[ EU ] Patrick ( Bateman ) , please describe your perfect Sunday ?

**Exercise** 
 
 I would get up and exercise for exactly thirty minutes doing sit-ups, to maintain my abdominal muscles while listening to `` Invisible Touch,'' by Genesis. Honestly, it's their best work by far, and that's thanks to Phil Collins. 
 
 After that, I would do exactly one-hundred and twenty push-ups, and then run for twenty minutes and thirty-two seconds on my custom-made Swedish treadmill that I had specifically designed by the engineers at X-Force. I saw that idiot Jacobsen in Accounting brag that he had one in his apartment; I knew I had to get a better one, custom-made right down to the calfskin leather on the hand bars. 
 
 When I am done, I get into the shower and use a Japanese seaweed extract facial scrub, followed by a moisturizer I had shipped from a shop in Paris on the Rue Saint-Denis that cost me eighty dollars. The pastries next door to that shop are simply divine; the handmade strawberry jelly oozing from each one reminds me of a baby with its skull split open; brains spilling onto the floor while its mother happily hacks at it with a meat cleaver. 
 
 After I towel myself off with my MatoukMarcus bath towels, I put on my cream Fred Perry polo shirt, Izod shorts, and my Nike All-Sport shoes to go play racquetball with Fred Sheinberg from Marketing. It's not that I like playing racquetball; personally, I hate the damned game. I'd happily shove my two-hundred twenty-nine dollar E-Force Darkstar 175 racquet down Sheinberg's throat until he choked to death on his own blood, but everybody in Marketing at Pierce & Pierce played racquetball, and two of the hardbodied gym girls look hot enough to fuck. Besides, afterward we usually hit Procelli's near uptown and after a few vodka and Campari's, Sheinberg opens his fat Jewish mouth and spills everything he knows about other guys' accounts. It's loud because everyone in Manhattan goes there. I practically have to scream into his half-deaf ear to talk to him. 
 
 `` Patrick,'' he slurs. `` You definitely do not want to touch the Middleton account. That thing is poison from the word go.'' 
 
 `` Really? I heard people were ready to strangle their own kids with telephone cords to get that account.'' 
 
 `` Nope.'' And then his filthy, drunk Jewish hand touched my arm, which I just finished washing using Sisley Paris soap not a half-hour earlier at the gym. I want to cut off his fingers and force-feed them to him. `` You do n't want it. The main account to get is Stanford and Price. It will be big.'' 
 
 `` How big?'' 
 
 `` At least two mil. You will want to talk to my friend Martin Goldberg at Stanford and Price, get in good with him. His wife loves French jewelry;'Show me'?'Charpei'? Something like that.'' 
 
 `` Chaumet, you moron?'' 
 
 `` Yeah, Chaumet. He's a fan of scotch; you ca n't go wrong with a bottle of thirty-year-old Macallan.'' 
 
 `` Maybe I should just piss in a bottle and make him drink it.'' 
 
 `` What?! Speak up!'' 
 
 `` I said thirty-year-old Macallan sounds like a great idea.'' 
 
 Sheinberg has his uses; otherwise I would n't go near the detestable fuck. 
 
 **Dinner** 
 
 I usually pick up Evelyn to hit Max's, or maybe Cafe Barrego, but she said she was feeling sick and I would n't want her to sneeze all over my Ermenegildo Zegna Bespoke suit, which I paid $ 22,000 for and had shipped especially from their store in Trivero, Italy. She can keep her damned germs to herself. So, I got Candi and Trisha from an escort service that caters to executives here in Manhattan for $ 5,000 apiece, and had dinner with them at Le Bernardin. I order Candi some Golden Imperial Caviar at $ 145 a serving, and Trisha will have the Lacquered Lobster Tail, Herb Spring Roll, Lemongrass Consommé. Candi whines that she got less to eat that Trisha; I told her she needs to lose weight. 
 
 Later, we go back to my apartment where I put on the Genesis' `` Invisible Touch'' for the ladies to listen to. 
 
 `` This album is their masterpiece,'' I tell them. `` Phil Collins really shines through, which makes me disappointed that Peter Gabriel left them.'' 
 
 `` I like them, but I think Duran Duran is much better,'' said Candi. Or Trisha. I forget which one. 
 
 `` Duran Duran is crap, and I did n't rent you to listen to your opinion,'' I told her. 
 
 The girls sit there, like a couple of fucking deaf mutes. `` Take off your clothes.'' I tell them. For $ 10,000 for the night, they'd fucking better. Candi and Trisha strip down until they are naked. I pour them two glasses of Chateau Montrose red wine from the Bordeaux region of France, at one-hundred seventy-five dollars a bottle. 
 
 `` Drink it,'' I told them. Then, I poured them another. At $ 175 a bottle, they had better not spill one fucking drop. 
 
 After fucking both of them, I go into the kitchen and heat up a spoon over my Viking six-burner gas range stove until it glows red. I follow that up with a knife on the other, and head back into the bedroom. It's time for the post-sex fun... 
 
 Both Candi and Trisha leave my apartment bleeding, and Trisha has a few cuts on her buttocks; Candi has some burn marks on her breasts from the spoon. I tip them an extra two-hundred each. But then, they're prostitutes, so who really gives a damn. 
 
 After they leave, I walk naked into my living room, put on my five-hundred dollar Bang and Olufsen headphones, snort some cocaine, and turn on the soundtrack to Les Mis. 
 
 So, not a bad Sunday.
