Read Online Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chuck Palahniuk
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the lid off the can of lye. "You can blow up bridges,” Tyler says.
"You can mix the nitroglycerin with more nitric acid and paraffin and make gelatin explosives,” Tyler says.
"You could blow up a building, easy,” Tyler says.
Tyler tilts the can of lye an inch above the shining wet kiss on the back of my hand.
"This is a chemical burn,” Tyler says, "and it will hurt worse than you’ve ever been burned. Worse than a hundred cigarettes.”
The kiss shines on the back of my hand.
"You’ll have a scar,” Tyler says.
"With enough soap,” Tyler says, "you could blow up the whole world. Now remember your promise.”
And Tyler pours the lye.
9
TYLER’S SALIVA DID two jobs. The wet kiss on the back of my hand held the flakes of lye while they burned. That was the first job. The second was lye only burns when you combine it with water. Or saliva.
"This is a chemical burn,” Tyler said, "and it will hurt more than you’ve ever been burned.”
You can use lye to open clogged drains.
Close your eyes.
A paste of lye and water can burn through an aluminum pan.
A solution of lye and water will dissolve a wooden spoon.
Combined with water, lye heats to over two hundred degrees, and as it heats it burns into the back of my hand, and Tyler places his fingers of one hand over my fingers, our hands spread on the lap of my bloodstained pants, and Tyler says to pay attention because this is the greatest moment of my life.
"Because everything up to now is a story,” Tyler says, "and everything after now is a story.”
This is the greatest moment of our life.
The lye clinging in the exact shape of Tyler’s kiss is a bonfire or a branding iron or an atomic pile meltdown on my hand at the end of a long, long road I picture miles away from me. Tyler tells me to come back and be with him. My hand is leaving, tiny and on the horizon at the end of the road.
Picture the fire still burning, except now it’s beyond the horizon. A sunset.
"Come back to the pain,” Tyler says.
This is the kind of guided meditation they use at support groups.
Don’t even think of the word pain.
Guided meditation works for cancer, it can work for this.
"Look at your hand,” Tyler says.
Don’t look at your hand.
Don’t think of the word searing or flesh or tissue or charred.
Don’t hear yourself cry.
Guided meditation.
You’re in Ireland. Close your eyes.
You’re in Ireland the summer after you left college, and you’re drinking at a pub near the castle where every day busloads of English and American tourists come to kiss the Blarney stone.
"Don’t shut this out,” Tyler says. "Soap and human sacrifice go hand in hand.”
You leave the pub in a stream of men, walking through the beaded wet car silence of streets where it’s just rained. It’s night. Until you get to the Blarney-stone castle.
The floors in the castle are rotted away, and you climb the rock stairs with blackness getting deeper and deeper on every side with every step up. Everybody is quiet with the climb and the tradition of this little act of rebellion.
"Listen to me,” Tyler says. "Open your eyes.
"In ancient history,” Tyler says, "human sacrifices were made on a hill above a river. Thousands of people. Listen to me. The sacrifices were made and the bodies were burned on a pyre.
"You can cry,” Tyler says. "You can go to the sink and run water over your hand, but first you have to know that you’re stupid and you will die. Look at me.
"Someday,” Tyler says, "you will die, and until you know that, you’re useless to me.”
You’re in Ireland.
"You can cry,” Tyler says, "but every tear that lands in the lye flakes on your skin will burn a cigarette burn scar.”
Guided meditation. You’re in Ireland the summer after you left college, and maybe this is where you first wanted anarchy. Years before you met Tyler Durden, before you peed in your first crème anglaise, you learned about little acts of rebellion.
In Ireland.
You’re
"You can mix the nitroglycerin with more nitric acid and paraffin and make gelatin explosives,” Tyler says.
"You could blow up a building, easy,” Tyler says.
Tyler tilts the can of lye an inch above the shining wet kiss on the back of my hand.
"This is a chemical burn,” Tyler says, "and it will hurt worse than you’ve ever been burned. Worse than a hundred cigarettes.”
The kiss shines on the back of my hand.
"You’ll have a scar,” Tyler says.
"With enough soap,” Tyler says, "you could blow up the whole world. Now remember your promise.”
And Tyler pours the lye.
9
TYLER’S SALIVA DID two jobs. The wet kiss on the back of my hand held the flakes of lye while they burned. That was the first job. The second was lye only burns when you combine it with water. Or saliva.
"This is a chemical burn,” Tyler said, "and it will hurt more than you’ve ever been burned.”
You can use lye to open clogged drains.
Close your eyes.
A paste of lye and water can burn through an aluminum pan.
A solution of lye and water will dissolve a wooden spoon.
Combined with water, lye heats to over two hundred degrees, and as it heats it burns into the back of my hand, and Tyler places his fingers of one hand over my fingers, our hands spread on the lap of my bloodstained pants, and Tyler says to pay attention because this is the greatest moment of my life.
"Because everything up to now is a story,” Tyler says, "and everything after now is a story.”
This is the greatest moment of our life.
The lye clinging in the exact shape of Tyler’s kiss is a bonfire or a branding iron or an atomic pile meltdown on my hand at the end of a long, long road I picture miles away from me. Tyler tells me to come back and be with him. My hand is leaving, tiny and on the horizon at the end of the road.
Picture the fire still burning, except now it’s beyond the horizon. A sunset.
"Come back to the pain,” Tyler says.
This is the kind of guided meditation they use at support groups.
Don’t even think of the word pain.
Guided meditation works for cancer, it can work for this.
"Look at your hand,” Tyler says.
Don’t look at your hand.
Don’t think of the word searing or flesh or tissue or charred.
Don’t hear yourself cry.
Guided meditation.
You’re in Ireland. Close your eyes.
You’re in Ireland the summer after you left college, and you’re drinking at a pub near the castle where every day busloads of English and American tourists come to kiss the Blarney stone.
"Don’t shut this out,” Tyler says. "Soap and human sacrifice go hand in hand.”
You leave the pub in a stream of men, walking through the beaded wet car silence of streets where it’s just rained. It’s night. Until you get to the Blarney-stone castle.
The floors in the castle are rotted away, and you climb the rock stairs with blackness getting deeper and deeper on every side with every step up. Everybody is quiet with the climb and the tradition of this little act of rebellion.
"Listen to me,” Tyler says. "Open your eyes.
"In ancient history,” Tyler says, "human sacrifices were made on a hill above a river. Thousands of people. Listen to me. The sacrifices were made and the bodies were burned on a pyre.
"You can cry,” Tyler says. "You can go to the sink and run water over your hand, but first you have to know that you’re stupid and you will die. Look at me.
"Someday,” Tyler says, "you will die, and until you know that, you’re useless to me.”
You’re in Ireland.
"You can cry,” Tyler says, "but every tear that lands in the lye flakes on your skin will burn a cigarette burn scar.”
Guided meditation. You’re in Ireland the summer after you left college, and maybe this is where you first wanted anarchy. Years before you met Tyler Durden, before you peed in your first crème anglaise, you learned about little acts of rebellion.
In Ireland.
You’re
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