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Tyler Durden

Tyler Durden

Sat next to me

At the coffee shop,

Drinking a Bloody Merry,

And reading

‘The Anarchist Handbook’,

By Michael Malice.


He saw me staring at this book,

And raised an eyebrow at me,

‘Do you play?’

He said, as he pointed at the book

‘Not really’, I said.


He looked me up and down

And said,

‘Shame. A man who’s been stepped on as many times as you would make a great player.’


‘I fight, but against other men who know how–not against janitors or cops. Big difference.’


He scowled at me and took a drink from his bloody.


‘You think you are better than us? You’re just gum on the boots of the man. Soon he’ll step in shit. You’ll be shitty gum underneath a boot. You’re just like us.’


‘Sure, guy. Sure.’


‘I’d like to punch you in the eye socket and stomp on your rib cage. I want to make you beg for mercy. I want to–


-You wouldn’t be able to.’


I turned away from Tyler, yawned and started to type again.


‘Fuck you, man.’


He got up and walked away. I knew it was intentional–him leaving that book behind–but I grabbed it and flipped through it. I had been wanting to read that one for awhile now.


He left me alone with that book for 45 minutes before coming back for it. He approached the table and a big wicked grin grew out of his black and blue face.


‘So you ready to fight yet?’


I closed the book and handed it back to him.


‘I use body wash, not soap.’


I got up and walked away.


-C.H.

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