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“The first rule of fight club is, you do not talk about fight club. The second rule of fight club is, YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB.” These were the words echoing through my mind, in this dark basement where men were taking off their shirts and pounding each other into submission. “And the last rule, if this is your first night at fight club. You have to fight.” My mind returned to that last statement. This was my first night. But no I wouldn’t have to fight, there must be at least ten new guys in here tonight. Yeah I’ll be fine. I’ll stick back in the crowd like I did at school , when the bullies would search for younger weaker people to mutilate and molest. I’m the center of beautiful things, I have no scars or birthmarks, my khakis cost more then most peoples whole wardrobe. As I took my stroll down vanity street , I was interrupted by a large man with large breasts, not like pectoral breasts, but more like bitch tits. The kind of thing you see on some Sci-fi movie, or better yet, the circus. I bit my lip to stop from laughing at this behemoth and his boobs.


“Your up new guy.” Bob the breast man said with a matter of authority, His gray hair was cleanly cut, his eyes were both blackened and his nose was bleeding. Sweat was covering his shirt and for some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about his breasts. how sweaty they must be. I’m up? what did that mean?


“Out on the floor, your new, take off your shirt and shoes.” again he said this in a way that gave me chills. Later I’d find out Bob’s real name was Robert Paulson, He was a big time body builder in the days before I was even born. He had no testicals and this disturbed me. He had used steroids and somehow gotten testicular cancer. The chemical imbalance in his body produced his Pam Anderson (in proportion) breasts.


I stepped out onto the floor removing my shirt, like a model might if this were a runway. I kneeled down and untied my shoes and delicately put them in the corner. A man named Tyler Durden stepped out onto the floor and shook my hand. “Lets liberate each other huh? Let go of you attachments and hit bottom man.” How was I to know that this was the leader of the underground fighting unit I found myself in now? Was it my fault that he had nothing? that he relied on fighting? I smiled and returned by stating something about, I’m as liberated as I need to be. With that it began, my fall from grace. I never could feel sorry for a man who pees in chicken soup.


Tyler Durden had many jobs, one was a Waiter and some prestigious hotel. Where he had peed in more foods then I care to think about. He had farted on pies, and released his chemicals into the cream of mushroom soup. He must have diseases, he’s dirty. And right now his fist is crushing my ribs. Blood flies from my mouth and my eyes open. This was no longer my first fight at fight club. It was a year later, more scars the I could count. It was the fight for everything I’ll never have. My eyes close again as an uppercut crashed against my chin. I felt my teeth crack under the pressure of my breaking jaw. Why me?









Because I had found that flyer in the office, I had been the kid in his neat pants and buttoned shirt. I had been cleaning out The copier when I found a loose copy of a set of rules.


1) do not talk about fight club.


2)do not talk about fight club.


3) If someone says “stop” or goes limp, taps out the fight is over.


4) only two guys to a fight.


5) One fight at a time


6) No shirts, No shoes.


7) fights will go on as long as they have to.


8) if this is your first night at fight club. You have to fight.
While I was folding this and putting it into my pocket, a tired looking corpse of a man walked in, I recognized him from liability. “Was there a flyer in there, with a list of rules?” he said, breathing slowly. He looked like hell. his face was torn apart and his eyes were empty it seemed. Yeah I’d said, it’s in my pocket, then I asked what it was. That’s how I met Tyler Durden. How was I supposed to know that this guy was Tyler, that he was the master mind, the psycho. The genius, my liberator? Another jab, this time to the throat. This is my last fight before Project mayhem is over. This is my last affair with Tyler. I punch him hard in the chest. Blood falls, together we the scum of the earth, are immortal.


We are paper street soap company. We are the mischief, the terror, the accident you never wanted. We are the leftovers, the bottom dwellers who clean your messes, and teach your children. We’re the lack of self esteem, the headache, the love and hate. Your the politician who talks for the American worker, but you my friend are nothing. We are the people. The fucking people your trying to destroy. Walter Blake, the mayor. He was searching us out one by one, putting us in cuffs for being liberated. Our mission had been to find Mr. Blake and stop his investigation of Project Mayhem and the fight clubs. I opened my mouth and the theory came out. Theory 506 Tyler had called it when I had restated it to him, the last night before the end. While holding Mr. Blake's manhood in my hands the beautiful words of wisdom fell through me.

Self destruction is why the human race still exists. We thrive by destroying everything we create. Our children will rise through the ashes, and through them begin again.

That was it, simple and sweet. I cut the rubber band free from Mr. Blake’s testicals and walked away. I then heard the pounding of fists and flesh, as the space monkeys of project mayhem destroyed they're enemy. I closed the doors on my parents and loved ones. I had destroyed my morals and lost all control. Was this hitting bottom?


It was a Sunday, the banks were closed, everything was closed. I was in Chicago, Handling the destruction of the modern world, well Chicago any way. The phone rang when it should. I answered and said what I was meant to say. The phone rang again, the line was dead. That was a bad sign according to something I’d heard before Project mayhem, before Fight club, before life. I hung up the receiver and walked out side, lit my cigarette, and returned to the comfort of my shitty hotel room, no cable, no porno, not even a vibrating bed. I called my fellow patriots, and we left. We land at our destination, we’re to destroy life in this city. To do this we must first render fat. We were paper street soap company. We made soap from the fat we would take from liposuction clinics. But in this case, we weren't making soap, we were making bombs. Ten gallons of blasting gelatin around each pillar of every major building in this city.

“We’ll be legends, Like the first monkeys shot into space. This is our day.”



We rose to the top of a multi level parking garage. waiting for this was more exciting then Christmas. Ten minutes until we evacuate soul gentleman. Think of it, when this is over. When Project Mayhem destroys this place, then the next and so on. The world will be free, we’re saving the world guys. I said this with a hope that my breath didn’t smell. Who wants a motivational speaker with bad breathe.
9 minutes
8 minutes
5 minutes
3 minutes the sun was rising.
1minute I’ll never see the ocean again.
30 seconds. This is me hitting bottom, Can you hear this, tick tock, tick tock.
10, 9,8... Were the fallen generation boys, we have no great war. only this great spiritual depression.

3,2,1... evacuating soul.


On a long enough scale, the life ratio for everyone falls to zero.


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