#goodman brand

[gilligould]

scene of all time,

#society’s general annoyance with saul goodman is my favorite brand of comedy #brba #brba 3 #video #100

[brookheimer]

this AI is the only one who understands my vision.

#better call saul x mob psycho crossover episode WHEN #i firmly believe that if mob walked into jimmy’s office and asked him to be his mentor like he did reigen then jimmy would not break bad #jimmy is reigen if he never met mob. reigen is jimmy if he had met mob #where is my mob walks into young jimmy’s office au. where is it #ah reigen and jimmy types i love u.. my Brand of characters… #better call saul #mob psycho #jimmy mcgill #reigen arataka #saul goodman

[spockvarietyhour]

#BCS #Better Call Saul #Off Brand #Saul Goodman #Jimmy McGill #Saul Goodman Productions #Danny watches BCS

[reallyundistinguishedbitch]

Do you guys think Saul quit smoking cold turkey after Kim left or...???

#i mean he probably just took a shit ton of pills #but you have to know whatever brand of cigarettes kim loved he could place someone smoking them a mile away #saul goodman #kim wexler #brbabcs #do we ever see him smoking as saul?? #i cant remember #jimmy mcgill

[skeilig]

If I see one more post listing all of Tom Schnauz's previous brba/bcs writing credits and saying "expect something crazy tomorrow!" I'm gonna lose it for real I'm already as insane as humanly possible

#like... one minute say my name wexler v goodman bad choice road... #am i joke to you #ok i do recognize the irony in me making the exact brand of post i'm complaining about jghsfjs

[perfettamentechic]

Proenza Schouler

Il guardaroba per la donna intelligente: Proenza Schouler #proenzaschouler #fashion #moda #storiadellamoda #creatoredistile #creatoredimoda #jackmccollough #lazarohernandez #hautecouture #pretaporter #perfettamentechic

Proenza Schouler è un marchio di abbigliamento e accessori donna con sede a New York fondato nel 2002 dai designer Jack McCollough e Lazaro Hernandez. Siamo interessati a progettare un guardaroba completo e contemporaneo per la donna intelligente, adulta e urbana di oggi. – Jack McCollough + Lazaro Hernandez Il duo si è incontrato durante gli studi alla Parsons School of Design, nel 1998,…

View On WordPress

#3-D cub #Act da fool #Amy Adams #Andrew Rosen #Anna Wintour #Arizona by Proenza Schouler #athleisure collection #Barneys #Barneys New York #basic capsule #Bergdorf Goodman #Birkenstock #Boutique #brand #capsule collection #Castanea Partners #CEO #CFDA #chiffon dress #Corsetti #Council of fashion designers of America #Couture week #Creative Director #Creatore della moda #Creatore di stile #cruise line #cult #cult clothing #designer #direttore creativo

[kicenaveden]

ated structure for the nod box. Bacteriol. 173: 3356-3365. Wanner, and P. Grau. 1989.

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View and Download Goodmans NOD user manual online. DAB & FM Clock Radio. NOD clock radio pdf manual download.

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[fredfilmsblog]

VH-1: Video Hits One 1989

Best of Original Cartoons

Fred/Alan, Inc. New York 

VH1 has struggled for years for an identity, and even more, for a successful programming format. Fred/Alan worked with them from their launch in 1985, through at least three or four failed iterations until Alan and I closed the company in 1992.

The one purely hand drawn, 2D animation we did forT them was in 1989. Fred/Alan creative director Bill Burnett had a fantastic idea. The target audience was baby boomers (like Bill, Fred and Alan were) and one of the baby boom media icons was the satire and humor publication MAD Magazine. Bill engaged their classic comic illustrator Don Martin to storyboard a VH1 commercial to a score that included the last chord of The Beatles' masterpiece "A Day in the Life."

Did it work? Creatively, that's a big "yes." Ratings? Not so much. And so it goes.

VH1 television commercial  1989

Executive creative directors: Alan Goodman & Fred Seibert Writer/Creative director: Bill Burnett Fred/Alan Producer: Tom Pomposello Production company: The Ink Tank The Ink Tank Executive Producer: JJ Sedelmaier Director: Tony Eastman 

.....

Pages 256 & 257 “The Best of Original Cartoons-Produced by Fred Seibert” #7 The FredFilms Professional Library (Amazon)

#Best of Original Cartoons #VH1 #1989 #Alan Goodman #Bill Burnett #jj sedelmaier #RO Blechman #branding #advertising

[crowley1990]

I dreamt there was a Better Call Saul musical in the world of BCS. Also dreamt that I killed someone and needed help from my good friend Jimmy.

#like I killed someone in the morning #and then went and saw the brand new musical the Saul goodman story #and then caught up with Jimmy after the show like wow the musical was so good I loved it also I killed someobe I need your help #jb

[theboarsbride]

Maul Goodman, Attorney at Claw⚖️📜

Heehee Bob Odenkirk werewolf because I wanna be silly and on-brand, and y’all are gonna suffer because of it heehehehehe

#WIP : those red nights #werewolf #bcs #better call saul #saul goodman #bob odenkirk #werewolf oc #werewolf art #werewolf lover #werewolf fucker #monster lover #monster oc #monster fudger #monster fucker

[girlsdressingrooms]

Iris Barrel Apfel, Decorator and Fashion Stylist

(August 29, 1921 – March 1, 2024) 

Ms. Apfel was one of the most vivacious personalities in the worlds of fashion, textiles, and interior design, she has cultivated a personal style that is both witty and exuberantly idiosyncratic.

Her originality was typically revealed in her mixing of high and low fashions—Dior haute couture with flea market finds, nineteenth-century ecclesiastical vestments with Dolce & Gabbana lizard trousers.

With remarkable panache and discernment, she combines colors, textures, and patterns without regard to period, provenance, and, ultimately, aesthetic conventions. Paradoxically, her richly layered combinations—even at their most extreme and baroque—project a boldly graphic modernity.

Iris Barrel was born on Aug. 29, 1921, in Astoria, Queens, the only child of Samuel Barrel, who owned a glass and mirror business, and his Russian-born wife, Sadye, who owned a fashion boutique.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women's Wear Daily, and for interior designer Elinor Johnson, decorating apartments for resale and honing her talent for sourcing rare items before opening her own design firm. She was also an assistant to illustrator Robert Goodman.

As a distinguished collector and authority on antique fabrics, Iris Apfel has consulted on numerous restoration projects that include work at the White House that spanned nine presidencies from Harry Truman to Bill Clinton.

Along with her husband, Carl, she founded Old World Weavers, an international textile manufacturing company and ran it until they retired in 1992. The Apfels specialized in the reproduction of fabrics from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, and traveled to Europe twice a year in search of textiles they could not source in the United States.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute assembled 82 ensembles and 300 accessories from her personal collection in 2005 in a show about her called “Rara Avis”.

Almost overnight, Ms. Apfel became an international celebrity of pop fashion.

Ms. Apfel was seen in a television commercial for the French car DS 3, became the face of the Australian fashion brand Blue Illusion, and began a collaboration with the start-up WiseWear. A year later, Mattel created a one-of-a-kind Barbie doll in her image. Last year, she appeared in a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London.

Six years after the Met show she started her fashion line "Rara Avis" with the Home Shopping Network.

She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant, then signed to IMG in 2019 as a model at age 97.

Ms. Iris Apfel became a visiting professor at the University of Texas at Austin in its Division of Textiles and Apparel, teaching about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

 In 2018, she published “Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon,” an autobiographical collection of musings, anecdotes and observations on life and style. 

Ms. Apfel’s apartments in New York and Palm Beach were full of furnishings and tchotchkes that might have come from a Luis Buñuel film: porcelain cats, plush toys, statuary, ornate vases, gilt mirrors, fake fruit, stuffed parrots, paintings by Velázquez and Jean-Baptiste Greuze, a mannequin on an ostrich.

The Museum of Lifestyle & Fashion History in Boynton Beach, Florida, is designing a building that will house a dedicated gallery of Ms. Apfel's clothes, accessories, and furnishings.

Ms. Apfel’s work had a universal quality, It’s was a trend.

Rest in Power !

#art #design #fashion #icon #rip #iris apfel #luxury lifestyle #rip riris apfel #style icon #iconic #trend #rare avis #women's fashion #walking closet #muse #themet #style #history #renaissance #baroque #greta garbo #dior #chanel #montana #fendi #jewellery #high fashion #fantasy #women history month

[asgardianangel]

can we get a oneshot where you have a one-night stand with Sleazy Saul and accidentally end up pregnant and tell him, only for him to be over the moon and wanting you to be his stay at home trophy wife, all according to his plan of “accidentally” knocking you up

I’m on my period and thirsty for Sleazy Saul 😭

A beautiful thing (Saul Goodman X Fem!Reader)

Warnings: 18+ Smut, Saul being sleazy, age gap, naive reader, rough sex, breeding kink, forced pregnancy

It was a rainy night in Alburquerque, and the bell of the pharmacy door jingled. Tireless you stepped inside and searched aisle after aisle finally you came across what you were looking for...pregnancy tests. 

Signs were small at first nausea and feeling fatigue but then you missed your period. You just had to make sure. Picking up multiple tests even different brands you walked up to the counter. 

Back at your apartment you found yourself in the bathroom waiting for the results. It felt like an hour had past and you felt more anxious by the second. Then the result became clear. 

Positive. 

You decided to take another and then another test. All came back with the same result. You were pregnant. Having a baby was something you expected in life but not now, you weren’t financially stable enough to raise a child. Barely getting by with the bills. 

But then you realised something else. Who you had slept with to get yourself in this situation.  

Saul Goodman. The big-time criminal lawyer. 

- 

You thoughted back to that night as you worked your desk job in court filing paperwork for upcoming trials and whatnot. There you met him. Saul was famously known to be ‘sleazy’ but that didn’t stop you from blushing at each comment he made towards you. 

 The older man you secretly loved getting the attention from. He was so desperate to get you out the professional secretary space. 

‘C’mon doll let’s go out for dinner I know the perfect place’ 

Giving you gifts of flowers and small adorable stuffed animals to place on your desk. You found the gestures to be sweet. 

‘Please just one little drink together’ he begged leaning over your desk like a schoolgirl with a crush. Never has a man been so desperate. 

Until one late afternoon you gave in, and his blue eyes beamed like a puppy dog. He invited you out to a quiet dim lit bar with the promise of buying you ‘as many drinks as possible’ Saul was a charmer who showed interest in every detail about your life with his eyes occasional wondering your body. 

He made sure to compliment you throughout the night and it progressed into more lustful pace. Saul bit his lip as you reacted with a blush and a little look away. 

‘What? Has no one ever told you how absolutely beautiful your body is?’ he questioned causing you to laugh.  

‘You are the most stunning woman I’ve ever met, and God damn that ass kills me every time I see it’ you listened to him going on and on about your ass all night.  

The thought of having a little fling with the one and only Saul Goodman excited you. Yet the idea was little off putting at first considering if your co-workers found out you would probably be slut shamed for going with the sleaziest lawyer around.  

But at the end of the night, you didn’t care. You needed to let loose every once and while. 

Pulling Saul by his green patterned tie as you lead him inside your cosy little apartment was how it started. Hands roaming around your body you stared at him with utter desire unbuttoning his shirt slowly. 

Saul whispered sweet nothings into your ear as he left vibrant love bites on your neck. His touches were soft as if he was taking his time kissing everywhere on your body as he stripped you bare.  

Only when you finally made it to your bedroom his desperate and eager manner ramped up again. He pushed you to your bed causing you to gasp in surprise as he climbed up on top of you. His cock was so hard already as he kissed and licked your tits. ‘Can’t believe I can finally see what these babies looked like’ he groaned playing with them. 

The mixture of the alcohol and pure passion caused you to beg him like a slut. Moaning his name over and over as he now played between your legs. Making sure you were ready for him. Delving his long fingers inside you as his tongue followed along. Legs quivered he was so close to making you cum but suddenly stopped when you almost reached that sweet climax. 

 You whined and he chuckled pecking kisses on your thighs. ‘P-please Saul I need t-’ you tried to say but was cut off by a harsh slap to your behind. 

‘You made me wait so long baby I wanted you the day that I saw you’ the older man muttered in your ear with slight annoyance. You gave him a kiss of forgiveness to which he grabs your chin by force and makes you take his tongue  

‘So, you are gonna cum when I say so sweet face’ he told you kissing you some more. His hand moved up and down on his thick cock as you watched in a trance. Fuck... you wanted him inside you so bad. 

‘Ass up sweetheart’ he ordered as if your pray was answered. You sighed as you throbbed at just the tone of his command turning onto your tummy and lifting yourself up in presentation. Saul hummed at the act smoothing his hand along your ass. 

‘I-I almost forgot to ask do you have any protection?’ you questioned quietly. You were on the pill but liked to be extra safe.  

‘No’ he simply responded wrapping his arm around your waist prepping kisses on your back. ‘Well, I guess you could p-’ he stopped you there with an annoyed hush sound. 

‘Oh, sweetheart I can cum in you if I want’ he whispered in a chuckle. ‘Aren’t you not on the pill?’ he then asked.  

‘Yes-ah!’ he cut you off again this time slamming into you causing you to gasp and moan. Saul’s arm wrapped tighter around you as he slammed into you again with a groan. 

‘Oh, doll you belong to me uh’ he tells you with another groan into your ear. His thick cock dived so deep inside you that you could only whimper at his words. Saul picked up a fast pace, but his thrusts were deep into you as he kept you in your place. 

Your small bed was jolting hard against the wall with his eager movements. As words of possessiveness and moans bounced off the walls.  

You cried out his name as his strong arm kept you falling onto the roughed-up sheets with your face. You had never had such a good fuck before you were kind of worried you become addicted to him. 

His thick cock stretched you so well kissing those sweet spots as Saul occasionally whimpered. 

You could hear him groan quietly something to himself but couldn’t exactly work out what it was. 

 His cock was throbbing hard within you ‘such a good girl hm’ Saul then chanted over and over as you felt the both of you becoming close to that climax. 

‘Beg me to cum inside you doll let’s make something beautiful’ he ordered but you didn’t quite think about what he meant by that. All that matter is that orgasm you have long waited for. 

‘Please c-cum in me please ah!’ you cried as his long fingers rubbed on your poor clit along with his harsh thrusts. 

‘that’s its baby cum with me c’mon y-you can do it’ he encouraged with a deep groan. He didn’t need to tell you twice as your entire body shook and you squeezed his cock so intensely. His thick load shot inside you coating your insides as you sighed in relief. 

He stayed inside you holding your body close to his resting his head on your back. You thought he would get off you and the night would end...but no 

Saul was insatiable he had you again and again in many positions like the man was possessed. 

And you now ended up pregnant. 

Sighing you held your head not sure what to do you were going have to confront him and figure out what you were going to do. Yes, you wanted a precious little baby, but you imagined having one in a stable healthy relationship not by a one-night stand with a big-time criminal lawyer. You couldn’t imagine him stepping up to become a father.  

There it was his office you parked in front of it deep in thought. How was he going to react? Would he send you straight to the unplanned clinic? Saul was a reasonable man you were sure at least he would do is have an in-depth discussion about it. 

Stepping inside the building you instantly noticed how busy it was. You should have called beforehand. Maybe you were too nervous to do so. A dark-haired woman looked up from her paperwork to see you awkwardly standing there. “Can I help you?” she asked. 

“I’m here to see M-Mr Goodman” you stuttered slightly. Nerves started to play. 

The woman huffed “Well your gonna be here for a while” Gesturing to all the clients with her pen. 

Nodding “It’s fine I’ll wait” you mumbled leaning against the wall.  

It felt as if hours as passed by when you finally heard his voice. 

“Who’s next for some excellent legal advice?” He asked his blue eyes scanning the waiting room. Then they fell upon you. 

“Ah Y/N look time no see” he beamed, and you smiled at him. God this is going to be one hell of a talk. Saul gestured you into his office and shut the door.  

Silence followed for a moment until he clapped his hand “So?” he started pulling out a chair “what can I do for you?” he questioned softly as you took a seat. 

You took a deep breath and started talking “well just to be clear I’m here on personally matters” you state quietly.  

Saul hums in a chuckle “Oh back for round two huh?” A part of you wishes heavily for that was the case. This man is always so horny. 

“There’s no simple way to put it-” Saul cuts your words. “Sweetheart you can tell me anything” he assures you getting up from his chair and walking behind you. 

You sigh softly as he begins to massage your shoulders in comfort. “c’mon tell me” He encourages. 

“I’m pregnant”  

Those two words left your mouth and Saul’s eyes grew wide. You weren’t exactly sure how what to make of it “Really?” he asked in a weirdly excited tone. 

You nod your head in confirmation, and he made a desperate move to give you a long kiss to the lips. The older man steps back and you gave him a confused look. 

“You are not unhappy or shocked at the news?” You questioned lightly and he just chuckles. 

“Quite the opposite extremely happy and surprised” he tells you with another kiss.  

“Stand up” Saul grabs your hand helping you up to your feet. He then places both hands to your body almost like he’s checking you out for approval. 

“Oh, baby you are gonna look even more stunning” he muses his hands feeling your body and then rests upon your tummy. Like you were already showing. 

“Gonna be such a beautiful mama” Saul’s hand reaches under your shirt on your bare skin. “I’m just imagining it now you all big and swollen with such a precious thing we created” Saul was over the moon. 

You just stood there confused of his reaction as he whispered to himself. 

“Can’t believe I’m going to be a papa” 

“I wonder what we are going to name you” 

“You are going to have an amazing life kid with a mama and papa who love you” 

All the words and phrases you never actually believed you would hear from a man like him.  

“Stay with me doll I will take care of the both of you” Saul promised softly. You didn’t know how to respond to that.  

A wild one-night stand (and probably the best sex you ever had) and all the sudden the famous criminal lawyer wants to be a family man. 

“I know how it is but trust me all I’ve ever wanted the most was a family.” he tells you. Stepping back, you give yourself some space. 

Saul reaches for his phone income button “Cancel and reschedule my appointments for the next hour Francisca” he excitedly ordered. 

Saul stares over at you with a grin and the look in his deep blue eyes you recognised from that night. Walking over to you again he strokes your hair “I think my future wife and I are in some desperate need of alone time” his voice deepens seductively.  

He didn’t give you a chance to speak as his head was suddenly between your trembling thighs again. 

From then on Saul made in clear how your life was going to head. Plans of marriage parenthood and ultimately being his beloved housewife. You expressed concern how fast it was all going but he never took ‘no’ for an answer. 

The sex was still amazing as ever, but it never distracted you on how much he controlled your life. The man was insatiable as ever having you in every position possible. Saul was never tired from working in fact he was desperate to see you in his bed. His perfect and pretty little housewife carrying his child.  

“Everything has to be right sweet face” he would tell you. 

But you would never find out the truth.  

A pharmacist named Daniel Wormald (aka peach cobbler) repaid Saul for his legal advice by completing a rather important request for him. 

Switching your birth control with placebos...  

#better call saul fanfic #saul goodman x reader #smut #jimmy mcgill x reader

[slamminslamminmcgill]

can i request nsfw saul goodman x gender neutral reader? I’m thinking the reader is his assistant or something like that. It can be a story or headcanons it’s up to you. Thanks! ❤️

gonna do hcs bc i wanted to make sure to get this done for u 😘

you could have the most impeccable resume in the world or you could have "pwease hire me 🥺" scribbled in crayon on a mcdonald's napkin. if saul thinks you're hot, you're hired.

yes, he's going to try to make moves. yes, they're going to be cringe.

in true slippin' jimmy fashion i see him having a lot of "accidents" on the job to try to get what he wants

"oh noooo im so sorry i spilled coffee all over your brand new shirt! clumsy me :(" *ogles your chest all day*

*bumps into you while he's carrying a comically large stack of papers* "aw man! help me pick these up, will ya? gotta make sure we get these in order." *"accidentally" brushes your ass while reaching behind you*

call him a pervert/dirty old man after he tries something. he's into it.

i can see this becoming a fun dynamic where you'd tease back >:3c wearing VERY risqué outfits to work and always making sure to have one extra button undone, swaying your hips a little extra as you walk. "oopsie i dropped my pen! lemme just stick my entire ass in your face bend over and pick it up 😏"

one day you come in wearing a particularly slutty outfit and sit on his desk to discuss a case. he'd be staring up at your exposed skin for long enough that eventually he'd get fed up with the formalities and shoot you straight.

"look, kid, let's cut the bullshit. are we doing this or not?"

"doing what, mr. goodman? i have nooo idea what you're talking about."

"come on, yes you do," he'd stand up from his desk and put his hands on your hips, "walking in here dressed like that, climbing on my desk and practically giving me a lap dance? that's what we call 'leading the witness', sweetheart."

and then y'all would fuck nasty in his office during breaks 😌

he loves doing it on/at his desk. his absolute favorite is when you're bent over the top of it and he's taking you from behind.

definitely an exhibitionist. his office is soundproof but i bet he'd love to flirt with the idea of getting caught. ESPECIALLY if you're being a brat.

"oh, you wanna act up right now? maybe i should just turn on the intercom and let the good people of albuquerque hear what a whore you really are."

he will ABSOLUTELY tease you under the desk in front of clients because he likes seeing you squirm.

he's either really lovey dovey with aftercare (cuddling, smooching your face, petting your hair, telling you how good you were) or he's immediately back in business mode.

you'd be slumped over drooling on his desk with his cum leaking out of you and he just taps you on the shoulder. "hey, space cadet, when you get back down from orbit, you think you can put your pants back on? we got a line of people waiting outside."

#(saul after tearing your hole apart) get back to work mr. squidward #saul goodman x reader #saul goodman smut #saul goodman imagine #saul goodman headcanons #jimmy mcgill x reader #jimmy mcgill smut #jimmy mcgill imagine #jimmy mcgill headcanons #brba #bcs #breaking bad #better call saul #breaking bad x reader #breaking bad smut #breaking bad imagine #breaking bad headcanons #better call saul x reader #better call saul smut #better call saul imagine #better call saul headcanons #paigerzz #ask

[stylesnews]

FLORENCE, Italy – As Steven Stokey-Daley’s fall show in Florence during Pitti Uomo wrapped, the British designer, the 2022 recipient of the LVMH Prize for Young Designers, revealed longtime fan Harry Styles is acquiring a minority stake in the company.

Financial terms of the deal were not disclosed.

“Harry and I have a shared vision for the future of S.S. Daley and we look forward to this new chapter together as we focus on brand longevity and scaling the business into a modern British heritage house,” the designer, 26, said.

The pair was introduced by Styles’ stylist Harry Lambert, who masterminded the wardrobe for the artist’s “Golden” music video, outfitting him in Stokey-Daley’s graduate collection.

The investment is geared at building S.S. Daley’s direct-to-consumer business and forge ahead with plans for a “sustainable and long-term expansion,” the company said in a statement.

After graduating from the University of Westminster, Stokey-Daley made his London Fashion Week debut in September 2021 supported by the National Youth Theatre artistic director Paul Roseby, staging a four-part performance by members of the theater, riffing on British tailoring and tackling such topics as social class, inequality, school life, sexual awakening and homosexuality.

That same year, the S.S. Daley designer was among the recipients of the British Fashion Council’s Newgen initiative and was awarded again by the British fashion governing body the following year, with the BFC Foundation Awards.

The designer’s gender-fluid take on the uniforms of the British upper classes, such as wide-leg trousers, argyle-knit wool vests and embroidered shirts, appeals to a Gen-Z sensibility, and a growing female customer base. The brand is currently stocked in a handful of retailers, including Saks Fifth Avenue, Dover Street Market, Matchesfashion, Bergdorf Goodman, 10 Corso Como Seoul and I.T Store.

Attending the S.S. Daley show in Florence, Sir Paul Smith praised Stokey-Daley and said: “I think that the ideal thing [for him] would be to try and work in parallel with a commercial company that help him develop as a commercial designer, as well as creative designer. And of course, that’s what everybody dreams of. He has the balance between commerciality and creativity.”

“I think [his designs] might have had similarities in my earlier [career]… We are in 60-something countries now. So you have to be a lot more aware of commerciality and things that work for the shops especially right now because the business and around the world is so difficult for people,” Smith added.

Styles’ investment falls in line with a growing number of celebrities becoming brand shareholders. They include, among others, Oprah Winfrey and Reese Witherspoon who invested in Spanx; Priyanka Chopra and Nick Jonas in skiwear maker Perfect Moment; Beyoncé, Jessica Alba and Rihanna in French accessories firm Destree; Mila Kunis, Cameron Diaz and Gabrielle Union in Autumn Adeigbo, and Mark Wahlberg in Italian sneaker brand P448.

#harry styles #jan24 #ssdaley

[fatehbaz]

In the 19th century, British colonists faced several challenges in India, [...] [including] malaria. [...] The imperialists needed an answer to the problem and they found it in quinine. [...] [T]he British promptly embraced quinine, consuming tonnes of it every year by the mid-1800s. [...] Quinine was so bitter that soldiers and officials began mixing the powder with soda and sugar, unwittingly giving birth to “tonic water”. [...] [I]t prompted Winston Churchill to once proclaim, “The gin and tonic has saved more Englishmen’s lives, and minds, than all the doctors in the Empire.” [...] If by some good fortune malaria did not claim them, plague, cholera, dysentery, enteric fever, hepatitis or the unforgiving sun could. Preserving and protecting the body was [...] crucial to the success of the colonial project. As historian EM Collingham aptly summarised in her study, “The British experience of India was intensely physical.”

One way the colonists tried to deal with this challenge was through food and drinks. “The association between food and the maintenance of health was a concern of Anglo-Indian doctors, dieticians and the British authorities throughout the duration of colonial rule [...],” writes Sam Goodman in Unpalatable Truths: Food and Drink as Medicine in Colonial British India. [...]

---

The Medical Gazette, for instance, recommended treating dysentery with a “low diet” comprising thin chicken soup [...]. Botanist-physician George Watt too extolled the virtues of sago. In A Dictionary of the Economic Products of India (1893), he wrote that sago is “easily digestible and wholly destitute of irritating properties” and in demand [...]. For fever, weakness and sundry ailments, beef tea [...] was considered an ideal remedy. And for cholera, The Seamen’s New Medical Guide (1842) prescribed brandy during the worst of the sickness and half a tumbler of mulled wine with toasted bread and castor oil [...]. Ship masters and pantrymen would stock their vessels with foods with known medicinal benefits such as sago, arrowroot, lime juice, desiccated milk and condensed milk (the iconic Anglo Swiss Condensed Milk tins, later known as Milkmaid, enjoyed a permanent spot on British ships).

---

Businessmen too recognised the precarity of life abroad and realised that therein lay a perfect commercial opportunity. By the 19th century, numerous companies had cropped up across Europe, including in England, that would sell food in hermetically sealed tin containers.

One of these was Messrs Brand & Co. Recommended highly in Culinary Jottings for Madras by Colonel Robert Kenney-Herbert, Messrs Brand & Co had several offerings [...]: essence of beef, concentrated beef tea, beef tea jelly, meat lozenges, [...] potted meat, York and game pie, and A1 sauce [...]. Another company, John Moir & Sons, focused mostly on canned soups [...], selling oxtail, turtle, giblet and hare.

---

By the late 19th century such was the popularity of canned foods that rare would be the pantry in a colonial home that didn’t store them along with medical provisions like opium, quinine, chlorodyne and Fowler’s solution (an arsenic compound). [...] As Flora Steele and Grace Gardiner wrote in The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook, “A good mistress will remember the breadwinner requires blood-forming nourishment, and the children whose constitutions are being built up day by day, sickly or healthy, according to the food given them; and bear in mind the fact that in India, especially, half the comfort of life depends on clean, wholesome, digestible food.”

To assist the British woman in this ostensible duty, there were a number of cookbooks and housekeeping manuals [...]. The Englishwoman in India, for instance, published in 1864 under the pseudonym A Lady Resident, had a whole section with recipes for “infants and invalids”. These included carrot pap cooked into a congee with arrowroot [...] and toast water (well-toasted bread soaked in water). Steele and Gardiner too had a few recipe recommendations [...], including champagne jelly (“most useful in excessive vomiting”) and the dangerous-sounding Cannibal Broth (beef essence), which they said should be consumed with cream [...] to treat extreme debility and typhoid. [...]

---

One dish born of this encounter was the pish pash. The pish pash is considered an invention of the colonial cook, who adapted the kedgeree – the colonial cousin of khichdi – into a light nursery food. The famous Hobson-Jobson defined it as “a slop of rice soup with small pieces of meat” [...]. None other than Warren Hastings, the first governor-general of Bengal, gave confirmation of its efficacy when in 1784 he wrote to his wife from the sick bed [...]. There are enough records to show that the imperialists counted marh (starch water from cooked rice) and bael (wood apple) sherbet among their go-to remedies and benefited from the medicinal qualities of chiretta water and ajwain-infused water.

---

Text by: Priyadarshini Chatterjee. “How food came to the rescue of the British in India.” Scroll.in (Magazine format). 26 April 2023. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[maraschino-girl]

pachinko 🎰 { part 1 }

✐ Yoshikage Kira makes a gamble when New York City becomes his new hunting ground, and he soon realizes the prize he's heading toward isn't the one he bargained for. Yoshikage Kira / Patrick Bateman

moriohpsycho AU

~6k words

multi-chapter, 80's-90's era

blood and gore, homophobia, drug use, explicit content

warning ‼️ two depraved serial killers being themselves

✦ NOTES : i have no words... except idk how this happened LMFAO ♡✮☁️✧˖ AO3 °⋆💿。°✩

My name is Yoshikage Kira. First name is Yoshikage. Last name is Kira. I’m partially named after my father, and I was considered his pride and joy. 

I’m 33-years-old, not married, and I used to live in the villas of Morioh. I had worked in Kame-yu Department regional management office. It was menial work but I enjoyed it. It was repetitive, it was a routine, it was predictable. I lived a quiet, humble life. My favorite movie is The Remains of the Day, and my favorite designer brands include Valentino and Gianfranco Ferré. 

I no longer reside in Japan due to an incident, one I prefer to not discuss at this moment, but this little incident forced me to flee my town and take refuge somewhere where those ants can’t find me. They can’t find me anyhow, all thanks to my Bites the Dust, though despite this, I’m cashing in my insurance just in case.

If I had to pick any city in the world, I wouldn’t say New York City was my first choice; it’s an overwhelming, bustling metropolis with eyes everywhere, both robotic and human, and from what I’ve heard, riddled with crime and filth. But, I’ve soon learned that it’s easy to be alone in a crowd, and there’s nothing wrong with ‘competition’, petty criminals who can take all those mechanical eyes off of me. They want to be seen, they want to be noticed and even hailed for their art. I do not. I have no need for it. 

What I do need though is a way to perfectly mesh with this new crowd of mine, and this group of… what do you call them? Yuppies, preppies? Or, Ivy League brats if you’re bitter and sipping beer on the side of 5th Avenue (She had the most disgusting hands I’ve ever seen). 

These preppy scholars and businessmen on Wall Street and inside Pierce & Pierce, my dwelling for the next whoever knows how long, adorn themselves with muted hues and statement accessories. I have to switch out my ‘lilacs’ and ‘baby blues’ for ‘eggplant’ and ‘elegant navies’. My ties at least can stay as far as I’m concerned; I’ve seen worse patterns on arguably more fashionable people. 

Manhattan has a plethora of designer stores, so many in fact I’m on the verge of an anxiety attack. I’ve had a painful lunch with a Charles McBride, an audacious man but a colleague first and foremost, and I tried to discuss the plans for the fiscal quarter but he wasn’t having it– the entire conversation replays in my head while I’m attempting to maneuver the streets, only serving to worsening the panic inside me. Any store will do, any at all, and so I slip inside a Bergdorf Goodman. I nearly go in a circle due to the revolving doors but luckily no one catches my faux pas.

I didn’t know what a Bergdorf was, but now knowing it’s a department store relieves my anxiety. 

Kimiko, my lady since I arrived in New York, hardly comforts me now when I entwine my fingers with hers, and the sickeningly sweet scent of rot is beginning to put me off, so I walk towards the fragrances. 

I could get her something with notes of orange blossom and peony, or something sultry with cinnamon and leather, but that thought is cut short when a woman hunts me down from behind. I’m looking at the collection of Dior perfumes when she pops up, her voice extremely loud and shaky. A new girl, perhaps?

“Hello, sir! I see you’re checking out our Miss Dior! This is a very lovely perfume, suitable for the very lovely lady in your life! Um, would you like a sample?” She waves a thin white strip in front of me, and oh my god, her—

Spritz. 

I gasp when the perfume incinerates my eyes, her string of apologies piercing my ears just as badly. She immediately fetches me a wet napkin, trying to help me rub my eyes but I yank the napkin away from her. Through my stinging, blurry vision, I hold up her right hand.

“That is a beautiful, uh, ruby ring you have on,” I swallow thickly, blinking frantically. “Sterling silver and ruby, very nice.” It’s a bead of blood atop of a milky white canvas, oh my. 

“Why, thank you!” she gleams. I hold her gaze, enticing her, and forcefully crinkle my eyes. She has rather pretty eyes and a bright smile, albeit overlined with a crisp apple red. The red doesn’t shine as well on her face as it does around her fingers. Her name tag says ‘JENNIFER’. 

Jennifer briefly checks me out, then scrunches her brow. “Gosh, I’m just a klutz today! I’m so sorry.” 

“No need to apologize, really. Mistakes happen,” I reply, a tad confused, until she holds up Kimiko. My heart freezes, the blasting muzak slows down as she casually handles my now ex-girlfriend. 

“Matthew, one of the assistants must’ve dropped this when setting up the display. We’re not usually so messy!” 

The gold bangle I gifted Kimiko hides the jagged edges of her wrist, and her decomposition has sucked out the apricot tone she used to have. I continue to stare because frankly there’s nothing else I can do at this moment. Except, maybe cry— that’s a big possibility. 

Jennifer giggles, “Listen, I’ll take this back to our storage and I’ll ring you up for the Miss Dior, yeah?”

I open my mouth but it takes great strength to speak. “Yes. Yeah, that’s fine. Um, are the registers near your storage?”

“Yeah, there’s one right by the cosmetics, if you don’t mind following me.”

“I don’t mind, no.” Go. Go! Go! Go! “I actually need to hurry to my office after this, so please, with haste.”

“Of course! C’mon, follow me.” She plucks a plastic-wrapped package of Miss Dior off the shelf and points toward the glossy collections of cosmetics. I ensure no one is really paying attention, and of course, the few patrons around are engrossed in their shopping. 

Jennifer sets the item on the cash register and tells me she will be right back. I huff, and give one last sweep of the store, and trace her steps into the EMPLOYEES ONLY swing door. I don’t bother to hide my footfalls due to her heels echoing through the concrete maze of these back rooms. All I need is privacy, and I need something, anything to aid me, although simply choking her isn’t ruled out yet. 

She doesn’t have a care in the world, doesn’t have a single instinct to look over her shoulder. There’s another door at the far end of the narrow hallway that she disappears into, and I’ll follow her there too, but first:

A giant sapphire and glass star-shaped perfume bottle on a wire shelf catches my attention. It’s asymmetrically shaped, and looks like it belongs atop a Christmas tree, but I deduce it must be for advertising purposes. It’s dense, sturdy, and particularly sharp. I may have had an incident but it seems my luck has yet to run out. This is not an ideal location, none of this is remotely ideal, but there’s not much to be done about it. Besides, Killer Queen didn’t gift me intelligence and charm, only an easy way out. I will do as I’ve always done and I will win. 

I will do what it takes to retain my comfort and happiness, and live my life to the fullest. 

✃ ✃ ✃

I’m having lunch with Patrick Bateman, a coworker, and his friends slash fellow coworkers Timothy Price, David Van Patten, and Craig McDermott at a “trendy” restaurant called Flamingo East. Apparently, a couple other bankers will be joining us but they have yet to do so; I’m fine with that. 

I’m familiar with Mr. Bateman. He has the office right next to mine, but I see more of his secretary than I do of him. The scarce moments we share are somewhat bizarre, and I can’t quite place my finger on what exactly makes them bizarre, they just are. He’s cordial, refined, and narcissistic, much like the others— they’re a breed of their own, a species known only to the rich New England coast, but he still stands out. I’d like to say I’m perceptive, I have to be, and if I have suspicions about someone I’m usually correct. 

I also notice that Mr. McDermott and I are wearing the same cologne, Drakkar Noir, a scent laden with lemon, mint, lavender, and bergamot. Either this cologne is thicker than I anticipated or he’s doused himself in it— either way, it’s comforting blending in. 

I’m wearing a double breasted linen-and-cotton suit in the shade ‘imperial violet’, a subdued deep purple, a ‘nude periwinkle’ button down cotton shirt that looks off-white in this bright lighting, all by Cerruti 1881. My silk tie is by Alexander Julian, and it has a striped pattern in shades of ‘egg yolk’, ‘vanilla’, and ‘charcoal’; the pattern reminds me of the candy sticks in a sweets shop in Morioh. I met an ex-girlfriend there, now that I look back on it. She always bought matcha tea cakes, every day at 5 pm, like clockwork. 

Well, there’s no time for nostalgia right now. I open the briefcase that’s sitting on my lap. 

“Mr. Van Patten, I have papers regarding the—”

“Hey, hey,” he holds a hand up, “We’re not doing that right now.” 

He then makes a neck-slicing gesture, probably telling me to shut up. He’s at least nicer than his friends. With his round glasses and round brown eyes, he looks borderline puppy dog-ish. I avert my eyes and purse my lips to avoid smirking, lest they start naming me that vulgar word they assign to any man in a one meter radius. 

“My apologies.” 

Mr. McDermott speaks up next. “This is lunch, we’re drinking, having a good time, no time for that shit.”

I nod my head in understanding and put away my briefcase. Does anyone here actually work, or is it purely kept to the office? Hm. 

“So, what are we having?” Patrick asks the table. 

I pick up the menu then, and furrow my brows at the options. Fine dining is, uh, fine dining, I suppose. 

“Two J&B’s, or three?” Mr. Price asks me. 

I clear my throat. “Two, I’ll just have the dry martini.” 

“Fruity,” one of them says under their breath. I don’t even bother. 

There’s a salmon plate topped with chives and soy sauce, with a side of mashed red pepper sweet potatoes and honeyed zucchini and squash. That’s appetizing. There’s also an ‘organic’ strawberry jello salad mixed with manzanilla olives and cream cheese. Less appetizing. 

Mr. McDermott decides to bestow a secret upon us. “I heard they serve shark here.”

“Yeah, and there’s a leprechaun in Turtle Bay that hands out free vials of crack.” 

“No, really man, if you tell the waiter a code or something, the chef will hand you a cloche that has a fucking shark fin under it.” 

Mr. Price rolls his eyes. “You think the waiter would care if I asked him to drown you in the fountain over there?” 

“The waiter looks like a faggoty actor-in-training, so give him a good tip, or just like, you know, your dick and maybe he will.” 

“Did I tell you guys that Sabrina—”

“Which one?”

“You don’t know this one. Anyway, she was blowing me the other night and the stupid bitch used her teeth.” Mr. Van Patten gags. 

Everyone at the table including me inwardly cringes. 

“I was like, the fuck you using your teeth for? I’m already circumcised, and thanks to you, I’m now soft. She kept trying to suck on my flaccid dick and the whole thing was just fucking weird.” 

“She was what?”

“You didn’t slap her? Kick her out?”

“I kicked her out right after that. And she’s been blowing up my receiver ever since. Give me another chance, David, please!” he mocks. 

“I mean, if she’s willing to suck a softie…”

“She does have nice tits,” Mr. Van Patten admits. Their conversation dies down and slowly they turn their attention on me. I hold my breath and pretend I’m deciding on my order. 

“What’s your type, Kira?” The million dollar question. 

This is no group to be cheeky with, and too intelligent of an answer will cause me more harm than good. I choose carefully. “I do, uh, have an affinity for blondes.”

They nod.

“You like ditzy? Ditzy is cute. Patrick?”

He shrugs; I don’t know him well but he’s quiet this morning. I answer instead. “I’d prefer ditzy over arrogant and obnoxious.” 

“Yep, yep.” 

Mr. Bateman suddenly gets up and mumbles about heading to the bathroom. Mr. Price follows him with his gaze and has an amused smile, a knowing smile as he sips his drink. I shouldn’t be nosy but it’s common here apparently to gossip. I too watch him then lean over and whisper. 

“Is he sick?” I feign concern. For a moment I wonder if he really is sick, placebo already hitting me with a bomb of nausea in my stomach. 

Mr. Price scoffs. “He isn’t sick, he’s balls deep in Halcion. Did you see his eyes?”

They laugh at him. “His pupils are bigger than the fucking plates.” 

I’m not entirely sure what that is but I refuse to ask for obvious reasons. The waitress, caked up in makeup and her hair crunchy with Aquanet, takes our drink orders and promptly skitters off. I noticed these things because her nails were crooked, one literally twice the size of the others, and she was noisily smacking gum in her mouth. So garish. 

Mr. Bateman returns simultaneously as our drinks arrive, and he wastes no time in downing his. He whispers, “Nice tits” under his breath as our waitress leaves, and then says something else that astounds me. “Did you know I chopped off an East Villager’s hand and jerked off with it?”

I stare at Mr. Bateman as he announces this. He sips his whiskey, and annoyingly shakes his leg, vibrating the table. I look toward our colleagues, back to him, to his friends, back to him. No one says anything. Actually, his friends are too busy fawning over a ‘hardbody’ writing down another table’s order. 

“C’mon, she’s smokin’!”

“Nah, nah, no.” Mr. Price is as picky as ever. “Look at her hips.”

“What? You don’t like Coke bottles?”

“I like coke-caine. And Diet Coke, which maybe she should drink more of.” 

“Wow.”

“Yeah, he’s kinda right. I think I saw her before, in the strings section of the New York Philharmonic.” 

Mr. Bateman and I are in our own little bubble. I almost want to reply, but with what? Oh, that’s a hobby of mine as well! Are you like me? Did you also see the wonderful ad in Times Square for Tiffany & Co. and had to rush home for relief? 

No, no— he might’ve said this expecting a response. He must know. How could he know? It wouldn’t make sense, I’ve covered my tracks! Or, so I thought. Is he stalking me? Is he aware of how often I daydream about my past girlfriends? Does he know about Jennifer? Has he seen Jennifer? There’s no other reason as to why he would make such a remark unless to evoke me! But what would he gain? What could he possibly gain from terrifying me?

I don’t realize I’m breathing hard until Mr. Van Patten nudges my shoulder. 

“Dude, you okay?”

“Pretty sure he’s tweaking.” 

I snap back, “No, I’m not. I’m fine. Um, I apologize.” I wipe my brow with a handkerchief. “It’s quite warm in here.” 

They don’t believe me but luckily, they don’t care either. I glance back toward Mr. Bateman who’s silently mouthing the appetizers as he reads off the menu. He’s unaffected. He’s strange. 

I don’t care for strange men. 

✃ ✃ ✃

I didn’t think I’d replace Jennifer so quickly, but with a city so vast and brimming with the prettiest the States has to offer, I guess it was inevitable. And in that same vein, it’s inevitable that I would end up erasing evidence in the fashion of a stereotypical killer. 

I drag Heather’s remains, a garbage bag stretched wide with the unnecessary parts of her, and a few miscellaneous things I filled it with to rid the bag of its human body shape. Again, this is not suitable for me, and I don’t like being reminded of what life was like prior to attaining Killer Queen. The act feels dirty, in a more ragged, mask-wearing type of way, and elementary, too. This is how others do this? Who has the time? Who has the attention to detail, and how do they deal with the constant anxiety of covering their tracks?

It reminds me of the last night Heather drew breath and she made me watch a horror film about a deadly surgeon. Despite eagerly returning home with me, she refused to let me get any closer to her even when she squealed and jumped at horribly-designed reanimated zombies. I even tried to kiss her on the lips, which mind you was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was a perfect segway to twist her figure around and hack off my prize, the true beauty, the love of my life. 

And yet, she freaked out when I touched her waist, and lo and behold, a brand new suit was ruined from head to toe (which is also stuffed inside with Heather). The film kept playing as I cleaned up the mess, and—

Oh, yes, that’s why I brought that up… Well, it doesn’t matter. The clean-up of a botched murder is the bane of my existence. That’s all. 

My stroke of luck shines when I find a dumpster right behind the apartment building I live in. It’s somewhat hidden, though not entirely thanks to the splattering of windows, some lit some completely black, that look down on the alley. Considering I’ve caught domestic violence, passionate love making, and other embarrassing acts through neighbors’ windows, there’s definitely nothing interesting about an innocent man and his garbage. 

I wipe my brow and drag the bag another few meters before pausing again. You don’t realize how heavy a dead woman is until you have to dump her body. I’m tired, and want this over with so I can finish my stretching routine— I bought a book the other day that lists basic yoga positions to help loosen the hip flexors, a recent issue of mine— and listen to Mariya Takeuchi’s Variety album on the turntable I bought at Radio Shack. If I can hurry through this, expertly, I will be rewarded a lovely evening with my new girlfriend. 

“Ha! Look at us! Both dumping bodies!”

Freeze. I slowly turn my head while feeling for the handle of the knife in my coat pocket. 

A man carrying two bulging garbage bags of his own stands at the opposite end of the alleyway where it opens up to the main street. The shadow of the lamplights briefly obscure his face but he walks closer, and I see a goofy grin and wrinkles. 

“This is the only dumpster I’ll go to ‘round here honestly, because the college kids that live below me fill the other one up to the brim, can you believe that?” He closes the distance between us and he lets go of his bags to place his hands on his rounded, lumpy hips. 

“Uh.” I lick my lips then smack them. “Yeah, I can.”

“I mean this city is crazy, real crazy, and my wife always told me that this wasn’t a good decision but I couldn’t stand the heat down in Austin anymore, I just couldn’t. I mean, us old folks, just me by the way, not you, haha, you’re a handsome fellow, very sharply dressed! You should have a raincoat or somethin’, it’s been real stormy out, you don’t wanna ruin your like, Gew-chi suit, anyway—”

I’m still hunched over, Heather’s casket clutched in my hand. He hasn't studied its’ off putting shape, thank God, but this is too close for comfort. 

“Are you new to the city?” he suddenly asks. 

“Well—”

“There’s not a lot of neighborly love ‘round here, at least that’s how it feels to me. There’s no more lemonade on the porch and chit-chattin’ with Bobby, just drinking Bud Light and sweepin’ cigarette ashes on my balcony ‘cause of those gawd-dayum NYU kids. That’s so selfish, ain’t it?”

“Sure.”

“I just don’t care for it. That, and the winters are real brutal. Cold and icy as all hell.”

I don’t even want to entertain this, and yet: “I would say Hell isn’t very icy at all.” 

As expected, he doesn’t hear me. “It’s irritatin’! But my wife, you know, she loves the lights, the hustle and bustle, the cute little shops and the expresso machines.” 

I’m beginning to get a migraine. 

“Also, the Chinese food. We only had one Chinese buffet when growin’ up, and I got food poisoning every single time. They told me it was the MSG. What do you think?”

Sir, sir, this is so very interesting, I’m genuinely engaged and wish to further this arousing conversation but I would much prefer if you just turned around so I can get this over with. 

Beyond this man, I catch a Valentino suit and head of slicked-back brown hair standing at an ATM. He looks stick-like from this far out, but I can pick out those broad shoulders and tense stance out of a sea of stockbrokers. It’s as if he can’t relax, always coiled up like a viper readying to attack; that’s smart of him, especially while I’m around. 

This man is rambling on about sales taxes and humidity, grating my ears and blocking my vision every time I peer around him. Mr. Bateman counts clean cash with elegant, black gloves on and starts walking with confidence he doesn’t deserve. Frustration is getting the better of me— he’s finally alone, very likely unarmed, and I’m about to lose a golden opportunity all because of this man!

Even when I attempt to interject with kind courtesy and ‘oh, of course, yes, but you see’, he steamrolls me. I give up then, and heave Heather and her garbage over the rim of the dumpster. Thump! She goes. This is your cue now, sir. Throw your things away and leave me alone. 

“Sir,” I cut through him with a stern, deep voice. “I have to get home, if you excuse me. I have to… feed my girlfriend, she’s been alone all day.” 

Awkward pause. 

The man chuckles. “Is your girlfriend a cat?”

“Yes. Excuse me.” I brush past him and with great relief, he shuts up. 

I count ten steps down the street, hearing the thuds of him tossing his garbage in the dumpster, and I count two seconds exactly before I turn on my heel, speed back the way I came and pounce on the defenseless man while his back is turned. My knife is sharp and easily cleaves through his spine and shoulder blades as I relentlessly stab him, enough so in such rapid succession he can hardly scream. By the time he can open his mouth, his lungs have already filled with blood and so his agonized cries are guttural and bubbly. He reaches out, for what I don’t know, maybe trying to crawl away from me, but it’s no use. His thick denim jacket soaks up most of the damage, and it’s only my gloves that are soiled. That’s fine, really, it’s a miniscule consequence. 

Now that he’s mincemeat and paralyzed, on the verge of death if not deceased already, I flick my head to fix the tendrils of hair that have fallen in my face. I’ll leave his corpse; there’s a stabbing or a mugging printed every morning in the newspaper, and I doubt anyone will be questioning an older gentleman being assaulted on his nightly routine. The alleyways are dangerous, as you know. Wrong place, wrong time; it can happen to anyone. 

I take another deep breath and search for Mr. Bateman, who is nowhere to be found. He went west, but there are a million doors and stops and shops and whatever else that way. Besides, even if he were right in front of me, it’d be hard to conceal bloodied hands and my frenzied disposition. I lust to take him down and for that reason, I have to be careful.

Sigh. 

Until next time, Mr. Bateman. 

✃ ✃ ✃

The next excursion that the fine men at Pierce & Pierce have decided on is a rendezvous at a place called Nell’s. It’s not quite a dance club, and it’s too unpleasant to be a chill rooftop bar. The shift between neon and darkness is nauseating, and they seem to have both the ceiling fans on full blast as well as the heated conditioning. I’m sweating yet chilled to the bone. I had to skip lunch due to the piles of paperwork stacked on my desk and I’m feeling the effects of an empty stomach. Apparently, the others have secretaries who do the menial work, but I am without a lady to sign off and look at these documents for me so I wasted my entire day, all 10 hours of it on reading what might as well have been hieroglyphics. 

The silver lining to my mundane day is that I managed to find Mr. Bateman’s full address in his secretary’s desk once everyone else had left. That woman didn’t bother to lock any of the drawers, how naive considering there’s sensitive financial information in those folders. Not my problem. What’s next is figuring out when to use this key— I realized he lived rather close to me, another stroke of my luck, but I have to plan ahead. I could directly follow him home and stage a break-in; still easier said than done. 

I stash away my plans for now. 

It’s nearly 8 pm, right when I would be winding down for bed, when I’m interrupted. A colleague named Tom Hamlin called me asking if I minded meeting him tonight to discuss ‘important matters’. Like the hardworking man I am, I readily accepted and very shortly after, ‘important matters’ became a party invitation. Mr. Hamlin had me start at Harry’s to join up with none other than Patrick Bateman, Craig McDermott, and two other men I didn’t recognize, Victor Powell and George Reeves.

I hanged in the back of the group, intently watching Mr. Bateman who was glaring razor sharp daggers at Mr. Powell— I was oddly curious about why that was, as the former had a semi-permanent scowl, and to see this visceral hate directed towards someone who wears Valentino like him (like me), had slicked-back hair like him (and like me), and even had a resembling smirk, is fascinating. What is so striking about him? One might think of the common petty reasons: found cheating on his girlfriend, stole a deal from him, maybe even openly mocked him, like a bullying situation, but my perfect intuition tells me it’s much deeper than that. 

Hm. It shouldn’t matter anyhow. Mr. Powell won’t have to worry about his “biggest fan” much longer. 

Inside Nell’s, we sit in an open circle-shaped booth with me at one end and my target at the other. When we make eye contact, I smile but he doesn’t return it. How snobbish. 

They’re sharing the menu and I patiently wait my turn, my hands clasped on my lap. I want to leave. I planned a date with Heather, and it’s unacceptable that I can’t even attend my own planned date. I’m starving, I’m thirsty, I refuse to look at the menu right now. So, when the waiter comes by wanting our orders, I ask for a glass of ice water, to the bemusement of my colleagues. 

“Hard liquor ages you,” is what I say when one of them persists to bug me. My response hits where it hurts, and I hide my joy when he then questions his drink of choice. 

“Hamlin, can you score tonight?”

“Uh, duh! I’m way ahead of you.” 

“It’s not from that same guy, right? What’s his name, Carlos?”

“Ricardo.” 

The waitress at the booth behind us has wonderfully long, luscious fingers. Her jingly diamond bracelet accentuates her tan skin so well, and those curved, almond-shaped purple nails. My god. I wonder if I should drop Heather (we’ve only dated for 5 days, that’s a little short, isn’t it?), and too late do I look over to them shuffling out of the other end of the booth. I briefly panic. 

I might stay and rope the waitress into coming home with me, but I also don’t want to be left with a pricey bill because I’m the ‘newbie’ from Japan. Irritated, I follow after, barely keeping them in my sight through the winding hallways. They end up in the men’s bathroom, half of the group idling at the sinks while the other half, including Mr. Bateman squeeze into a wider stall. 

I manage to fit in at the same time that Mr. Price sprinkles a mound of white powder onto an upside-facing mirror bolted to the wall. I may have been a mere office worker, but I’m not naive— that is a drug I recognize. I only knew of one person, a dolt from University, who had the guts to snort it before exams. I almost snitched on him when he was licking it from his hand in the middle of the train platform, but I figured his idiocy would be his downfall. I figured too, not my business. I was proven right during the exams themselves! I don’t know what cocaine entirely does, and it’s very likely he had a cocktail of substances in his system because he was whispering to his pencil as if it was an omniscient deity. 

Anyway, I prefer to not begin whispering to inanimate objects as well, and I let my turn pass me up. Mr. Van Patten uses a handkerchief and wipes his brow, staring me down. Please don’t. 

“Not interested, huh?”

I ponder this deeply, ignoring how Mr. Bateman judges me too. “I’m not fond of it, to be honest.” 

“Have you tried it? I bet the stuff in Japan isn’t as good.”

“Not particularly,” I stutter a bit, and that entices them further. 

“He’s scared, dude.” 

“He’s a straight-edge, of course he hasn’t had the good shit.”

“What are you afraid of? You’re not gonna explode from it. It’s fucking cocaine, not bath salts.” 

Mr. Bateman fixates me with a lopsided grin. “What a loser. More for me, I guess.” 

I’m not acting right. This isn’t me. I don’t give into peer pressure, this isn’t Mr. Kira, and yet before I register it, I’ve picked up the rolled dollar bill and sniffed a skinny line. I clear my throat and at first, I don’t think I even snorted anything, until my nostril burns. They hoot and holler, congratulating me on popping some cherry. I blink rapidly, my right eye now stinging. What am I doing?

I just stand there, back against the metal stall. Deep breath, in and out. This too shall pass. I’ll wait it out and then go home, stretch, have my glass of milk, and sleep peacefully with my girlfriend. Remember, anything that gives effects fast, exits the body fast. I nod to myself. It’ll work out! It always does!

Besides, I don’t feel different but I might be expecting too much from a drug that resembles sugar. Actually, one of them just commented that the last gram was ‘NutraSweet’, so, there’s a chance this is all a placebo effect. Watching these men in their tight suits, wallets stuffed with cash and their ‘AmEx’, glittering jewelry, and they’re high off sugar. Damn sugar. Ha. That is hilarious. 

My, my, just like the girl I dated after I finished my college education! She would sip sake, wait, no it wasn’t even sake, it was water! Water! She had made an utter fool of herself, and jumped onto a table at the restaurant she had stringed me along to, and she subsequently fell, nearly cracked her skull open. 

We were kicked out, both of us, even though I was the pinnacle of elegance in my seat. She made a whole show, basically an educational presentation, of why I should come home with her, and yes, she was an easy catch, and her hands were softer than velvet, prettier than her objectively attractive face, but I couldn’t stand her whiny attitude so I had left her crying on the street. 

She really thought I would have sex with her after that? 

“What’s so funny, dude?” Puppy-eyes says. Why does he look so sad? So concerned? 

My cackling echoes in the steel stalls, matching the thunderous tempo of some pop singer’s hit song upstairs. I don’t know what’s so funny, to be honest, but I can’t stop. I cover my face for a moment, my shoulders shaking, and I find solace in a cold corner. 

My diaphragm aches and my sinuses are unbearably dry, yet my teeth rattle and the corners of my lips twitch into a smile I can’t stop. I lick my lips, tasting metal, over, and over, and over—

“Victor, how tight was Francine?” 

“Pretty sure she’s a virgin. Or, was.” Hiss, smoke pours out of his mouth. 

“Ha, Bateman said she was loose.” 

He furrows his brow and frowns, as if it pains him to say, “Loosest fucking slut I’ve met.” 

Another plume of smoke. I’m dizzy. “Really? She was tight, man. Maybe your dick’s tiny.” 

They guffaw like hyenas and I make eye contact with Mr. Bateman. This isn’t the first time, and surely won’t be the last, that he’s the target of their pissing contests. Judging by his expression, the routine is stale. He’s looking through me, briefly, and indifference morphs into unbridled, sinister glee. 

“I think I might chop your dick off, fry it, and throw it to the pigeons.” 

The booming laughter doesn’t cease, in fact, one of them slaps his shoulder while he barely contains some need for violence. He pierces his cuticles with his thumbnail, much like I am doing right now.

Is that all you want to do? After he humiliated you?

“No. I actually might fry your whole body and feed you to the homeless, you bucktoothed bastard.” 

Mr. Bateman rubs the rest of the powder onto his gums, and the sight of his fingers caressing his wetted lips, going inside his mouth, it’s—

It’s—

What? It’s what? 

I clench my eyes. I need to leave now. I can not be here anymore, it is not worth it. I am vulnerable and in a state I do not wish to be in.

Someone pats me, hard, on the back but I don’t turn around, feeling stuck in place. In slow motion, his voice reverberates. 

“Killer.” 

“What?” My heart sinks. 

“Kira, your nose is bleeding, dude.” 

I wipe at my nose and brush away the stains on my bloody knuckles. I am not feeling well. 

I’m growing erect, for an unknown reason, and I’m acutely aware of everything around me. The stifling cologne, the fluorescent lighting, the waterfalls crashing in the sinks outside the stall, the snorting and flushing, the vibration of my own hands. I haven’t trimmed my nails in quite some time. I should do that when I return home. 

⭀ To be continued⥫

#american psycho #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo's bizarre adventure #patrick bateman #writers on tumblr #kira yoshikage #moriohpsycho #teehee #make sure you listen to sussudio and love my way when reading !!