[A leather chair faced looking over acres and acres of forrest in upstate New York. The beveled stitching down the sides, the particular tan on a hide of a now extinct animal, surely it was a seat for a king.]

[But it sat empty.]

[Next to it was a table complete with lamp and hard candies. A hand written note was the focal piece. It couldn't be read in full but the gist was all the same: "Edward White is not here."]

"Greetings."

[A voice echoes through the study, opposite of the chair, table, thousand dollar lamp. On the other side was a man, brown slicked back hair, hazel eyes and dressed like a young urban professional. You know the type: cufflinks, manicures, designer suits to match his designer drugs. He was tall, 6'1", athletic build but not a physically imposing figure.]

[He smiles as he approaches the desk.]

"My name is Patrick Bateman."

[He laughs a little bit to himself.]

"I kid, I remember back in my first communications class, the professor lectured the class on openings and the importance of first impressions. He said humor was a great way to introduce yourself and well... I couldn't pass up the opportunity.

"My name is Thomas Hunter. I received my Bachelors in communication with a minor in Journalism. After that, I graduated with a MBA from the Booth School of Business, University of Chicago for those who aren't familiar with the name. I thought about pursuing a Doctorate in Management but instead, I was hired by Mr. Edward White.

"Oddly enough, this is not what I was brought aboard for. But when the boss points at you and says 'Jump'... you try to not make a Van Halen joke."

[Thomas smiles and takes a seat at the desk. He opens a drawer and pulls out a file. Reading over the documents he keeps a straight face until he turns to the next page, a headshot of Jimmy Kort.]

"Jimmy Kort... I'm not sure if you know this... but you don't have a good track record against my boss."

[He looks up.]

"Sure, it's not the size of the dog in the fight that matters but the size of the fight in the dog. I'd give you that but according to the facts, you don't have much of either. Every dog might have his day, but I just don't see it happening for you.

"I'll admit, This is a little awkward, isn't it? I don't know anything about you other than what's on these sheets. It's a little shallow for someone to take a man, tabulate his attributes and then boil them down to a bunch of numbers and descriptions. But, from this picture alone, I can see exactly why Mr. White told me to come out here and deal with you.

"When I factor in everything else, your lack of clout, your lack of intelligence, your lack of heavyweight championship reigns, your lack of anything respectable and worth of admiration... It becomes perfectly clear."

[A pause.]

"You are a waste of resources.

"You aren't worth his time.

"You're barely worth my time.

"You're what's wrong with this Country."

[He closes the file.]

"Don't take my word for it, I'm yuppie scum according to people like you Jimmy Kort. I'll wear that like a badge on my Tommy Hilfiger suit while drinking private label wine because you know what makes me better than you... I made something out of myself, I've made a measurable difference in life. That's not qualitative, that's quantitative as in cold hard facts.

"Numbers say I'm better than you. Numbers say Edward White is better than you.

"Just look at the facts..."

[Thomas throws the file towards the camera man. Paper scatters everywhere.]

"Edward White will always be better than you, Jimmy Kort.

"You can call yourself the Un-Cool, the Anti-White, "The Hundred Dollar Man" or any other moniker to make yourself feel as if you're on the same playing field as my boss.

"But I want to tell you, Edward White owns the field. He probably owns the field you park your double wide on.

"You aren't Edward White.

"And you will lose.

"By any funds necessary"

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