Of course, when I pulled the trigger, I died.

Liar.

And Tyler died.

With the police helicopters thundering toward us, and Marla and all the support group people who couldn't save themselves, with all of them trying to save me, I had to pull the trigger.

This was better than real life.

And your one perfect moment won't last forever.

Everything in heaven is white on white.

Faker.

Everything in heaven is quiet, rubber-soled shoes.

I can sleep in heaven.

People write to me in heaven and tell me I'm remembered. That I'm their hero. I'll get better.

The angels here are the Old Testament kind, legions and lieutenants, a heavenly host who works in shifts, days, swing. Graveyard. They bring you your meals on a tray with a paper cup of meds. The Valley of the Dolls playset.

I've met G.o.d across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and G.o.d asks me, "Why?"

Why did I cause so much pain?

Didn't I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?

Can't I see how we're all manifestations of love?

I look at G.o.d behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but G.o.d's got this all wrong.

We are not special.

We are not c.r.a.p or trash, either.

We just are.

We just are, and what happens just happens.

And G.o.d says, "No, that's not right."

Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach G.o.d anything.

G.o.d asks me what I remember.

I remember everything.

The bullet out of Tyler's gun, it tore out my other cheek to give me a jagged smile from ear to ear. Yeah, just like an angry Halloween pumpkin. j.a.panese demon. Dragon of Avarice.

Marla's still on Earth, and she writes to me. Someday, she says, they'll bring me back.

And if there were a telephone in Heaven, I would call Marla from Heaven and the moment she says, "h.e.l.lo," I wouldn't hang up. I'd say, "Hi. What's happening? Tell me every little thing."

But I don't want to go back. Not yet.

Just because.

Because every once in a while, somebody brings me my lunch tray and my meds and he has a black eye or his forehead is swollen with st.i.tches, and he says: "We miss you Mr. Durden."

Or somebody with a broken nose pushes a mop past me and whispers: "Everything's going according to the plan."

Whispers: "We're going to break up civilization so we can make something better out of the world."

Whispers: "We look forward to getting you back."

Afterword.

HE LEANED FORWARD, his breath the smell of whiskey drunk straight from the bottle. His mouth never all the way closed. His blue eyes never more than half open. His one hand held a coiled loop of rope, the old hemp kind, blond as his hair. Yellow as his cowboy hat. The cowboy kind of rope, and he shook the rope in my face as he talked. Behind him, an open door showed a flight of stairs that went down into the dark. his breath the smell of whiskey drunk straight from the bottle. His mouth never all the way closed. His blue eyes never more than half open. His one hand held a coiled loop of rope, the old hemp kind, blond as his hair. Yellow as his cowboy hat. The cowboy kind of rope, and he shook the rope in my face as he talked. Behind him, an open door showed a flight of stairs that went down into the dark.

He was young with a flat stomach, wearing a white T-shirt and brown cowboy boots with thick heels. His hair, blond under the straw cowboy hat. A belt with a big metal buckle holding up blue jeans. His skinny white arms, tanned smooth as the pointed toe on each cowboy boot.

His eyes veined with a forest of little red lines, he says to grab hold of the rope and grip it-tight. And pulling the rope, he starts down, his cowboy heels hammer a step, then another step, another hard wooden knock into the dark bas.e.m.e.nt. There, in the dark, dragging me, his breath the whiskey smell, the same as the cotton ball in a doctor's office, the cold touch of rubbing alcohol the moment before an injection.

There, another step into the dark, the cowboy says, "The first rule of the Haunted Tunnel Tour is you don't talk about the Haunted Tunnel Tour."

And I stop. The rope still a loose sagging smile between us.

"And the second rule of the Haunted Tunnel Tour," the cowboy, his whiskey smell says, "is you don't talk about the Haunted Tunnel Tour...."

The rope, the feeling of braided fibers, is twisted hard and greasy smooth in my hand. And still stopped, pulling back on the rope, I tell him: Hey...

From the dark, the cowboy says, "Hey, what?"

I say, I wrote that book.

The rope between us going tighter, tighter, tight.

And the rope stops the cowboy. From the dark, he says, "Wrote what?"

Fight Club, I tell him. I tell him.

And there, the cowboy takes a step back up. The knock of his boot on a step, closer. He tilts his hat back for a better look and pushes his eyes at me, blinking fast, his breath boilermaker strong, breathalyzer strong, he says: "There was a book? a book?"

Yes.

Before there was the movie...

Before 4-H clubs in Virginia were busted for running fight clubs...

Before Donatella Versace sewed razor blades into men's clothing and called it the "fight club look." Before Gucci fashion models walked the runway, shirtless with black eyes, bruised and bloodied and bandaged. Before houses like Dolce and Gabbana launched their new men's look-satiny 1970's shirts in photomural patterns, camouflage-print pants and tight, low-slung leather pants-in Milan's dirty concrete bas.e.m.e.nts...

Before young men started scarring kisses into their hands with lye or Superglue...

Before young men around the world took legal action to change their names to "Tyler Durden"...

Before the band Limp Bizkit bannered their Web site with "Dr. Tyler Durden recommends a healthy dose of Limp Bizkit..."

Before you could walk into Office Depot, shopping for plain, matte white labels, and there on the Avery Dennison package (product item 8293) was a sample label, printed: "Tyler Durden 420 Paper St. Wilmington, DE 19886"...

Before nightclub fist fighting in Brazil, where some nights young men would fight to their deaths...

Before The Weekly Standard The Weekly Standard announced "The Crisis of Manliness"... announced "The Crisis of Manliness"...

Before Susan Faludi's book, Stiffed: The Betrayal of the American Man... Stiffed: The Betrayal of the American Man...

Before the students of Brigham Young University fought for their right to beat one another on Monday nights, insisting there was nothing in Mormon law that prohibited their "Provo Fight Club"...

Before the son of Utah governor Mike Leavitt was charged with disturbing the peace and trespa.s.sing for running a fight club in a Mormon church...

Before The Onion The Onion newspaper ran an expose on "The Quilting Society," where old ladies would meet in a church bas.e.m.e.nt, l.u.s.ting for "bare-knuckled, hand-st.i.tching action," where "the first rule of the quilting society is you don't talk about the quilting..." newspaper ran an expose on "The Quilting Society," where old ladies would meet in a church bas.e.m.e.nt, l.u.s.ting for "bare-knuckled, hand-st.i.tching action," where "the first rule of the quilting society is you don't talk about the quilting..."

Before Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live featured "Fight-Like-A-Girl Club"... featured "Fight-Like-A-Girl Club"...

Before magazine and newspaper editors started calling, asking where to find a typical fight club in their area, so they could send an undercover reporter to write a feature story, a.s.suring me they wouldn't screw up the secret nature of any club chapter...

Before magazine and newspaper editors started calling to cuss me out, swearing at me because I insisted the whole idea of fight clubs was just an invention. Just my imagination...

Before national political cartoons featured "Congressional Fight Club"...

Before the University of Pennsylvania hosted conferences where academics dissected Fight Club Fight Club with everything from Freud to Soft Sculpture to Interpretive Dance... with everything from Freud to Soft Sculpture to Interpretive Dance...

Before a zillion "f.u.c.k Club" p.o.r.n sites...

Before a zillion restaurant reviews headlined: "Bite Club"...

Before Rumble Boys, Inc. started labeling their men's grooming products, hair mousse and gel, with Tyler Durden quotes...

Before you could walk through airports and hear bogus public address announcements paging "Tyler Durden...Would Tyler Durden please pick up the white courtesy phone..."

Before you could find graffiti in Los Angeles, spray painted tags that claim: "Tyler Durden Lives"...

Before people in Texas started wearing T-shirts printed with: "Save Marla Singer"...

Before a variety of illegal Fight Club Fight Club stage plays... stage plays...

Before my refrigerator was covered with photographs sent to me by strangers: grinning, bruised faces and people grappling in backyard boxing rings...

Before the book in dozens of languages: Club de Combate Club de Combate and and De Vechtclub De Vechtclub and and Borilacki Klub Borilacki Klub and and Klub Golih Pesti Klub Golih Pesti and and Kovos Klubas... Kovos Klubas...

Before all that...

There was just a short story. It was just an experiment to kill a slow afternoon at work. Instead of walking a character from scene to scene in a story, there had to be some way to just-cut, cut, cut. To jump. From scene to scene. Without losing the reader. To show every aspect of a story, but only the kernel of each aspect. The core moment. Then another core moment. Then, another.

There had to be some kind of chorus. Something bland that wouldn't hold the reader's attention, but would act to signal a jump to a new angle or aspect of the story. A bland kind of buffer that would be the touchstone or landmark a reader would need to not feel lost. A kind of neutral sorbet, like something served between courses in a fancy dinner. A signal, like buffer music in radio broadcasts, to announce the next topic. The next jump.

A kind of glue or mortar that would hold together a mosaic of different moments and details. Giving them all a continuity and yet showcasing each moment by not ramming it up against the next moment.

Think of the movie Citizen Kane Citizen Kane, and how the faceless, nameless newsreel reporters create the framework for telling the story from a lot of different sources.

That's what I wanted to do. That one, boring afternoon at work.

So for that chorus-that "transitional device"-I wrote eight rules. The whole idea of a fight club wasn't important. It was arbitrary. But the eight rules had to apply to something so why not a club where you could ask someone to fight? why not a club where you could ask someone to fight? The way you'd ask for a dance at a disco. Or challenge someone to a game of pool or darts. The The way you'd ask for a dance at a disco. Or challenge someone to a game of pool or darts. The fighting fighting wasn't the important part of the story. What I needed were the wasn't the important part of the story. What I needed were the rules rules. Those bland landmarks that would allow me to describe this club from the past, the present, up close or far away, the beginning and evolution, to cram together a lot of details and moments-all within seven pages-and NOT lose the reader.

At the time, I had a lingering black eye, a souvenir from a fist fight during my summer vacation. n.o.body I worked with had ever asked about it, and I figured that you could do anything in your private life if it left you so bruised that no one would want to know the details.

At the same time, I'd seen a Bill Moyer television program about how street gangs were really young men raised without fathers, just trying to help one another become men. They issued orders and challenges. Imposed rules and discipline. Rewarded action. All the things a coach or drill sergeant would do.

At the same time, the bookstores were full of books like The Joy Luck Club The Joy Luck Club and and The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and and How to Make an American Quilt How to Make an American Quilt. These were all novels that presented a social model for women to be together. To sit together and tell their stories. To share their lives. But there was no novel that presented a new social model for men to share their lives.

It would have to give men the structure and roles and rules of a game-or a task-but not too touchy-feely. It would have to model a new way to gather and be together. It could've been "Barn-Raising Club" or "Golf Club" and it would've probably sold a lot more books. Something nonthreatening.

But that one slow afternoon, I wrote a seven-page short story called Fight Club. Fight Club. It was the first real story I ever sold. An anthology called It was the first real story I ever sold. An anthology called The Pursuit of Happiness, The Pursuit of Happiness, published by Blue Heron Press, bought it for fifty bucks. In the first edition the publishers, Dennis and Linni Stovall, printed every copy with the wrong t.i.tle on the spine, and the cost of reprinting bankrupted their small press. Today, they've sold every copy. Those printed and misprinted. Mostly to people looking for that original short story that has since become chapter six of the book, published by Blue Heron Press, bought it for fifty bucks. In the first edition the publishers, Dennis and Linni Stovall, printed every copy with the wrong t.i.tle on the spine, and the cost of reprinting bankrupted their small press. Today, they've sold every copy. Those printed and misprinted. Mostly to people looking for that original short story that has since become chapter six of the book, Fight Club. Fight Club.

It was only seven pages because my writing teacher, Tom Spanbauer, had joked that seven pages was the perfect length for a short story.

To make the short story into a book, I added every story my friends could tell. Every party I attended gave me more material. There's the story about Mike splicing p.o.r.no into family movies. There's the story about Geoff p.i.s.sing in soup as a banquet waiter. Once, a friend worried these stories might prompt people to copycat, and I insisted that we were just blue-collar n.o.bodies living in Oregon with public school educations. There was nothing we could imagine that a million people weren't already doing.

Years later, in London, a young man pulled me aside before a book event. He was a waiter at a five-star restaurant-one of only two five-star restaurants in the city-and he loved how I'd depicted waiters spoiling food. Long before they'd read my book, he and the other servers had messed with the food they served celebrities.

When I asked him to name one celebrity, he shook his head. No, he couldn't risk telling.

When I refused to sign his book, he waved me closer and whispered: "Margaret Thatcher has eaten my c.u.m."

He held up one hand, his fingers spread, and said: "At least five times..."

In the workshop where I started to write fiction, you had to read your work in public. Most times, you read in a bar or coffeehouse where you'd be competing with the roar of the espresso machine. Or the football game on television. Music and drunk people talking. Against all this noise and distraction, only the most shocking, most physical, dark and funny stories got heard. Our test audience would never sit still for "Barn-Raising Club."

Really, what I was writing was just The Great Gatsby, The Great Gatsby, updated a little. It was "apostolic" fiction-where a surviving apostle tells the story of his hero. There are two men and a woman. And one man, the hero, is shot to death. updated a little. It was "apostolic" fiction-where a surviving apostle tells the story of his hero. There are two men and a woman. And one man, the hero, is shot to death.