The Fight Within/ Fight Club Part II

Fellow classmates: I took a creative writing class for fun two summers ago and one of the assignments was to write a  condensed prequel or sequel to a movie we liked in short story form. I was looking for something when I got home and my sequel to Fight Club literally fell at my feet. In light of my blog, thought I would post it for fun, hope those who give it a gander, enjoy it.

The Fight Within

Fight Club Part II

    I am Tyler's hideous scar.

I am stared at and recognized, but never questioned.

I have tried to forget about Tyler, but his scar is embedded in my face. I feel like I haven't been completely honest, seat 7F was not the first time I met Tyler Durden, nor was it the first time Tyler met Jack.

   I am Jack's screaming embarassment.

Tyler and I once had a conversation of who we would most like to fight.

I said my boss; Tyler said his dad, one in the same.

My dad's name was Jack.

Jack wanted me to get a good job, a respectable wardrobe, and tangible possesions; we can convince other people we're something we're not, but never ourselves.

We are our parents.

   In any dictionary, the term boss; is to supervise, control, and give orders to. The world needs a boss, for we are lacking control and are without order, and don't tell me GOD is it. For, he has washed his hands of us since Adam and Eve, now he just laughs as we bask in our naked essence, too oblivious to be ashamed.

We are GOD's comic relief.

These thoughts are racing through my head, as I lay on this floral print sturdy couch. My left hand is tucked in my pants as I drift through thought clouds; staring at the taupe painted walls.

Taupe is said to be soothing, which is why it is the color of choice in mental institutions; which is where I am.

People tend to question your frame of mind, when you shoot yourself in the face.

"I shot Tyler" I said.

"We know" would be there reply.

   There's some fat female therapist sitting across from me trying to open me up. She's having as much luck, as when you try to open a wine bottle, and the cork breaks and gets wedged in the neck, and no matter how hard you try, you can't get it out. All I can think of, is how many bars of soap her fat ass would make. I respond to her, my lips are moving but it might as well be my sphincter.

Jack's sphincter is conversating.

   I'm thinking about Marla Singer, I can't get a hold of her, man, that girl could fuck. The therapist is now talking about improving my self esteem, Tyler told me self-improvement is masturbation.

Jack's cock is crowing.

The therapist asks "Where does this destructive behaviour stem from?"

I say nothing, thats Rule 1. Rule 2, see Rule 1.

   The best memories I have with my father are when he beats the shit out of me. I never got a hug, or a pat on the back, or even much converation. When his clenched hand made contact, those were the moments I felt most alive and close to him. It was our father and son time. The bonding of men.

For my father I would give the shirt of my back. I am barefoot and walking on eggshells. Rule 6.

Jack's nose is broken as is my concentration; I haven't slept in three weeks.

History repeats itself as I ride the viscious unicycle, I long for tears. I long for Robert Paulson, that big moosie, his embrace was my vacation, and I killed him. Not in the traditional sense, but through Project Mayhem.

   The term mayhem; is to do a damaging or violent action, or to commit the crime of crippling or mutating a person. I look down at the acid burn on my hand, and with that hand I stroke the crooked train track on my face.

I am Tyler's Project Mayhem.

I am an innocent criminal. Project Mayhem has completely spun out of control since I've been in here; we get to watch the news in the common room. The Parker-Morris building was the first of many to fall down, it began the domino effect in this city's mass destruction. Cars overturned and on fire, stampedes of people run wild in the streets making the L.A. riots look tame.

Tyler Durden Lives graffiti talks hard, underground fight clubs infest our city like the plague, mayhem is everywhere.

   Most people feel they are legends in their own mind, and here a part of my mind has become a legend.

I watch these orderlies in the ward and I feel pity for them, they are the glorrified babysitters of GOD's faux pas'; the one that delivers my food tray nods and whispers.

"We have the girl, the crow flies at midnight sir."

I swear I'm hearing things.

"What" I say.

"The crow flies at midnight."

He unbuttons his uniform shirt showing me a t-shirt that reads: Tyler says. I need no more explanation, history repeats itself. Tyler was the splice in the film of the human mind, giving subliminal commands that you feel compelled to follow through on.

They were breaking me out for the greater good of Project Mayhem and there was nothing I could do about it. At the stroke of midnight I was muzzled, so screaming was useless. In fact, in the Psych ward screams were an unpleasant amenity. This new security guard carried me out; it was all part of their plan.
They were looking for order and thought I was it.

   I feel like I haven't been completely honest, seat 7F was not the first time I met Tyler Durden, nor was it the last.

Tyler was the ambassador of the blue-collar society. Tyler oozed cool in his pimp fur coat, shaved head and aviator sunglasses, as he held open the door of the van I'm being thrown into.

Like a broken scratchy record; this question screams.

Who would you want to fight to the death?

The answer; myself.