Those were the words that set off the most anxiety-inducing business card bout of all time, one that a restless 27-year old named Patrick Bateman would come to lose several times over. It was New York, late 1980s. The staleness of the city air was maddening; the avenues were paved with indifference. It was the sort of place where you could drag a warm, bloody corpse through the lobby of a West 81st Street apartment without batting an eye.