AMERICAN PSYCHO
by Bret Easton Ellis

"If you hate women, you're gonna love this book!"--Steven Hill

"I start by skinning Torri a little, making incisions with a steak knife and ripping bits of flesh from her legs and stomach while she screams in vain, begging for mercy in a high thin voice. Finally I pour acid onto her belly and genitals, but none of this comes close to killing her, so I resort to stabbing her in the throat and eventually the blade of the knife breaks off in what's left of her neck, stuck on bone, and I stop. While Tiffany watches, finally I saw the entire head off--torrents of blood splash against the walls, even the ceiling-- and holding the head up, like a prize, I take my cock, purple with stiffness, and lowering Torri's head to my lap I push it into her bloodied mouth and start fucking it, until I come, exploding into it." p. 304, from American Psycho

Author Bret Easton Ellis would have us believe that the scenes of sexual torture and murder that he so meticulously depicts in his hateful "novel" American Psycho cannot be taken "literally." Ellis himself admits that he used police reports and writings about atrocities that occurred in Nazi concentration camps and the gruesome details of the Bundy murders, the Manson family murders, and the Gainesville, Fla. murders as "research" (i.e. inspiration) for American Psycho. Perhaps most destructively, Ellis writes long passages that begin as sexual turn-ons for male heterosexual readers, and end in a bloody orgy of murder and torture. This subconsciously conditions the reader to experience sexuality linked with brutal, sexual violence.

"..making sure the girl is still conscious, shaking her head in pain, her eyes wide with terror and confusion, I use a chain saw and in a matter of seconds cut the girl in two with it. The whirring teeth go through skin and muscle and sinew and bone so fast that she stays alive long enough to watch me pull her legs away from her body-- her actual thighs, what's left of her mutilated vagina-- and hold them up in front of me, spouting blood, like trophies almost." p. 329

"When I was writing this book I became that man [serial murderer Patrick Bateman] for hours at a time. I don't see how else you can do it...For all the book's surface reality, it is still satirical, semi-comic and --dare I say it?--playful in a way." --Bret Easton Ellis

Our message to Bret Easton Ellis is this-- We do not find your racist, sexist, homophobic fantasies (or are they really more than just fantasies?) "playful", "satirical", or entertaining. Indeed we are outraged that a book describing such graphic sexual violence, such blatant misogyny, such outright racism and homophobia, has been accepted by mainstream Amerikkka (it was on the NY Times paperback bestseller list in April). Have we allowed the mind-numbing bombardment of the media to desensitize us to such an extent that we have an unlimited tolerance for violence? When will this woman-hating end? The FBI says a woman is raped once every six minutes in this country, and many more rapes go unreported. How many more women must be raped before we as a society refuse to tolerate woman-hating literature like American Psycho and other forms of pornography?

"I would like to say I don't care what some women think or feel about this book, and I would have to say I don't care whether they find it offensive or not. That's not my problem...There seems to be a notion that when you are writing about someone killing and torturing people, especially women, you have to do it in a very earnest and politically correct way..." -- Bret Easton Ellis

WHY WOULD ANYONE WRITE THIS BOOK?
WHY WOULD ANYONE PRINT THIS BOOK?
WHY WOULD ANYONE READ THIS BOOK?
WHY WOULD ANYONE SELL THIS BOOK?
WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO MAKE THIS BOOK INTO A MOVIE?

Because they're SICK !!!

WHY WOULD OUR SOCIETY TOLERATE SUCH A BOOK???

BECAUSE IT IS SICK!!!

A SEXUAL VIOLENCE Thriller

Patrick Bateman is Harvard-educated and intelligent. He works by day on Wall Street, earning a fortune to complement the one he was born with. His nights he spends in ways we cannot begin to fathom -- doing impermissible things to women. He is living his own American Dream.

"A half hour later I am hard again. I stand up and walk over to the armoire, where, next to the nail gun, rests a sharpened coat hanger, a rusty butter knife, matches from the Gotham Bar and Grill and a half-smoked cigar; and turning around, naked, my erection jutting out in front of me, I hold these items out and explain to the girls in a hoarse whisper, "We're not through yet. . . ." p.176

"I recognize Alison as a girl I did last spring while at the Kentucky Derby. I remember she screamed when I tried to push my entire arm, gloved and slathered with Vaseline, toothpaste, anything I could find, up into her vagina...I had tied her up with wire, slapped duct tape all over mouth, her face, her breasts." p.207

"The axe hits him in midsentence, straight in the face, its thick blade chopping sideways into his open mouth, shutting him up. Paul's eyes look up at me, then involuntarily roll back into his head...There's no blood at first, no sound either...Blood starts to slowly pour out of the sides of his mouth shortly after the first chop, and when I pull the axe out--almost yanking Owen out of the chair by his head--and strike him again in the face, splitting it open, his arms flailing at nothing, blood sprays out in twin brownish geysers, staining my raincoat. This is accompanied by a horrible momentary hissing noise actually coming from the wounds in Paul's skull, places where the bone and flesh no longer connect..his mouth is a twisted jumble of teeth and meat and jawbone, his tongue hangs out of an open gash on the side of his cheek, connected only by what looks like a thick purple string. I scream at him only once: "Fucking stupid bastard. Fucking bastard." It takes Paul five minutes to finally die. Another thirty to stop bleeding." p.217

"I'm leaping in front of her, blocking her escape, knocking her unconscious with four blows to the head from the nail gun...I stretch her arms out, placing her hands flat on thick wooden boards, palms up, and nail three fingers on each hand to the wood. This causes her to regain consciousness and she starts screaming. Into her ear I drool the line "You fucking cunt." Finally, in agony, after I've taken the camel-hair coat off her face, she starts pleading, or at least tries to, the adrenaline momentarily overpowering the pain. "Patrick oh god stop it please oh god stop hurting me . . .The fingers I haven't nailed I try to bite off, almost succeeding on her left thumb which I managed to chew all the flesh off of, leaving the bone exposed, and then I Mace her once more. I place the coat back over her head in case she wakes up screaming, then set up the Sony palm-sized Handycam so I can film all of what follows. Once it's placed on its stand and running on automatic, with a pair of scissors I start to cut off her dress and when I get up to her chest I occasionally stab at her breasts, accidentally (not really) slicing of one of the nipples through the bra. She starts screaming again once I've ripped her dress off, leaving Bethany only in her bra, its right cup darkened with blood, and her panties, which are soaked with urine...She tries to cry out again but she's losing consciousness and she's capable of only a weak moan. I take advantage of her helpless state and, removing my gloves, force her mouth open and with the scissors cut out her tongue, which I pull easily from her mouth and hold in the palm of my hand, warm and still bleeding, seeming so much smaller than in her mouth, and I throw it against the wall, where it sticks for a moment, leaving a stain, before falling to the floor in a tiny wet slap. Blood gushes out of her mouth and I have to hold her head up so she won't choke. Then I fuck her in the mouth, and after I've ejaculated and pulled out, I Mace her some more..." p.246

"After I've stabbed Elizabeth five or six times--the blood's spurting out in jets; I'm leaning over to inhale its perfume--her muscles stiffen, become rigid, and she goes into her death throes; her throat becomes flooded with dark-red blood and she thrashes around as if tied up, but she isn't and I have to hold her down. Her mouth fills with blood that cascades over the sides of her cheeks, over her chin. I hold down her head, rubbing my dick, stiff, covered with blood, across her choking face, until she's motionless. Back in my bedroom, Christie lies on the futon, tied to the legs of the bed, bound up with a rope, her arms above her head, ripped pages from last month's Vanity Fair stuffed into her mouth. Jumper cables hooked up to a battery are clipped to both breasts, turning them brown. I have been dropping lit matches from Le Relais onto her belly and Elizabeth, delirious and probably overdosing on the Ecstasy, had been helping before I turned on her and chewed at one of her nipples until I couldn't control myself and bit it off, swallowing. For the first time I noticed just how small and delicately structured Christie is, was. I started kneading her breasts with a pair of pliers, then I'm mashing them up, things are moving fast, I'm making hissing noises, she spits out the pages from the magazine, tries to bite my hand, I laugh when she dies, before she does she starts crying, then her eyes roll back in some horrible dream state. In the morning, for some reason, Christie's battered hands are swollen the size of footballs, the fingers are indistinguishable from the rest of her hand and the smell coming from her burnt corpse is jolting and I have to open the venetian blinds, which are spattered with burnt fat from when Christie's breasts burst apart, electrocuting her, and then the windows, to air out the room. Her eyes are wide open and glazed over and her mouth is lipless and black and there's also a black pit where her vagina should be (though I don't remember doing anything to it) and her lungs are visible beneath the charred ribs. What is left of Elizabeth's body lies crumpled in the corner of the living room. She's missing her right arm and chunks of her right leg. Her left hand, chopped off at the wrist, lies clenched on top of the island in the kitchen. Her head sits on the kitchen table and its blood-soaked face-- even with both eyes scooped out-- looks like its frowning." p. 290

"My apartment reeks of rotten fruit, though actually the smell is caused by what I scooped out of Christie's head and poured into a Marco glass bowl that sits on a counter. The head itself lies covered with brain pulp, hollow and eyeless, in the corner of the living room beneath the piano and I plan to use it as a jack-o'-lantern on Halloween." p. 300

"Again I make the two of them eat each other but it starts failing to turn me on--all I can think about is blood and what their blood will look like and though Torri knows what to do, how to eat pussy, it doesn't subdue me and I push her away from Tiffany's cunt. I use Mace to blind both of them momentarily and then I knock them unconscious with the but of the nail gun. Torri awakens to find herself tied up, bent over the side of the bed, on her back, her face covered with blood because I've cut her lips off with a pair of nail scissors. Tiffany is tied up with six pairs of Paul's suspenders on the other side of the bed, moaning with fear, totally immobilized. I want her to watch what I'm going to do to Torri and she's propped up in a way that makes this unavoidable. As usual, in an attempt to understand these girls, I'm filming their deaths... 'I start by skinning Torri a little, making incisions with a steak knife and ripping bits of flesh from her legs and stomach while she screams in vain, begging for mercy in a high thin voice, and I'm hoping that she realizes her punishment will end up being relatively light compared to what I've planned for the other one. I keep spraying Torri with Mace and then I try to cut off her fingers with the nail scissors and finally I pour acid onto her belly and genitals, but none of this comes close to killing her, so I resort to stabbing her in the throat and eventually the blade of the knife breaks off in what's left of her neck, stuck on bone, and I stop. While Tiffany watches, finally I saw the entire head off--torrents of blood splash against the walls, even the ceiling-- and holding the head up, like a prize, I take my cock, purple with stiffness, and lowering Torri's head to my lap I push it into her bloodied mouth and start fucking it, until I come, exploding into it. Afterwards I'm so hard I can even walk around the blood-soaked room carrying the head, which feels warm and weightless, on my dick. This is amusing for a while but I need to rest so I remove the head, placing it in Paul's oak and teak armoire. . . . ' p. 304

". . . . then I finally use a Bic lighter and hold it up to both sockets, making sure they stay open with my fingers, burning my thumb and pinkie in the process, until the eyeballs burst. While she's still conscious I roll her over, and spreading her ass cheeks, I nail a dildo that I've tied to a board deep into her rectum, using the nail gun. Then, turning her over again, her body weak with fear, I cut all the flesh off around her mouth and using the power drill with a detachable, massive head I widen that hole while she shakes, protesting, and once I'm satisfied with the size of the hole I've created, her mouth open as wide as possible, a reddish-black tunnel of twisted tongue and loosened teeth, I force my hand down, deep into her throat, until it disappears up to my wrist--all the while her head shakes uncontrollably, but she can't bit down since the power drill ripped the teeth out of her gums--and grab at the veins lodged there like tubes and I loosen them with my fingers and when I've gotten a good grip on them violently yank them out through her open mouth, pulling until the neck caves in, disappears, the skin tightens and splits though there's little blood. Most of the neck's innards, including the jugular, hang out of her mouth and her whole body starts twitching, like a roach on its back, shaking spasmodically, her melted eyes running down her face mixing with the tears and Mace, and then quickly, not wanting to waste time, I turn off the lights and in the dark before she dies I rip open her stomach with my bare hands. . . ." p.305

"I try using the power drill on her, forcing it into her mouth, but she's conscious enough...and so I hold her head up, blood dribbling from her mouth, and make her watch the reset of the tape and while she's looking at the girl on the screen bleed from almost every possible orifice, I'm hoping she realizes that this would have happened to her no matter what... During this, the jukebox plays Frankie Valli singing "The Worst That Could Happen" and I'm grimly lip-synching to it, while pushing the Habitrail tube up into this bitch's cunt. I finally have to resort to pouring acid around the outside of the pussy so that the flesh can give way to the greased end of the Habitrail." p. 328

"..making sure the girl is still conscious, shaking her head in pain, her eyes wide with terror and confusion, I use a chain saw and in a matter of seconds cut the girl in two with it. The whirring teeth go through skin and muscle and sinew and bone so fast that she stays alive long enough to watch me pull her legs away from her body -- her actual thighs, what's left of her mutilated vagina -- and hold them up in front of me, spouting blood, like trophies almost." p. 329

"Her breasts have been chopped off and they look blue and deflated, the nipples a disconcerting shade of brown. Surrounded by dried black blood, they lie, rather delicately, on a china plate I bought at the Pottery Barn...I have also shaved all the skin and most of the muscles off her face so that it resembles a skull with a long, flowing mane of blond hair falling from it, which is connected to a full, cold corpse; its eyes are open, the actual eyeballs hanging out of their sockets by their stalks. Most of her chest is indistinguishable from her neck, which looks like ground-up meat, her stomach resembles the eggplant and goat cheese lasagna at Il Marlibro or some other kind of dog food...A few of her intestines are smeared across one wall and others are smashed up into balls that lie strewn across the glass-top coffee table...Her vagina has discharged a brownish syrupy fluid that smells like a sick animal, as if the rat had been forced back up in there, had been digested or something." p.344

"In my locker in the locker room at Xclusive lie three vaginas I recently sliced out of various women I've attacked in the past week. Two are washed off, one isn't. There's a barrette clipped to one of them..." p.370

AMERICAN PSYCHO a SEXUAL VIOLENCE Thriller! "If you hate women, you're gonna love this book!" On Sale Now!!! at the following locations: Village Books, B. Dalton's, Waldenbooks ALSO-- Public Literary Reading Coming Soon!!! Don't Miss It!!!

Thanks to Steven Hill for this American Psycho Review.

There Are Better Things to Do With Bret Easton Ellis than just censoring him: Tarra Baxxter's Protest