Бойцовский клуб

           Iask,whoarethey? 

           "They’reallwaiting,"Tylersays. 

           Ismellgasolineonmyhands. 

           Tylergoes, "Hittheroad.Theyhaveacar,outside.TheyhaveaCadillac." 

           I’mstillasleep. 

           Here,I’mnotsureifTylerismydream. 

           OrifIamTyler’sdream. 

           Isniffthegasolineonmyhands. There’snobodyelsearound,andIgetupandwalkouttotheparkinglot. 

           Aguyinfightclubworksoncarssohe’sparkedatthecurbinsomabody’sblackCorniche, andallIcandoislookatit,allblackandgold,thishugecigarettecasereadytodrivemesomewhere. Thismechanicguywhogetsoutofthecartellsmenottoworry,heswitchedtheplateswithanothercar inthelong-termparkinglotattheairport. 

           Ourfightclubmechanicsayshecanstartanything. Twowirestwistoutofthesteeringcolumn. Touchthewirestoeachother,youcompletethecircuittothestartersolenoid, yougotacartojoyride. 

           Eitherthat,oryoucouldhackthekeycodethroughadealership. 

           Threespacemonkeysaresittinginthebackseatwearingtheirblackshirtsandblackpants. Seenoevil.Hearnoevil.Speaknoevil. 

           Iask,sowhere’sTyler? 

           ThefightclubmechanicguyisholdingtheCadillacopenchauffeurstyleforme. Themechanicistallandallboneswithshouldersthatremindyouofatelephonepolecrossbar.