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Patrick's morning routine was same as always — he could now do two hundred sit ups — the Patty Winters show today was about mothers addicted to heroin, Patrick made sure to record it so he could laugh at it (again) later. Today was Saturday and Patrick had decided to take off of work, it was very early and so — Patrick decided to call Beatrice — grabbing his phone book and placing it on his coffee table as he grabbed his cordless phone ($600). Looking through all the addresses, luckily there was only one Beatrice Kruger. Dialing her number quickly — fingers pressing roughly on the keypad before Patrick held the phone up to his ear — it rung a few times before finally someone picked up.

"Kruger residence." Beatrice spoke — breathy, smiley... flirty — "It's Bateman, Pat Bateman." Patrick said and although Beatrice chuckled a bit, it wasn't at his expense (or was it?). "Oh, hi Patrick. Why're you calling?" Patrick smiled slightly — he could hear Beatrice breathing on the other end. "I was just making sure we're still on at eight." Patrick tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. Beatrice hummed, "We are still on at eight. You're still picking me up." It wasn't a question as much as it was a statement — Patrick chuckled, it sounded fake. "Yes of course I'm still picking you up you slut. I want to cut you from groin to sternum before playing with your blood. I want to fuck you from the inside out."

Beatrice seemed unfazed, "Okay Patrick... did you like those photos I gave you?" She was flirting and Patrick huffed lightly, "I wasn't expecting you to be so forward, you want me that bad?" Patrick questioned — his ego boosting slightly. "No you fuck, I wanted to see if you were that desperate for a woman's attention. You're a limp-dick little bitch, and I want to dismember your limbs before leaving you as a head and torso." All Patrick did was laugh before speaking, "Sounds good Beau." Beatrice was the one to hang up causing Patrick to grip his phone tightly before he screamed until his throat went raw — he was coughing up blood after.

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Later on, Patrick seemed to spiral as he walked around town. He screamed at multiple homeless people telling them to get a job, he vomited on multiple restaurants doors before shouting obscenities towards the people inside, and he also yelled out the lyrics to multiple Les Misérables songs (he also yelled out how much better the British cast recording was compared to the American one). Making his way back to his apartment — the doorman giving him a strange look as he walked in — Patrick went up to his apartment before getting into the shower.

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman. He's a successful man who smiles at those who pass by him, who's just like any other — flesh and blood — but even if you reach out and though you may feel flesh touch yours as you shake his hand. Patrick Bateman is no one. He simply does not

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After somehow getting a limousine, Patrick wore a Valentino suit — he hoped Beatrice wore something that would complement him well. Going downstairs at around 8:20 (already late) Patrick got into the limousine and gave the address to Beatrice's place — surprisingly it was close to Dorsia — Patrick could see Beatrice there in the lobby of her apartment waiting. She soon noticed the limo and walked out. She wore a Thierry Mugler dress ($698) that was all black paired with matching shoes and gloves. She carried a Burberry purse ($437) that was no bigger than both her hands.

Patrick stared at her like a piece of meat as she got into the limo — she was attractive for a brunette, like him. "I'm surprised you showed up." It was clear that Beatrice was seething and Patrick feigned innocence, "Oh, I thought I got here early enough." Beatrice blinked rapidly as she spoke, "We said eight. We both agreed on eight. Eight means eight. Not 9:59 or 8:01. Eight. Eight sharp." Her mouth went miles per minute — and Patrick seemed slightly unnerved by her, first time in his life a woman made him seem weak and frightened. "I sincerely apologize Beau. Let me make it up to you — let's just go back to my place." Patrick purposed. And although it seemed to calm Beatrice and although she nodded — the switchblade and handgun she had in her purse said otherwise.

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The limo dropped both of them off at Patrick's apartment complex. The doorman held open the door for the both of them — giving Patrick a nasty look as he walked in front of Beatrice. "So, this is where you stay? I could only imagine how much the cost was." Patrick chuckled confidently as they went into his apartment, "The price you're imagining now, you'd have to double it." Beatrice smiled slightly — her mask of being impressed slipping. Patrick walked over to his Panasonic CD player and picked up one of the many CD's he had. "You like Whitney Houston?" Beatrice say down on his white futon, she shrugged, "I don't mind her. Some of her stuff is too "poppy" for me." Patrick seemed to falter.

He mumbled stuff under his breath before putting the CD in, "I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)" began playing. Patrick turned around to Beatrice — his eyes dark — "Take your clothes off and finger your asshole for me." Beatrice raised a brow, "Excuse me?" Patrick walked over to her, pulling a knife out of his pocket. "Do it." Beatrice saw the knife and smiled — "Just slit my throat and do it for me, or are you too pussy to do it?" Patrick furrowed his brows — he began to sweat. "Slit my throat." Her words seemed to ignite something inside him — Patrick walked in front of her and placed the knife on the coffee table before smashing his lips against hers — teeth clashing and lips twining, Patrick knew there was something different about Beatrice.

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