Бойцовский клуб

           Thetruckhitstheairhorn,bellowingonelongblastafteranotherasthetruck’sheadlights, likeasunrise,comebrighterandbrightertosparkleoffthemechanic’ssmile. 

           "Makeyourwish,quick," hesaystotherearviewmirrorwherethethreespacemonkeysaresittinginthebackseat. "We’vegotfivesecondstooblivion. 

           "One,"hesays. 

           "Two." 

           Thetruckiseverythinginfrontofus,blindingbrightandroaring. 

           "Three." 

           "Rideahorse,"comesfromthebackseat. 

           "Buildahouse,"comesanothervoice. 

           "Getatattoo." 

           Themechanicsays, "Believeinmeandyoushalldie,forever." 

           Toolate,thetruckswervesandthemechanicswerves buttherearofourCornichefishtailsagainstoneendofthetruck’sfrontbumper. 

           NotthatIknowthisatthetime,whatIknowisthelights,thetruckheadlightsblinkoutintodarkness andI’mthrownfirstagainstthepassengerdoor andthenagainstthebirthdaycakeandthemechanicbehindthesteeringwheel. 

           Themechanic’slyingcrabbedonthewheeltokeepitstraightandthebirthdaycandlessnuffout. Inoneperfectsecondthere’snolightinsidethewarmblackleathercar andourshoutsallhitthesamedeepnote,thesamelowmoanofthetruck’sairhorn, andwehavenocontrol,nochoice,nodirection,andnoescapeandwe’redead. 

           Mywishrightnowisformetodie. IamnothingintheworldcomparedtoTyler.