[ WP ] Patrick Bateman explains Daft Punk

`` Do you like Daft Punk?'' 
 
 Harold Martinson is a profane statue leaning against my bar, his jagged Picasso features all jumbled together, discolored, seething, and in them I can see the ghastly reflection of his blind sculptor. Thirty dead milky eyes cast through some forgotten space, slithering over me and drinking up the nothing that I am. 
 
 `` Yeah, you know, they're alright,'' he says. He is a man just awakening from some dark dream, and the grey eyes pierce me, and for a moment I am drowning in their banal neutrality, their dreaded senseless bleached futility. 
 
 `` While their early work was far too brash for my tastes, I believe their 2001 album *Discovery* is an aptly-titled glimpse into postmodern electronic music - a bold, elegant, often darkly profound exploration into the inherent confusion and mesmerizing jubilation of progressive society as filtered through the vibrance of youth,'' I'm pacing now, growing more animated, every chiseled edge of my body sleek and shining with some exotic venom. `` The opening tracks seem almost meticulously designed to rail against established boundaries, whereas such instant classics as *Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger* shatter them altogether with the duo's trademark surgical precision. Although they have been compared to Dead Mau5 or Skrillex, I believe they possess a more inherently optimistic message - a sort of electric current flowing just beneath their masterful facade which breathes new life into an already vast and often colorless landscape.'' 
 
 I hid the electric drill in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I can feel it calling to me now, and Masterson is as stupidly void as ever. I recoil in horror as a nugget of shit bounces merrily down his right pantleg and rolls madly across the floor. A fever dream? I ca n't help but wonder what his eyes taste like. 
 
 `` Hey Bateman?'' 
 
 `` *Yes Harold! *'' I call from the bathroom. 
 
 `` Why's there plastic all over the furniture? You remodeling or something? The place sure could use it, buddy. Too much... white.'' 
 
 `` *No Harold! *'' Dancing backing into the living room now, electric spinning death. `` In 2005, they released this, *Human After All*, which featured a commanding and tragically underappreciated piece known as *Technologic*. It's a driving expedition into the heart and mind of society's modern ditchdigger, a monotonous, even droning masterstroke which paints a stark portrait of contemporary existence in a world so technologically dependent that our most sacred core, our humanity, must be laid on the proverbial line to feed the machine. *Hey Harold! *'' 
 
 There's a brief spark of life in his disturbed children's puzzle of a face, and then the drill is whining and spinning and piercing that soft, precious little spot just behind the chin and into his rusty throat. Jagged strips of flesh tear from quivering meat and trembling chaotic bone, and he gurgles and spits and spews his final animal cry, a limp and altogether hollow sentiment. 
 
 *TASTE THAT COCK FUCKEEEEER! * I hear myself crying over and over and over again and I can feel the devastating wet blackness patter against my cheeks and it's savory, it's sweet, like morning dew sucked from honeysuckle petals, and I am alive. I am human. I am dancing precariously along the edge of frail mortality and diving headlong into the gathering black. 
 
 Human after all. How very fucking apt.
