British Psycho

and I'm walking down an aisle in Safeways or Sainsbury's, I'm not
sure which, and I'm horrified to find that my trolley is full of
cartons of milk. I abandon the trolley and go to the pharmaceutical
section where I start frantically opening containers of vitamin A, B
and C as though I am looking for something and I pour the contents
straight into my mouth. I swallow three or four mouthfuls, shoppers
staring at me, before I go the checkout and say, "um, I've got to go
and return some videotapes," and then I'm outside hailing a taxi.

Playstation 2, Armani shirts, the new Ericson with internet access,
tickets for Notre Dame de Paris, these are the things I think about
while the driver, another man, takes me to an abandoned building in
Hackney where I have stored the blonde hardbody I beheaded the night
before. "Would you like to see Notre Dame de Paris?" I asked her and
she replied, I swear: "Nostradamus? Wasn't he a psychic or something?"
In disbelief, rage, I smiled and said: "Yes, a psychic," before taking
her up to my flat and sawing her head off with a saw I bought at
B&;Q last weekend.

Inside the abandoned building I see the hardbody - she is just a body -
lying naked in an iron bathtub. I can't seem to find her head. In a
panic, I think I may have returned it to the video shop instead of the
videotapes and I rush down the stairs, screaming like a banshee, my
coat flapping out behind me like a cape.

In the street, I start to calm down and I see a man walking towards me.
He is wearing Calvin Klein Jeans, a hooded top by Kickers, Adidas
trainers and non-prescription sunglasses by Polo even though it is now
dark. He smiles as though he recognises me and so I turn to a tramp who
is sitting outside a cash-machine, reading a playbill for Notre Dame de
Paris. "Yeah, right; like you can read," I say and pull a fifty pence
coin out of my pocket, put it back and then pull out a twenty pence
coin, which I throw right in his face. He feels around on the floor for
the coin, kind of pathetic, and he actually looks up at me and says:
"Thank you, sir." I lean in close to his face and I say, enunciating
clearly: "You ... stupid ... ugly ... bastard. You ... stink." "Thank
you, sir," he says again and I reach into my pocket for the
screwdriver, but it must have fallen out of my pocket in the taxi. This
tramp doesn't know how lucky he is to still be alive as I walk away
towards the video shop where I think I deposited Julie Peynton's head
instead of 'The 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre.