His Name Is Robert Paulson

My name is Robert Paulson and I am forty-eight years old. My name is Robert Paulson, and I will be forty-eight years old, forever. I am forty-eight years old, and I was part of fight club. I am forty-eight years old, and I was part of Project Mayhem. Only in death will we have our own names since only in death are we no longer part of the effort. In death we become heroes.

My journey to this point began when I met a man calling himself "Cornelius". I went to Remaining Men Together, as I usually did, and wrapped my arms around Tyler Durden, though he was calling himself Cornelius. I smothered Mr Durden into my bitch tits and cried.

I cried because I had lost my huevos. I cried because I had been divorced three times. I cried because my own two kids wouldn't return my calls. They were embarrassed to have a dad with bitch tits. They were embarrassed to have a dad with no balls.

I lost everything when I got cancer. I lost my wife. I lost my kids respect. I lost my money. I owned a gym. I was on TV advertising my gym. I couldn't do that anymore. Who would want to go to a gym owned by a guy with boobs? My life was over.

Then, one day, I heard about a club. I heard about it from David. He said he'd gone to a wonderful club the night before. A club that lets you fight the cancer in a metaphorical way. A club that allows you to stay a man. Fight club. At this point, Cornelius had left. We thought he'd died. We'd mourned him. Everyone at Remaining Men Together decided we would disband. We would go to fight club. That would be our new therapy group. I was chosen to stay behind and inform anyone else who arrived that we we joining a different club. Cornelius walked in.

I smiled. "We thought you were dead."

"Yeah, me too."

"Well, I've got good news."

"Where is everybody?" Everyone had left to go to fight club.

"That's the good news. The groups disbanded. I only come here to tell any guys who might show up." Cornelius collapsed with his eyes closed on one of the plaid thrift store couches. "The good news," I said, "is there's a new group, but the first rule about this new group is you aren't supposed to talk about it. And the second rule is you're not supposed to talk about it." Cornelius opened his eyes. "The group's called fight club," I said, "and it meets every Friday night in a closed garage across town. On Thursday nights, there's another fight club that meets at a garage closer by. The first rule about fight club," I said, "is you don't talk about fight club. The second rule about fight club," I said, "is you don't talk about fight club. Only two men per fight. Only one fight at a time," I said. "You fight without shirts or shoes. The fights," I said, "go on as long as they have to. Those are the rules invented by the guy who invented fight club." I asked, "Do you know him? I've never seen him, myself," I said, "but the guy's name is Tyler Durden.

"Do I know him. I dunno," Cornelius said. "Maybe." I would find out later that Cornelius' real name was Tyler Durden. He had started fight club.

A few weeks later, I heard about Project Mayhem. I heard rumours about how if you withstood Tyler's abuse for three days, you were admitted to Project Mayhem.

I did it. I showed up to 5123 NE Paper Street with five hundred dollars cash, two black shirts, two black pair of trousers, one pair of heavy black shoes, two pair of black socks and two pair of plain underwear, one heavy black coat, one white towel, one army surplus cot mattress and one white plastic mixing bowl. I stayed there for three days. I joined Project Mayhem.

I carried out a few assignments. On my fourth homework assignment, I died. It was a regulation chill-and-drill homework assignment. Nothing I hadn't done before. I sprayed some R-134a into the lock cylinder of the automatic bank teller machine. I drilled into it, shattering the lock. I was interrupted by a police officer. I turned and, I assume, he mistook my cordless electric drill for a gun.

"Freeze! Drop the weapon!" It was better to get hurt than arrested. If you were arrested, you were off Project Mayhem, no more homework assignments. The cop's gun fired. Time slowed down. The bullet moved. It hit me in the middle of my forehead. My brains were splattered out of the back of my head. I fell.

His name is Robert Paulson and he is forty-eight years old. His name is Robert Paulson, and he will be forty-eight years old, forever. He is forty-eight years old, and he was part of fight club. He is forty-eight years old, and he was part of Project Mayhem. Only in death will we have our own names since only in death are we no longer part of the effort. In death we become heroes.

A/N I hope you enjoyed this. I might do some more fight club one shots based on different characters points of view. I'm thinking about doing one from the point of view of the Narrator's boss.