American Psycho Page #3

PRICE:

Oh, who knows? They don't know that. Prove it.

Price and Bateman finally get a stall and rush in. Price is

sweating.

PRICE:

I'm shaking. You open it.

Bateman opens a tiny packet of coke.

PRICE:

Jeez. That's not a helluva lot, is it?

BATEMAN:

Maybe it's just the light.

PRICE:

Is he f***ing selling it by the milligram? (He dips

the corner of his Amex card in the packet and takes a snort)

Oh my God...

BATEMAN:

What?

PRICE:

It's a f***ing milligram of Sweet'n Low!

Bateman dips his Amex in the envelope and snorts.

BATEMAN:

It's definitely weak but I have a feeling if we do

enough of it we'll be okay.

PRICE:

I want to get high off this; Bateman, not sprinkle it

on my f***ing All-Bran.

The GUY IN STALL next door yells at them in an effeminate

voice:

GUY IN STALL:

Could you keep it down, I'm trying to do drugs!

Price pounds his fist against the stall.

PRICE:

(screaming)

SHUT UP!

BATEMAN:

Calm down. Let's do it anyway

PRICE:

I guess you're right...

(Raising his voice)

THAT IS, IF THE F*GGOT IN THE NEXT STALL THINKS IT'S OKAY!

GUY IN STALL:

F*** you!

PRICE:

(Trying to climb up against the aluminum divider)

No, F*** YOU!!

(He collapses, panting against the stall door)

Sorry, dude. Steroids...Okay, let's do it.

BATEMAN:

That's the spirit.

They both dig their platinum Amex cards into the envelope

of white powder, shoveling it up their noses, then sticking

their fingers in to catch the residue and rubbing it into

their gums.

INT. NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT

Bateman saunters toward the bar as "Pump Up the Volume"

plays in the background.

BATEMAN (to BARGIRL) Two Stoli on the rocks.

He hands her two drink tickets.

BARGIRL:

It's after eleven. Those aren't good anymore. It's

a cash bar. That'll be twenty-five dollars.

Bateman pulls out an expensive-looking wallet and hands her

a $50.

She turns her back and searches the cash register for

change.

BATEMAN You are a f***ing ugly b*tch I want to stab to

death and then play around with your blood.

The music muffles his voice. She turns around. He is

smiling at her. She gives him his change impassively.

INT. BATEMAN'S APARTMENT- MORNING

Tableaux of Bateman's apartment in the early morning light.

A huge white living room with floor-to-ceiling windows

looking out over Manhattan, decorated in expensive, minimalist

high style:
bleached oak floors, a huge white sofa, a large

Baselitz painting (hung upside down) and much expensive

electronic equipment. The room is impeccably neat, and oddly

impersonal - as if it had sprung straight from the pages of

a design magazine.

BATEMAN (V.0.)

My name is Patrick Bateman. I am

twenty-six years old. I live in the American Garden

Buildings on West Eighty-First Street, on the eleventh

floor Tom Cruise lives in the penthouse.

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