A Puritan In New York

***

New York City, 1987

He’d been in New York for three months and he’d resented every superficial second. The city was overrun with yuppies. He much preferred the grit of his last visit; lax law enforcement and the odd appearance of a truly cultured being had made it almost bearable. Now it was a dissociate mess of anonymity and neo-decadence. Nothing was real anymore. This new scene sat so awkwardly with him that he couldn’t even enjoy the self-indulgence of it all. Penn truly believed he was witnessing the self-destruction of culture itself as Wall Street’s own brand of pre-packaged capitalism overflowed into every single facet of life until nothing was distinct. He hated the 1980’s. He’d take the 1880’s over them any day.

Perhaps that was the reason he’d found himself drawn out of the city’s opulent core and into somewhere known as Hell’s Kitchen. The name fascinated him. He liked the images it conjured, the unholy coexistence of sweaty living flesh and roaring flames, the spice, a raw intensity gathered there like a pocket of hell on earth. But it was just a name. It was no different from anywhere else in the city. Except there he killed the poor. Uptown he killed the guilty.

At 2am, the only people out on the streets there were by necessity insane or murderous, sometimes both. That fact kept the innocent behind bolted doors and gave over the streets to the sinners. That’s why Penn liked it – it gave him a perverse sense of pleasure to know that he could be attacked at any second and that seconds later his attacker would be dead and discarded. Ironic, really, how the predator could so easily become prey.

It brought a smile to his face as he drew his teeth from the torn throat of his latest victim. It was too easy. At this time of night he didn’t even have to look, they just came to him. He guessed he looked vulnerable to the untrained eye; the 300-pound ogre of a human being into whose flat greyish eyes he was currently staring had obviously thought so. Right up until the moment his demon had manifested, and then there’d been terror. And muffled cries. And blood.

Lifting him by the neck, he’d etched a cross into the dead man’s cheek. It amused him how the police would try to convince themselves that the dead littered throughout the city, all marked in that same way, were wholly unconnected. No one liked to say the words ‘serial killer’, even when it was blatantly obvious that a serial killer was exactly what they had. But they’d never prove it, and they’d never catch him. Just like the other undisclosed number of killers residing in the New York area. They’d all get away with it. He could see it was inevitable.

He tossed the corpse aside into a rough stack of spilling garbage bags and turned to leave the alley. Only on completing the turn, what he saw rendered him motionless. There was someone there, standing at the mouth of the alleyway, silhouetted by the light shining from the street behind. He was holding something, something large, like an oddly bulging oversized sports bag. And he reeked of blood. It was all over him, the smell of it soaked into his clothes, his hair. Only this wasn’t a vampire. What Penn smelled was human. He’d come across a real live murderer.

The man remained motionless as Penn drew closer at first he thought he was scared, but the closer he came the more apparent it was that he didn’t smell fear. And the look on the man’s face was more fascinated beneath the façade of indifference than it was terrified. He didn’t even flinch as Penn stepped into the light, wiping the blood from the corners of his demon mouth with an overly expensive handkerchief.

“Nice bag”, Penn said, nodding to the obviously corpse-filled overnight bag.

“Jean-Paul Gaultier”, he man replied, almost smiling. “Nice corpse”.

“I’ve seen better. I’ve *been* better”.

“I’ve made better”.

“Show me”.

And so it began.

***

“I was standing over here by the sound system… Paul was sitting there…”

“Paul?”

“The corpse. Paul Allen. He worked for Pierce and Pierce. He was handling the Fisher account and he’d mistaken me for this dickhead Marcus Halberstam. I took him to Texarkana, plied him with alcohol, then brought him here. I had the style section sellotaped to the floor so that the blood wouldn’t stain. It’s sheer hell to get bloodstains off of a hardwood floor. Of course, I removed and disposed of the pages immediately”.

Penn nodded, leaning back against the blank white wall opposite the sound system where the apartment’s owner was hovering. Penn folded his arms across his chest, watching the guy across the room; he was fidgeting, smoothing back his already perfectly-styled hair and brushing imaginary creases from his expensive suit. He couldn’t stand still. And he was jabbering on about some popular band or other while Penn just tuned him out and settled back to watch.

“I think Huey’s undisputed masterpiece is ‘Hip to be Square’. Not only is it a testament to the pleasures of conformity, but it’s a personal statement on the band itself”. Penn just raised his eyebrows slightly. “I told Paul that before I killed him. I think I was in the bathroom, perhaps taking a Xanax and putting on a raincoat”. He disappeared for a momenen ren reappeared in a clear plastic raincoat stained pinky-red with splashes of blood, an axe in his hands.

“Nice axe”. Penn nodded to the blood-encrusted stainless steel-headed thing in the guy’s hands. “IS that what you used to kill him?”

“Yes. I put it down whilst buttoning the raincoat, and Paul asked if I had a dog, a little chow or something, because he’d noticed that I had the pages of the style section sellotaped to the floor. I said no. He asked if this was a raincoat. I said yes. I put on this CD. Then I picked up the axe. And I hit him”.

The stereo blaring some semi-literate trash, he swung the axe; it hit the corpse in the back of its already mostly-shattered head, and Penn watched with an amused smile. The guy continued on to strike three or four more times, hacking deeper, before he dumped the axe, peeled off the raincoat and took a seat on the black leather couch facing Penn.

“Turn off the music”. The guy nodded, moving over to the controls. Suddenly, silence. “Thank you. Now sit down”. Under Penn’s watchful gaze, he complied again. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Did I enjoy what? Killing him or showing you what I did to him?”

Penn smiled. “Both”.

The guy looked thoughtful for a second, frowning as he glanced from the partially-decapitated corpse lying on his floor to the ceiling, to the axe and back again. Then he answered.

“You should have been here when I did it”, he said, smiling. “He saw what I was going to do the instant before the axe cleaved his face in half. He was teied.ied. His blood splashed on my face. I felt powerful. It was good”.

Penn pushed himself away from the wall, took three steps forward with his eyes fixed on the guy’s, then knelt down beside the corpse. He was being watched intently and he liked it. This murderer was fascinated by him.

He reached forward, touching the corpse’s bloody mouth with the tip of one finger. Then he looked back at the guy, who was practically wide-eyed and slack-jawed but trying desperately to hide it. Penn licked the blood from his finger thoughtfully, pensive, then stood, pushing his glasses a little further up on his nose.

“Let’s go to bed”, he said.

***

The guy looked just like so many that Penn had seen recently, at least clothed he did. It seemed every man in the whole damn city was just a carbon copy of the one before, each just differing minutely in the colour of his tie or the tailor of his suit, glasses or no glasses, briefcase or no briefcase, gloves or no gloves. They all had the same haircut and the same manicured nails and the same false smile and the same evenly-tanned skin. If he’d met this man in a crowd of his peers on a sunny day, Penn would never have been able to tell him apart.

Except they hadn’t met on a sunny day. And he hadn’t been in a crowd of his peers. This man had been in an alley carrying a body in an overnight bag. And now he’d be able to tell him apart. Seeing him there then, lying beneath him, gasping for breath, raking at his arms, Penn memorised every inch of him. He was different. He was special. Penn needed to know him inside and out.

He was beautiful, in a sort of extreme, well-proportioned, well-groomed way. He was in great shape, strong for an average human, his skin soft and supple and now slick with a thin sheen of sweat. He felt so good to the touch, warm, muscular, alive… And Penn knew if he were to bite down through that sweat-slick skin he’d taste beautiful too. He’d taste sweet and red and fantastically satisfying, and Penn wouldn’t need to drink again for days he’d be so full. He wanted it so much he could taste it.

But he didn’t bite. He wouldn’t bite. There was so much more he could do with this one. He was perfect. He could have fun, revel in his newness, teach him all the unspeakable things he’d been taught himself, maybe learn to love this decade.

He found a tube of moisturiser in a drawer by the bed, flipped open the cap and looked into the man’s eyes as he squeezed out some of the cream onto his fingers. He looked nervous, anxious, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do or what was happening. Penn decided to show him.

Smiling coldly, kneeling between the murderer’s muscular thighs, Penn pushed in his slicked index finger as far as it would go. The man gasped, his mouth hanging open slightly as he bucked up with his hips. So Penn moved his finger, thrusting gently in and out, turning his head and pressing a clod, wet kiss to the warm inside of the man’s thigh. It took seconds before he was writhing under Penn’s attention, gasping, pressing into his hand and into the pillow, a wild, desperate look in his eyes. Penn nipped gently at his thigh, removing his finger and chuckling at the whimper that met his ears.

Kissing his way upward, enjoying the warmth of the skin beneath his cold lips, Penn thrust back inside with an added second finger. He could feel the muscles inside the man contracting for a second then they began to loosen as he forced himself to relax, only to tighten again as the vampire’s tongue darted out across the throbbing vein in the exposed underside of his cock. Penn grinned, moving to nip lightly at the head, dipping in the tip of his tongue, grazing the skin with his teeth. He ran his free hand over the man’s tight stomach and down, over his navel, wrapping it around the base of his cock, suppressing a chuckle as the man bucked underneath him, torn between arching up into one hand and pressing down into the other.

“Mmmm… Please…” the guy moaned. Penn removed his fingers – he was up to three now – and moved up so he was sitting astride his waist, looking down into his sweat-slick face.

“What do you want?” he asked, pushing a lock of brown hair back behind one ear, brushing back his own hair. “What do you want me to do?”

“Fuck me”, he said simply, honestly.

So Penn did. Catching the guy’s calves over his shoulders, smearing himself liberally with the moisturiser, Penn pushed past the tight ring of muscle and buried himself in the incredible heat of the man’s body, drawing a gasp. He had a sneaking suspicion that this was the first time the guy had done anything remotely like this, and that just made it better. Penn would be the best fuck of his life.

Reaching between them to pump himself, the guy’s gaze met and locked with Penn’s – they were moving together, their pace ever increasing, faster, Penn driving in deeper, pushing in further, hitting the spot deep inside the man what made him bite down on his lip to keep from screaming so hard that he drew blood. Penn could smell it. And as he leant in for a kiss, he could taste it too.

He couldn’t resist thrusting harder, faster, knowing he would hurt but beyond caring, lost in sensation between the blood in his mouth and the heat around his cock, feeling tingly, feeling powerful. He could hardly believe this man had let him dominate him so completely with so little resistance – Penn knew he was slight in comparison and not nearly as classically handsome hisehiselled in physique, but he had control. From the moment they’d met he’d had it. This was just a natural extension of that. The man was his to hurt.

Only from the look in his eyes he was enjoying the pain. Nothing Penn would do could change that. Penn wrapped his own hand over the man’s pumping him at his own frantic speed, resisting the urge to bite down into his throat as suddenly the man beneath him screamed and the contraction of his muscles brought Penn over the edge too. He remained in position a moment, staring down into those blue eyes of this man with whom he’d just shared himself, taking in the glow he found there, then rolled off to one side and lay listening to the heavy, laboured breathing as he rubbed the semen from their stomachs.

“That was… amazing”, the man said.

“You need to take a shower”, Penn replied.

***

There was nothing personal about the apartment that Penn could see. It was devoid of all personality, almost minimalist, stark and sterile. The only colours he could find were the white of the walls, the black of the furniture, the pine of the floor and the cold steel of the kitchen. It was almost as if no one lived there, or had ever lived there, except for the bloody corpse lying on the lounge floor.

He ran his hands over the surfaces, taking in the angles and the textures just as he had the man’s body. He wanted to remember everything about this place. It may have been big and empty and just as completely depersonalised as an office building, but her knew there was an occupant. From the items lying on tabletops and counters that occupant could almost have been anyone. Only Penn knew differently. Because this apartment’s occupant was special. And that excited him more than anything had in a hundred years.

There were videotapes on a cupboard under the stereo, all labelled with dates. Penn smiled, guessing correctly what exactly was on them. He ran a hand over them, smelling the dried blood that stained the cases of a couple. In fact, the whole place reeked of blood. It was almost intoxicating, all those different scents mingling in the air and filling Penn’s head. Each new room he entered smelled different, some stronger than others, all grasping him by the throat and tugging at his teeth. A couple of times he had to stop to sit and compose himself before moving on. He needed to keep control. One momentary lapse and the beautiful, perfect specimen currently dowsing itself in water and removing moisturiser from awkward places would be dead. He didn’t want that.

There was a huge CD collection. Penn didn’t understand how anyone could listen to this ‘music’ – he’d heard strains of these songs playing in shops and clubs and taxicabs, each more inane and meaningless than the next. He flipped through the CDs. Genesis. Huey Lewis and the News. Phil Collins. Whitney Houston. Middle-of-the-road, thoughtless, semi-musical pointlessness. He’d take a Bach cantata or a Handel oratorio any day. He’d have to introduce his new toy to real music.

The kitchen was a marvel of modern design, all stainless steel and aluminium, like a condensed version of a restaurant kitchen. It was bright and stark and semi-featureless, all spotlessly clean and meticulously well-kept, strangely like its owner. There was nothing remarkable about it on the surface, all polished and showroom-perfect. But there was more just beneath the surface. Like a collection of murders on videotape, a permeating veil of blood and an uncontrollable murderous tendency.

Penn opened the cold aluminium door of the refrigerator and smiled. Inside a clear plastic bag sitting in a small pool of congealing blood on a white plate on the top shelf was a pretty blonde head, eyes open and staring blankly down at him. The flesh around the cut that had severed the head wasn’t ragged. Penn found himself wondering idly what the man had used to cut it from its body. He’d never seen such a clean decapitation. He was quietly impressed. He shut the door.

He padded back out of the kitchen onto the hardwood floor of the lounge, the faint breeze from the open window and the sound of the shower’s running water sending shivers through his cold, naked body. He liked this place. Much more functional than the endless hotel rooms in which found himself, much less lived in yet infinitely more suited to his tastes.

He sat on the steam-covered tiles of the side of the bathtub, watching the water shower down over all those tight muscles and tanned skin. He frowned. Penn had never been that tanned. He held up his hands, comparing tones. He was like a ghost beside this man, not only in colour but in size and stature. But he remained dominant. He liked that. It made him shudder with pleasure.

“What’s your name?” he asked, chuckling low in his throat as the man flinched.

“Patrick Bateman”.

“And what do you do, Patrick?”

“I work for Pierce and Pierce, on Wall Street”.

He should have known. The outfit had really said it all earlier, screamed it. The guy was a yuppie. The quintessential, stereotypical yuppie. But for some reason he didn’t feel the prerequisite disgust as this fact dawned on him. After all, beneath the surface this Patrick Bateman was different from the rest, set apart. He’d make an exception for this one.

“But you’re a murderer, Patrick”.

He nodded, turning, and Penn swept his eyes over him quickly, the blush creeping over that tanned skin bringing a smile to his lips as he tossed him a towel. “Yes, I suppose I am”.

“Patrick, you have a head wrapped in polythene in your refrigerator. *su *suppose* you are?”

“Then yes. Yes, I am a murderer”.

He stepped out of the shower stall, running the towel down his arms slowly, watching Penn who was watching him. But there was nothing awkward about the moment. It was a moment of mutual admiration. Penn felt slightly odd having Patrick watch him like that – usually he blended into crowds and wanted to keep from scrutiny, acutely aware that there were many men more attractive than him – he’d been turned too young, developed enough in some ways but not in others. But Patrick’s eyes were devouring him inch by inch, hungry, lustful. It was an odd but satisfying feeling, that this beauty could feel for him.

He watched as Patrick swept the towel across his chest, across the tight, defined muscles of his stomach, across his abdomen, lower, squeezing himself through the fluffy white cotton, eyes still on Penn as he did it. Penn smiled. The display was for him. All for him. Because Patrick was intrigued, because Patrick knew what he wanted, because Patrick wanted him.

“So, what’s your name?” he asked, still squeezing himself, massaging the flesh through the towel, the sight coiling up Penn’s muscles as he watched.

“Penn”, he replied, meeting his gaze.

“Penn what?”

“Just Penn”.

“And what do you do, Penn?”

He smiled, recognising his own words. “I kill people, Patrick”, he said simply. “I kill people and I drink their blood”.

“You’re a vampire”.

“Yes, I suppose I am”.

“Penn, your eyes turn yellow and you grow fangs and you *suppose* you are?”

“Then yes. Yes, I am a vampire”, Penn said in an almost playful tone to match Patrick’s.

“Show me”.

Penn didn’t hesitate a single second, he just vamped out and stood there studying Patrick’s face through gold eyes, licking his teeth slowly with the tip of his tongue. Patrick dropped the towel to the floor, stepping forward until he was brushing against Penn, and he ran his fingertips over Penn’s cheek, over his lips, over his forehead. Penn could smell no fear, only strong arousal. He smiled, showing off his perfect white teeth, catching Patrick’s wrist and nipping the pad of his index finger. Patrick yelped, but Penn’s mouth closed on the tip, sucking lightly at the wound he’s caused, and Patrick relaxed, purposely brushing his cock along the length of Penn’s, making him shudder. Penn left his finger. Patrick pressed his lips to Penn’s for a second and drew back.

“Fuck me”, he said.

Penn laughed. “You’re insatiable!”

“I know. I want you”.

“I know. But Patrick… no”.

“No?” The pout on Patrick’s face reminded Penn of a spoilt six-year-old. He smiled, kissing the pout.

“No. We should go to bed now. You have work later”.

And Patrick submitted. They went to bed, and within five minutes Patrick was asleep lying against Penn’s chest.

***