#thatsbone

Personal scan, personal collection.

LIFE Magazine, March 5 1965.

Largest Muslim mosque bombed out after Malcolm X's killing.

Death of Malcolm X and the Resulting Vengeful Gang War.

35 Cents.

These are personal scans of my own private collection. All rights reserved.

May Malcolm's family get justice, and may all future generations be taken care of.

Yours for the cause of peace and brotherhood.

We must tell the true story of our past, or it will forever inform the future.

The night started at Tunnel, that neon-slick cesspool of excess where Wall Street’s finest go to preen and snort their bonuses. I was with the usual crew—McDermott, Van Patten, Bryce—posturing over Cristal and arguing about whether the new Genesis album was genius or garbage. I’d just landed a reservation at Dorsia for next week, a coup I was milking for all it was worth, when he walked in. Dave Parker. The Cobra himself. Six-foot-five, built like a Greek statue carved from obsidian, striding through the club with a swagger that made every Brooks Brothers drone in the room look like they were auditioning for a mailroom gig. He was in town for the Pirates-Mets series, fresh off dismantling Darling and Gooden like they were high schoolers. The man was a wrecking ball, and you could feel the air shift when he entered, like the room was suddenly too small to contain him.

I spotted him at the bar, surrounded by a flock of models and hangers-on, his laugh booming over the thump of New Order’s “Blue Monday.” He was wearing a tailored silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show off a gold chain that screamed confidence, not desperation. No Rolex, no pretension—just raw, effortless cool. I hated him instantly, but I couldn’t look away. McDermott was droning on about some leveraged buyout, but I was fixated, watching Parker hold court, his massive hand dwarfing a bottle of Heineken, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. I had to get closer. I ditched the group, smoothed my hair (perfectly slicked, as always), and made my way over, tossing out some line about catching the game at Shea. Parker turned, sized me up like I was a rookie reliever, and then—Christ—he smiled. Not the fake, toothy bullshit you get from investment bankers. A real smile, like he was in on some cosmic joke I’d never understand. “You saw that series, huh?” he said, voice like gravel and honey. “Mets didn’t know what hit ‘em.” I laughed, too loud, and offered to buy him a drink. He waved it off, said he was good, and somehow, we ended up talking.

We hit it off, or at least I thought we did. He was all charisma, anecdotes about Clemente and Stargell flowing like the scotch we ended up sharing at a corner booth. He talked about the game—about the feeling of crushing a fastball, the roar of the crowd, the way the ball just knew it was gone off his bat. I tried to keep up, dropping names like I was somebody, but every word out of my mouth felt hollow. I’m Patrick fucking Bateman—Pierce & Pierce, Yale, the whole package—and yet, next to him, I was nothing. A shadow in a $3,000 suit. His presence was titanic, a force of nature that made my carefully curated persona feel like a cheap knockoff. He didn’t need to posture or name-drop; he was the real deal, and everyone in that club knew it.

We ended up at some after-hours spot in the Meatpacking District, a grimy dive where he knew the bartender by name. He was still in control, still the center of gravity, while I was just along for the ride, clutching my drink like a lifeline. He told a story about facing Nolan Ryan in ’79, staring down a 104-mph fastball and fouling it off like it was nothing. I tried to counter with some bullshit about a deal I closed, but it landed like a wet rag. He didn’t care about my mergers or my expense account. He was above it all—above me. And the worst part? He wasn’t even trying. His cool was effortless, a natural extension of his dominance on the field, his larger-than-life aura. I wanted to hate him for it, but I couldn’t. I wanted to be him. By 3 AM, we were back on the street, him heading to his hotel, me to my cab. He clapped me on the shoulder, said, “Stay cool, Wall Street,” and disappeared into the night. I stood there, the city’s pulse throbbing around me, feeling like I’d just been measured and found wanting. Back at my apartment now, I can’t stop replaying it. Dave Parker, the Cobra, is everything I’m not. He doesn’t need to fake it, doesn’t need to claw for status. He’s got that rare, untouchable quality—flair, game, presence—that no amount of money or bloodlust can buy. I’m surrounded by cronies, pions, and posers, all of us scrambling to outdo each other in this soulless game of capitalism, but Parker? He’s playing a different game entirely. And he’s winning. I’m jealous—viciously, gnawingly jealous. I want to crack open his skull and steal whatever it is that makes him him. I want to wear his confidence like one of my Zegna suits, to wield his power like I wield my American Express. But I can’t. I’m trapped in this gilded cage, surrounded by glass and steel and meaningless deals, while he’s out there, a colossus, smashing homers and owning rooms without breaking a sweat. I’ll see him again tomorrow at Shea, probably hit another dinger, and I’ll be in the stands, just another suit, invisible next to his legend.

sets down the pen, drains the scotch, and stares at the skyline, the city’s lights mocking me with their cold indifference.

I need to return some videotapes.'

'Patrick Bateman 1270 Avenue of the Americas, Suite 2800 New York, NY 10020 August 31, 2025

To the Tangerine Tyrant Squatting in the Oval Office,

As I sit here, carving through my rare Wagyu ribeye with the precision of a Zwilling J.A. Henckels chef’s knife - I’m forced to confront the oozing pustule that is your presidency. These United States, once a glittering altar of liberation and aspiration, now languish under your authoritarian boot. A travesty so repugnant it makes my thrice-daily exfoliation routine feel like a Sisyphean punishment.

Your administration, Mr. Trump, is a masterclass in crass incompetence, a gilded turd polished to fool the witless. You wield power like a brain-damaged chimp, obliterating democratic norms with the finesse of a drunk toddler finger-painting on the Magna Carta. Executive orders flung like cheap confetti at a Mar-a-Lago gala, each one eroding the Constitution with the subtlety of a sledgehammer smashing a Fabergé egg.

Your sycophantic court—those White Supremacist ghouls—all spineless enablers in ill-fitting suits. Nothing but a grotesque burlesque of governance—a clown car of incompetence careening through a dumpster fire. A true rogues gallery of loyalist toadie bootlickers who grovel at your bloated feet, their integrity as nonexistent as your tax returns.

The Constitution? You treat it like a cocktail napkin at one of your gauche ballroom bacchanals. Scribbling over its sacred text with illiterate decrees - nothing but Sharpie-fueled edicts with the manic energy of a coked-up used-car salesman.

The economy? A Ponzi scheme for plutocrats—a rigged slot machine for your crony capitalist pals— its levers pulled by tax cuts for the obscenely rich. The working class bled dry, drowning in the bilge of your deception, left to scramble like roaches under your garish chandeliers. Inflation soars, savings evaporate, wages stagnate, and yet you preen like a Nazi in a spray-tanned haze, touting “success” as if reality bends to your Adderall-fueled rants. Oh look, there you go again, hawking “wins” on Truth Social with the coherence of a stroke victim’s fever dream.

Your border policies—cages for kids, walls for optics—are less about security than stroking the xenophobic egos of your base, a mob so brainwashed they’d cheer you waterboarding the Statue of Liberty if you called it “patriotism.”

January 6th wasn’t just an insurrection; it was your magnum opus of treason. A riot of mouth-breathers you incited and then abandoned like a failed TRUMP branded venture. That drooling mob of Walmart Vikings desecrating this nations capital, only to receive your full criminal pardon. Accountability? You dodge it like you dodge drafts, debts, and mirrors.

Your war on truth is almost admirable in its depravity, branding the press “enemies” while your propaganda machine churns out fiction so blatant it makes my own curated reality seem pedestrian. Oh, how you loathe their scrutiny, branding them “fake” while your own disinformation think-tanks parrot perjury with the precision of a German-engineered printing press. You’re not a Machiavelli; you’re a cartoon dictator in a too-long tie, shouting over dissent like a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving.

I could go on—Foreign policy? A geopolitical tantrum of global embarrassment. You alienate allies, and fellate dictators, cozying up to strongmen whose brutality you envy. You simp for Putin with a devotion that screams “Kompromat.”

The climate? You deny it like you deny your receding scalp, gutting science while the planet suffocates on your ghastly ignorance. I care little for polar bears, but even I find your disregard for basic facts offensive to my sense of order.

Your rallies? Narcissistic circle-jerks that make a Def Leppard encore seem dignified. You’re not a leader; you’re a knockoff Caesar in a dollar-store toga, a walking case for institutionalization. The White House, under your tacky touch, is a redneck’s idea of opulence—gold-plated schlock that looks like a Vegas brothel had a lovechild with a McMansion.

Resign, you bloviating landfill. Crawl back to your pyrite encrusted hovel in Trump Tower, where you can rage-tweet into oblivion and spare the nation your rancid stench. You’re a walking caricature, a man whose legacy will be a footnote in history’s ledger of failures, right between Nero and that guy who thought New Coke was a good idea. I’ll watch your collapse over a glass of Château Lafite Rothschild, savouring your ruin like the perfect bite of Ossetra caviar.

With utter contempt, Patrick Bateman

The process, though, that’s where the real pleasure lies. I’ll spend hours—days, even—scouring auction catalogs from Sotheby’s, my Montblanc Meisterstück fountain pen circling lot numbers in a leather-bound notebook. The ink flows like blood, black and deliberate. Online, it’s X, of course—endless threads of idiots arguing over baseball cards or vintage Patek Philippe Calatrava watches, reference 96, rose gold, circa 1952. I sift through the noise, cross-referencing serial numbers, provenance, condition reports. I’ve got a guy in Geneva who texts me when a 1970s Rolex Daytona, Paul Newman dial, hits the market—mint condition, naturally, because anything less is for plebeians. You don’t just *buy* these things; you *claim* them. It’s a conquest, a silent war waged with American Express Platinum and a VPN to mask your IP from the competition.

The display—that’s the climax. My apartment, a minimalist fortress on the Upper West Side, has a dedicated room. No windows, no dust, no mistakes. Glass cases, custom-built by a German firm, hermetically sealed, with LED lighting set to 3000K for that crisp, clinical glow. My collection of vintage switchblades—Italian stilettos, hand-forged, mirror-polished blades—gleams like surgical instruments. Each one’s story is cataloged in my head: the 1950s Sicilian piece I won at Christie’s after outbidding some bloated hedge fund manager who thought he could flex. Then there’s the vinyl—original pressings of Bowie’s *Low*, the Berlin Trilogy years, stored in polyethylene sleeves, unplayed, because actually listening to them would be gauche. It’s not about use; it’s about *having*. The power of ownership, the thrill of exclusivity.

Sometimes I stand there, in my Armani double-breasted pinstripe, staring at it all. The symmetry, the order—it’s better than sex, better than the cocaine-fueled nights at Tunnel with Pierce & Pierce drones. People collect to fill some void, they say. Pathetic. I collect because I *can*, because I’m better than the slobs who settle for mass-produced garbage from SoHo boutiques. It’s discipline. It’s identity. You touch one of my pieces—a 1966 Fender Stratocaster, Olympic White, once owned by some session musician who overdosed in ’72—and I’ll imagine taking a polished axe to your skull, wiping the blood off with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. But I’d smile, of course. Always the smile.

The best part? Knowing no one else has what I have. Not exactly. Not this *condition*. Not this *story*. It’s mine, and that’s the point. Collecting isn’t a pastime—it’s a lifestyle, a mirror reflecting the man I am: flawless, untouchable, and just a little bit dangerous.”

1 FCK