Бойцовский клуб

           Gonads. 

           Jewels. 

           Testes. 

           Huevos. 

           PicturethebestpartofyourselffrozeninasandwichbagatthePaperStreetSoapCompany. 

           "Youknowit’suselesstofightus,"themechanicsays. 

           Thebusdriverchewshissandwichandwatchesusintheoverheadmirror. 

           Apolicesirenwails,comingcloser. Atractorrattlesacrossafieldinthedistance.Birds. Awindowinthebackofthebusishalfopen. Clouds.Weedsgrowattheedgeofthegravelturnaround. Beesorfliesbuzzaroundtheweeds. 

           "We’rejustafteralittlecollateral,"thefightclubmechanicsays. "Thisisn’tjustathreat,thistime,Mr.Durden. Thistime,wehavetocutthem." 

           Thebusdriversays, "It’scops." 

           Thesirenarrivessomewhereatthefrontofthebus. 

           SowhatdoIhavetofightbackwith? 

           Apolicecarpullsuptothebus, lightsflashingblueandredthroughthebuswindshield,andsomeoneoutsidethebusisshouting, "Holdupinthere." 

           AndI’msaved. 

           Sortof. 

           IcantellthecopsaboutTyler. I’lltellthemeverythingaboutfightclub,andmaybeI’llgotojail, andthenProjectMayhemwillbetheirproblemtosolve, andIwon’tbestaringdownaknife.