A/N: Hey everyone. This is a parody of the novel Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. I own nothing!

See you at the bottom :)


Raena gets me a job as a soldier, after that Raena's pushing me into a wall and yelling, the first step to eternal salvation is you have to live. For a long time though, Raena and I were best enemies. People are always asking, did I fight with Raena Moretti.

The palm of her hand pressed against the front of my throat, Raena says "We really won't live."

With my eyes I can see the silver dagger that always hangs around her neck. Most of the silver is so shiny it looks like the lucky charm of a necklace, and there's the tiny hole in the center because the dagger is hollow and filled with poison. To drill the hole, you just follow a complicated process, a really complicated process. This ensures no one else knows how to do it and you feel like an idiot forever.

You drill the hole wrong and the poison will disintegrate your flesh.

"This isn't really life," Raena says. "We'll be ancient. We won't be young."

I bite the inside of my cheek and say, Raena, you're thinking of zombies.

The city we're standing in won't be here in ten minutes. You take a 98 percent concentration of fuming rage and add the anger to three times that amount of desperation. Do this in an abandoned warehouse.

Then add pain drop-by-drop with an eye dropper. You have insanity.

I know this because Raena knows this.

Mix the insanity with arrogance, and you have a nice conspiracy theory. A lot of folks mix their insanity with crocodile tears and add political immunity as a disguise. This works too. Some folks, they use blackmail mixed with insanity. Blackmail has never, ever worked for me.

So Raena and I are on top of New York City with her hand wrapped around my throat, and we hear guns firing. Look over your shoulder. It's a dark day, even this far out. This is the world's most dangerous city, and this far out the wind is always cold. It's so dark this far out, the feeling you get is that you're one of those invisible people. You do whatever you want and no one can ever see you.

Rob a bank.

Steal a car.

Once I shot a man in Rio, just to watch him die.

One hundred and ninety-one miles ahead, you look over your shoulder and the street in front of us is mottled with a shag carpet of people, screaming, running fast. The firing guns are the sons of Italy right in front of us. A gun blows out the side of the building, and out comes a man as big as an ancient god, right behind us a six-man army walks right out of the glass and rock debris of a building, and walks slowly, and walks getting smaller, and walks disappearing into the packed crowd.

Somewhere in the one hundred and ninety-one miles ahead of us, the sons of Italy in the La Cosa Nostra are running wild, destroying every scrap of civilized society.

That old saying, how you always kill the one you love, well, look, it works both ways.

With a hand wrapped around your throat and a poison dagger between your eyes, you can only talk in squeaks.

We're down to our last ten minutes.

Another window blows out of the building, and glass sprays out, sparkling flock-of-pigeons style, and then a dark wooden desk pushed by the La Cosa Nostra emerges inch by inch from the side of the building until the desk tilts and slides and turns end-over-end into a magic flying thing lost in the crowd.

New York City won't be here in nine minutes. You take enough blasting insanity and wrap it tight around the foundations of sanity, you can topple any city in the world. You have to tamp it good and tight with a blind man's prayer so the blast goes against sanity and not out into the dangerous abyss around sanity.

This how-to stuff isn't in any history book.

The three ways to make a conspiracy theory: One, you can mix equal parts of wrath and pride. Two, you can mix equal parts of wrath and envy. Three, you can dissolve blood money in wrath until the mixture is thick.

Ask me how to slit someone's throat. Oh, all those crazy street kids.

Nine minutes.

New York City will go down, all one hundred and ninety-one million square miles, slow as a drive through the country. Metal. You can destroy anything. It's weird to think the place where we're standing will only be a point in the ground.

Raena and me at the edge of New York City, her hand at my throat, I'm wondering how sharp her nails are.

We just totally forget about Raena's whole murder-suicide thing while we watch another six-man army slip out the side of the building and the smoke rolls open midair, puffs of it caught in the updraft and carried off on the wind.

Eight minutes.

Then the fire, fire starts out of the broken windows. The annihilation team will hit the first square in maybe eight minutes. The first square will blow the foundations of sanity, the foundation will crumble, and the photo series of New York City will go into all the history books.

The five-picture time-lapse series. Here, the city's standing. Second picture, the city will be at an eighty-degree angle. Then a seventy-degree angle. The city's at a forty-five degree angle in the fourth picture when the skeleton starts to give and the skyscrapers get a slight arch to them. The last shot, the city, all one hundred and ninety-one million square miles, will slam down on society which is Raena's real target.

"This is their world, now, their world," Raena says, "and those ancient people are us."

If I knew how this would all turn out, I'd be more than happy to be dead and in Hell right now.

Seven minutes.

Up on top of New York City with Raena's hand at my throat. While desks and six-man armies and people meteor down on the crowd around the building and smoke funnels up from the broken windows and three blocks down the street the annihilation team watches the clock, I know all of this: the dagger, the conspiracy theory, the explosion is really about Luke Giovanni.

Six minutes.

We have sort of a triangle thing going here. I want Raena. Raena wants Luke. Luke wants me.

I don't want Luke, and Raena doesn't want me around, not anymore. This isn't about love as in caring. This is about property as in ownership.

Without Luke, Raena would have nothing.

Five minutes.

Maybe we would become a legend, maybe not. No, I say, but wait.

Where would Raena be if no one had written the rules?

Four minutes.

I swallow under the hand wrapped around my neck and say, you want to be a legend, Raena, girl, I'll make you a legend. I've been here from the beginning.

I know everything.

Three minutes.


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