive armchair, but he didn't have time to pay attention to it as he rushed down the stairs. He had gone down about a floor and a half when he began to hear someone following him and shouting behind him.