American Beauty, American Psycho

American Beauty

Alfred was flying high as he strode back to his White House with newfound confidence and attitude. He loved his dinner with Allen, and felt like he had connected more with Allen after expressing his new interest in different clothing and style. It was late at night, but he knew exactly what to do when he got back: iron a nice suit shirt and tie, steam a suit coat and trousers, and shine a new pair of shoes; then, box them up neatly and leave them on Allen's doorstep. He walked inside with a bounce in his step, then went to his room to prepare for the dinner he would organize the following night. As he walked through his halls, he noticed an eerie quietness and suspicious lack of guards; frowning, he left his vest on the couch and called out for them.
"Guys? GUYS! Was there a meeting I missed?" He called, wandering aimlessly through the halls. He shuffled past their breakroom, and glanced in casually; his jaw nearly hit the floor at what he saw. A massive, floor-to-ceiling corkboard was pressed against the wall, with pictures of himself and Allen dining, talking, interacting, and even in the hospital together; pictures of the inside of Allen's apartment, street names, place names, and police headlines with Allen's name in them for petty theft, fighting, grand theft auto, break and entry, and public drunkenness. All the photos and headlines and articles and clippings were linked with a complex web of red string, and in the center of the web was a photo of himself and Allen at the beach that very night; Allen in his nice clothes, Alfred in his grungier ones, and the two of them talking on the picnic blanket in the faint light of the dollar store plastic candles. The caption above the photo read: ALLEN JONES, DANGEROUS. POTENTIALLY INVOLVED IN BLACKMAILING SCHEME, KIDNAPPING OF ALFRED F. JONES.

"HE IS NOT DANGEROUS!" Alfred roared to the empty air. "HE'S JUST LONE—" his voice broke on the word as everything clicked into place for him; the glint in Allen's eye, and it's familiarity; the same glint he's seen in himself his whole life. They were the same. Their pain was equal, their hurting stemmed from the same source: "Lonely."

Doing the only thing Alfred's racing mind considered to be logical at the time, he ripped the photos and headlines down; he broke the strings into tiny pieces, threw the tacks, and stuffed the photos into a shredder. Pulling the top off the shredder once the deed was done, Alfred then stomped the shreds down and cast them out the window into the night breeze. He growled suddenly, a low, guttural growl, like an animal; they're going to arrest Allen.

Alfred wasn't a rule breaker, but it was about damn time he became one.

He raced to his bedroom, knowing the one surefire way to pull all his guards home, at once; he flipped open the protective casing over the lever which, if pulled, would alert all of his guards that he was personally under attack in his room. He took a deep breath, closed his fingers around the lever, and pulled.
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Allen sauntered home with his hands in his pockets, completely unaware of the fact that he had been stalked by an army of guards on his date, and was being watched from the shadows on his way home as well; he was also unaware of the fact that as he flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the ground, tens of guards surrounding him in private were all simultaneously receiving an alert signal from their boss; they slunk further into the darkness, discreetly making their way home, leaving Allen unsuspecting and unharmed as he approached his apartment. He entered quietly, barely breathing as he tread past Matt, who was passed out on the couch in front of a hockey game, a bottle of Jack Daniels in hand. Allen tiptoed to his own room and relaxed on his bed. He had no idea he was five steps away from a violent, messy arrest before Alfred had called his guards back. He settled into his bed, unknowing of the small army that was retreating away from his neighborhood, returning to their master like dogs.

When he awoke the next morning, there was a package in front of the door. Unfortunately, he was not the one to open it.
"ALLEN!" Matt bellowed, ripping the cover off the box. "ALLEN, GET YOUR GREEDY ASS IN HERE!"
Allen bolted down the hall, tripping on his own jeans as they fell to his ankles; he'd forgotten that he'd taken off his belt before bed. "WHAT! Don't you be yellin' for me before noon unless there's a freight train comin' my way."
"There's about to be, you greedy shit." Matt growled. "The hell is this? Did you spend a fuckton of money that we don't have?" He held up the box, containing a nicely ironed and folded shirt, a suit coat, matching pants, and a pair of shoes Allen swore he could land a plane with if he shone the reflection off them into the sky.
"W-what? No! Those aren't mine. Musta been delivered to the wrong floor." Allen stammered, trying to hide a growing blush.
"Look around here, dumbass." Matt tossed the box to him. No one in this building, on this street, or even in this whole part of town would order clothes that nice. Return them. What the hell is wrong with you?" Matt growled. "Get rid of em, and get your money back. Now, little bro."
Allen snarled at him, baring his morning fangs; Matt wasn't supposed to mess with Allen till Allen had finished his normal morning coffee with an exuberant amount of Baileys.

He exited the apartment, cradling the box, determined to protect it like a football; he ran away from the building and down the street, and ducked into the nearest gas station to change in the bathroom like the classy bitch he knew he was. He stripped down, shoving his balled up pants, white t-shirt, and jacket into the box; he pulled on the trousers, laced up the shoes, buttoned up the shirt, and slowly slid into the suit jacket. It felt stiffer and cleaner than his leather one. He looked at himself in the mirror, surprising himself at the person he saw. He looked loaded; he looked exactly like one of the people he'd always hated. But he wasn't one of the people he'd always hated; he was himself, in their clothes. He allowed himself to fall in love with the person he was looking at. Maybe it won't kill me to live a day in their shoes, Allen thought while smoothing his hair down and into place. Just as long as Matt doesn't see me.
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After a day full of caviar, Rolls Royce, and smiling faces, Allen felt like he was in a different world and he loved it. No wonder Alfred was so happy, so free, never paranoid, and always optimistic. The world he lived in fostered it. Allen wanted to live a million days in Alfred's shoes, right next to him for the rest of his life. Allen grinned to himself and washed his hands in the restroom of the fanciest looking restaurant he'd ever been in; he hadn't even stolen from places as nice as this one. As he adjusted his suit coat, he felt a rustle in the breast pocket; rummaging through it, he brandished a small note: Ritz-Carleton restaurant lounge at 10pm. Allen stared in shock. He had never dreamed of going anywhere near the Ritz. He started to wonder if the box of clothes he was currently wearing had been sent to the wrong address; these directions couldn't possibly be for him.
Ah hell, he thought, I'm bad and that's good. Who gives a shit if these clothes aren't for me. Wrong address, not my problem.

He hailed a cab and ordered the driver to take him to the Ritz.