Бойцовский клуб

           BecauseI’mTylerDurden,andyoucankissmyass, Iregistertofighteveryguyintheclubthatnight.Fiftyfights. Onefightatatime.Noshoes.Noshirts. 

           Thefightsgoonaslongastheyhaveto. 

           AndifTylerlovesMarla. 

           IloveMarla. 

           Andwhathappensdoesn’thappeninwords. IwanttosmotheralltheFrenchbeachesI’llneversee. ImaginestalkingelkthroughthedampcanyonforestsaroundRockefellerCenter. 

           ThefirstfightIget,theguygetsmeinafullnelsonandramsmyface,ramsmycheek, ramstheholeinmycheekintotheconcreteflooruntilmyteethinsidesnapoffandplanttheirjaggedrootsintomytongue. 

           NowIcanrememberPatrickMadden,deadonthefloor,hislittlefigurineofawife, justalittlegirlwithachignon. Hiswifegiggledandtriedtopourchampagnebetweenherdeadhusband’slips. 

           Thewifesaidthefakebloodwastoo,toored. Mrs.PatrickMaddenputtwofingersinthebloodpoolednexttoherhusbandandthenputthefingersinhermouth. 

           Theteethplantedinmytongue,Itastetheblood. 

           Mrs.PatrickMaddentastedtheblood. 

           Irememberbeingthereontheoutskirtsofthemurdermysterypartywiththespacemonkeywaitersstandingbodyguardaroundme. Marlainherdresswithawallpaperpatternofdarkroseswatchedfromtheothersideoftheballroom.