Chefelf.com Night Life: Patrick Bateman - Viewing Profile

For crimes against the childhood memories of us all, should George Lucas be prevented from making any more prequels, sequels, trequels or films in anyway whatsoever related to Star Wars? My attitude is, surprisingly, leaning very heavily toward one particular response.

Still ... I am open to debate.

By the way ... my response is Yes! God Yes! And I'll happily enforce the court order if need be.

Anyway, Howard The Duck II is well overdue

So ... don't know how to broach this but ... did Jesus commit suicide and if so is the Messiah in hell? Just throwing it out there

I know this is a little redundant seeing as I'm sure you have all seen this already, but ... the Clone Wars Cartoon - animated it seems by that dude who animates Samurai Jack has just started screening here in New Zealand ... and it KICKS ARSE.

Why oh why weren't any of the PT movies one tenth as exciting as this small screen cartoon?????

I felt as excited as I did watching the OT as a little boy - now a 26 year old man ... well man/boy - and am once again depressed that the PT movies were so shite.

Boo hoo, except hooray for this great cartoon which reasserts how good the SW's mythology can be when GLucas keeps his nose away from things

[SIZE=14][SIZE=1]I wrote and edited this while on Mescaline. Now ... not terrible sure whether it ties together they way my mesc induced vision promised.
Sweet Jesus. Instead of reading and rereading I figure it's easier to get others to comment.
It's called laziness people
Ta


[SIZE=14]STU





There is little left to do, as he wipes the blood from his hands and makes way to the sink. He sees limbs and he sees flesh, hair and nail and yet nothing to piece together. He wretches as he cowers in the corner, a dry heave, head in hands. Eyes wide open, hands drop to reveal ... it is over now and it should never have begun ...

For Stewart Hope Tuesday mornings were always the beginning of the working week. Mondays were for suckers he liked to say, why begin with the pack, best to follow, grab the draft and kick down the straight. For Stuart Hope Tuesday mornings were always mundane, but for Stuart Hope Tuesday morning would forever carry connotations of today.
Stewart Hope, twenty six, young for most but old for Stu. Life at pace was without apparent toll and this seemed a slap in the face at best.
“He possesses heart who sees the abyss but sees it with pride.” Each letter had stung, each word brought forth near tear as it was torn into flesh, this quote, this favoured quote imprinted on the underside of left wrist. With a twist and a glance he could be transported back into the abyss, back into the darkness from which even a spark seemed magnificent. And it was with this countenance that Stewart began each day, it was with this air that a smirk and a wink were his constant companion.
Nothing mattered, and that needn't bother. And then she came along.

Each Monday Stewart would abandon his errands and sit in McKinley Park as passersby eyed him, some to sit and challenge and some simply to pass. There were the regulars of course, Mr Paulson - who would contemplate each move with the concentration of a surgeon's first incision - Jimmy Slade - quick quick and quicker were his tactics - and little Emma Sue - nine, always checking with her nanny as to the correct move, a gentle nod or nose twitch no, always he would struggle to play two minds to one. The strangers were the most enjoyable however, he felt it kept him on his toes to face irregular opposition, to think less and act more - thoughts are the shadows of our sensations.
And so each Monday morning strangers would sit and smile with a drug dealer. And each Monday night he would return home a little wiser and rest for tomorrow, Tuesday the beginning of the working week.
Each Monday morning but that Monday morning. That Monday morning the final challenge came, swaying down the cobblestone pathway.
“Fuck me those look like tits”
Stewart looked up from a worn copy of the Gingerbread Man to see a smile accompanying this verbal jab.
“Those two there” she pointed at the bishops “tits if ever I saw them”
“Well ... they're bishops, so I suppose you're not entirely mistaken.”
Before he could offer a seat she sat and began to rearrange the pieces, she had decided to play fair after all.
“White moves first, but seeing as I'm the visitor I feel it's only fair if I proceed … hmmm” as she said this her tongue escaped for a moment, a quick lick of her lips, he was hers.
They played three games that afternoon and each time he won despite himself. She could care less it seemed, but to win too easy felt to come too quickly, it was the tussle he enjoyed most.
She called herself Samantha, incessantly it turned out, a fan of the third person although on her it seemed for the best. She seemed to view herself from a distance, a fan of the measured performance. He would discover that to read Samantha was a grave error, but that would never distract from the intent.

It was three months into the affair when Samantha dropped the hammer. Mid stroke she had whispered a name, Stu had withdrawn and found himself kneeling on the far corner of the mattress.
“Who ... who the fuck is Davison?”
Nothing. Not a reply nor the effort to supply one. Sam simply curled into repose, a kittens purr as she stroked the pillow and breathed the heavy breath that always drew him back. But not today ... who the fuck was Davison, and who the fuck was she to create a threesome this afternoon?

Ten days went by without word from either. He would leave each morning and return each evening to find her curled on the bed, a wry smile her only greeting a sullen glare his only reply.
Tuesday did not pass without incident however. She appeared as always, sat and proceeded to win three out of five. He thought he spied a tear as she turned goodbye but with Samantha it were difficult to tell, her eyes always seemed on the verge of great emotion, for good or ill.
On the eleventh day a revelation, but with such candor as to appear little more than passing remark.
“First time” she whispered into his ear as he drifted to sleep. “First time, although I doubt it counts …”
A tremble now, no surprise now to turn and see moist cheeks and red eyes. She refused to say more that evening but before night was day he knew what he had to do.

He would hide and wait and strike. In and out, perhaps a little meander for vengeance sake.
Tuesday it were to be.

As drizzle hangs in the air he rubs his nose with his knuckles, a piss poor habit the remainder of a past he does best to forget. He corrects himself, removes a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently blows. The gel in his hair begins to run, drips down the nape of his neck and it takes all his courage to fight the urge, but here she comes.
“He'll be alone Stu,” at one time only his Mother called him Stu “he'll be all alone. You ever felt bone break Stu? Stuuuuuey .... you ever felt the squeeze as skin gives way to flesh?”
The handkerchief rises again, this time to top lip.
Samantha smiles.
“See you sweetie. Remember ... it's all or nothing”

A door clicks and all is sprung. A soft thud to the back of the head and he falls with the drawn out meander of the twelfth round loser. Stewart is on top … now aghast in a corner.
There is little left to do.
Slashing and slicing at rolled up sleeves, crimson takes over now and he sits then lies as breath hangs then drifts aside. A squeak of pulse and then final thought “A perfect woman tears you to pieces … a perfect woman tears you to pieces when she loves you.
For Stewart Hope Tuesday mornings were never a beginning.

So let's take it for granted that Shakespeare was little more than a frontman for a cadre of others. Who were they, why were they and most importantly of all, does this lessen the value of the work?