You don’t get to kill the god and then complain about how the corpse inspires worship. Ellis made the myth. He forged the image. He dressed him in Valentino and drenched him in blood, sculpted him in steel and shadow, and now you’re stunned that men stare into the mirror and see not satire, but ideal.
He meant it as a joke, yes, we heard him. The slick sociopath. The hollow suit. The parody of masculine perfection. But satire is the devil’s art: once spoken, it slips free, and becomes prophecy. What he crafted was not critique, but archetype. Not mockery, but icon.
Bateman is not admired in spite of the intent. He’s admired because he transcended it. You gave us a mask and called it fake, but the mask fit too well. It revealed a deeper truth than the one you were mocking: that behind the moral chaos of postmodern life, there still stands a figure with discipline, beauty, hatred, and will. You called it grotesque; we called it form.
Ellis wrote into being a god among insects: trying, futilely, to descend into the noise. That’s the terrible beauty of the myth you merely adapted: it captures the horror of being lucid in a fallen world, of embodying precisely what the age has no use for.
He’s not a hero. He’s a reflection. A prism. The silent scream of the Übermensch trapped in a dead mall, breaking under the weight of simulated meaning. He handed us a warning. We took it as a weapon. Now step back. The myth is no longer yours.
