Patrochilles Oneshots

Phthian Psycho

*a one-shot loosely based on "American Psycho!"*
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The noise of murmuring men alludes to me, their clamoring voices blurring into a null choir. Glasses clink full of champagne, calling for celebration. The crimson table sits in the middle of the conference room, plastic chairs placed outside of it. I sit at the head of it, unbothered and unperturbed, as men half-expect me to be grand even in silence. They believe an honorable man is loud and glorious, a man whose masculinity flows in his veins unnervingly so, and therefore, I follow their grotesque expectation. If it puts me above them, praised and admired, but not beloved, I am content.

There is a sourness in their tones; how they compare business cards like the font and ink are variables of success. I would wish for nothing more than to grab their collared, well-steamed, olive shirts and shake them up and down, and yell at their frightened pig-like faces, you stupid son of a bitch. Just be good at your job, you sloppy bastard. But even then, they would not acknowledge my prolific advice. They would stare and drool like babies, unable to do much else.

My hands clench unknowingly, the thought prickling my palms with a bothersome itch. I clear my voice and turn to my left, adjusting my tye and wearing a plastic smile. Odysseus, the gruel and obnoxious man who ranks above me in some categories sits there with an unbearable smirk. I wish to slice it off his face if I was able to, but I leave the violent thought behind as he notices my glare.

He speaks first, a stupid mistake on my part. My nails dig into my palms. "Achilles," he addresses gingerly with some charisma, "sharp suit you're wearing. Where's it from, slip?"

"Oliver Benson's," I reply, my voice monotone.

"Haven't heard of them. Sure is nice though, the lining is superb. Reminds me of the tailors I shop at, I'm sure you've heard of Jameson's?" Odysseus quips, and some other men stop talking to watch our exchange.

"I have," I say simply. He means to embarrass me. Does he think I'm an idiot? Of course, I've heard of Jameson's. I despise him for his lack of discourse.

"Then you would know that their quality is impeccable. Really, Achilles, I implore you to take a look at their catalog," Oddyseus sneers, chuckling as he turns to his side to Polites, a middle-aged man with a red bird and piercing black eyes. He nodded in approval, though his wandering stare reiterated his lack of understanding. He was Oddyseus' friend, his "work" friend, who agreed with everything he said without ever really hearing a word.

"Polites, your family's doing well, I hope?" I ask, my expression not showing interest. Polites' eyes widened as he half-wittedly responded.

"Yes, they're well, thank you for asking."

"What about you, Achilles?" Odysseus interrupted, not interested in letting me off easy, "you found yourself a girl?"

I clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "No, I'm afraid I'm single." My tone hid my disdain horridly as Odysseus seemed to catch my annoyance.

"A shame, really," Odysseus replied, eyebrows arched, "you're quite the catch."

"How's Penelope," I regarded, leaning forward with my hands interlocked, "last I heard, you haven't seen her in a while."

That comment seemed to touch a nerve. Odysseus' smirk faded as he shifted uncomfortably. "You know how it is Achilles, so much work it's tough to get home to the misses."

"I'm sure you will manage," I said. Polites dumbfoundedly stared at Odysseus as he awaited a big reaction. It was well known Odysseus was having an affair with Circe the receptionist, but the casual quip by me was a clear insult. Odysseus kept his composure.