American Psycho - b r e t e a s t o n e l l i s

"Oh Jesus, forget it," I scream. "Now listen to me: is Paul Owen still handling the Fisher account?"
Carruthers looks over at him and then back at me. "Yeah, I guess. I heard Ashley has chlamydia."
"I'm going to talk to him," I shout, getting up, taking the empty seat next to Owen.
But when I sit down something strange on the stage caches my eye. Bono has now moved across the stage, following me to my seat, and he;s staring into my eyes, kneeling at the edge of the stage, wearing black jeans (maybe Gitano), sandals, a leather vest with no shirt beneath it. His body is white, covered with sweat, and it's not worked out enough, there's no muscle tone and what definition there might be is covered beneath a paltry amount of chest hair. He has a cowboy hat on and his hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he's moaning some dirge - I catch the lyric "A hero is an insect in this world" - and he has a faint, barely noticeable but nonetheless intense smirk on his face and it grows, spreading across it confidently and while his eyes blaze, the backdrop of the stage turns red and suddenly I get this tremendous surge of feeling, this rush of knowledge, and I can see into Bono's heart and my own beats faster because of this and I realize that I'm receiving a message of some kind from the singer. It hits me that we have something in common, that we share a bond, and it's not impossible to believe that an invisible cord attached to Bono has now encircled me and now the audience disappears and the music slows down, gets softer, and it's just Bono onstage - the stadium's deserted, the band fades away - and the message, his message, once vague, now gets more powerful and he's nodding at me and I'm nodding back, everything getting clearer, my body alive and burning, on fire, and from nowhere a flash of white and blinding light envelopes me and I hear it, can actually feel, can even make out the letters of the message hovering above Bono's head in orange wavy letters: "I . . . am . . . the . . . devil . . . and I am . . . just . . . like . . . you . . ."