Raoul is sitting on his bed, putting on his fanciest (cleanest) pair of converse. He stands up and hobbles over to a mirror to fix his tie and collar. He's got a date with a guy he's been talking with over the phone for a while. Their relationship started off simple; Raoul would call the company when he ran out of money to fund his road trips and firearm collection. But after calling so many times, they began talking. Now every time Raoul would call, he'd ask for "Patrick." Patrick. The name brought butterflies to his stomach.
After lighting a cigarette and putting it in between his lips, he turned around and ran out the door. He ran to the curb and called a taxi over, which pulled up to him, and he got in. He was staying in New York, where Patrick lived. Two days ago, he had taken a flight to New York and was staying in some dinky hotel that smelled like cheese. The taxi driver looked at him in the rearview mirror. "Where to?" Raoul turned his head to look at him back in the mirror, "Dorsia!" The taxi driver's eyes widened, and he chuckled a little, driving. "Dorsia. Huh."
They make it to Dorsia and the elegant lights shined onto the restaurant, shrouded in glistening nighttime darkness. Look at the amount of high society bastards! Raoul thought to himself. He was used to these types of people, though. Smiling and nodding was how he dealt with them. He navigated himself through the crowd and made it to the front of the line by cutting, but no one seemed to notice. They were all too stuck in their own heads to notice him. "I have a reservation with, uh, Patrick. Tonight." He said, leaning over the counter and eyeballing the clerk. The clerk pursed their lips and turned to a paper, running the pencil down to find his name. "Ah, uh, Ra-oul? Raoul Duke?" Raoul nodded. "Yes, that's me." The clerk smiled a little, raising their eyebrow. "How did someone like you get a reservation here?" Raoul squished his cigarette out in an ashtray on the counter and shrugged, "Gotta find the right people I guess."
A waitress led Raoul through the packed restaurant. It reminded him of a Vegas casino. Colored lights emit from the ceiling with tacky white tablecloths and chandeliers. It was definitely more high class, though, as the carpet had no blood or puke stains. But still, for a place so notorious as Dorsia, you'd think it wouldn't resemble a place where poor saps lose their entire life savings to an addiction encouraged by the one percent. Fine dining is just another term for "Spend as much money as you can! I don't care if you lose it all, just as long as it lands into my pockets!"
After a long trek across the establishment, he notices a man about his height, maybe a little taller, arguing with another man. They were both wearing suits. One wearing a blue suit, the other wearing a gray suit. The grey-suited man had a crazed look in his eye and had a bandaid on his neck. The blue-suited man looked annoyed and sick of the grey-suited man's shit. As he got closer he could hear their argument: "Listen, I have a date tonight. Can you please just talk with me about this LATER?"
"No, no. This HAS to be talked about now. It's Alva-"
"No one gives a shit about Alva, Peter! She's a secretary, fire her if you hate her so much!"
"You don't seem to understand what I'm trying to sa-"
"Because, Peter. I don't WANT to understand! I don't care!" The blue-suited man threw his hands in the air and covered his face. "Peter, please. Just leave."
"Am I, uh, interrupting something?" Raoul says, trying to get their attention. The men look at Raoul. "And, uh. Who are you?" asks the grey-suited man. "I'm Raoul. Raoul Duke. Nice to meet you both. I'm here on a date with, uh. Patrick. Patrick...Bateman? If I remember correctly." The blue-suited man's jaw drops and he pushes the grey-suited man away. "You're Raoul...?" he asks and Raoul nods in agreement. "Yeah, that's me."
