Free Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk Page B

hands, Walter,” Madam says.
    "It will be alright.”
    Madam says, "Who would do this to me? Who could hate me this much?”
    The host says, to Albert, "Would you call an ambulance?”
    That was Tyler’s first mission as a service industry terrorist. Guerrilla waiter. Minimum-wage despoiler. Tyler’s been doing this for years, but he says everything is more fun as a shared activity.
    At the end of Albert’s story, Tyler smiles and says, "Cool.”
    Back in the hotel, right now, in the elevator stopped between the kitchen and the banquet floors, I tell Tyler how I sneezed on the trout in aspic for the dermatologist convention and three people told me it was too salty and one person said it was delicious.
    Tyler shakes himself off over the soup tureen and says he’s run dry. This is easier with cold soup, vichyssoise, or when the chefs make a really fresh gazpacho. This is impossible with that onion soup that has a crust of melted cheese on it in ramekins. If I ever ate here, that’s what I’d order.
    We were running out of ideas, Tyler and me. Doing stuff to the food got to be boring, almost part of the job description. Then I hear one of the doctors, lawyers, whatever, say how a hepatitis bug can live on stainless steel for six months. You have to wonder how long this bug can live on Rum Custard Charlotte Russe.
    Or Salmon Timbale.
    I asked the doctor where could we get our hands on some of these hepatitis bugs, and he’s drunk enough to laugh.
    Everything goes to the medical waste dump, he says.
    And he laughs.
    Everything.
    The medical waste dump sounds like hitting bottom.
    One hand on the elevator control, I ask Tyler if he’s ready. The scar on the back of my hand is swollen red and glossy as a pair of lips in the exact shape of Tyler’s kiss.
    "One second,” Tyler says.
    The tomato soup must still be hot because the crooked thing Tyler tucks back in his pants is boiled pink as a jumbo prawn.

11
    IN SOUTH AMERICA , Land of Enchantment, we could be wading in a river where tiny fish will swim up Tyler’s urethra. The fish have barbed spines that flare out and back so once they’re up Tyler, the fish set up housekeeping and get ready to lay their eggs. In so many ways, how we spent Saturday night could be worse.
    "It could’ve been worse,” Tyler says, "what we did with Marla’s mother.”
    I say, shut up.
    Tyler says, the French government could’ve taken us to an underground complex outside of Paris where not even surgeons but semiskilled technicians would razor our eyelids off as part of toxicity testing an aerosol tanning spray.
    "This stuff happens,” Tyler says. "Read the newspaper.”
    What’s worse is I knew what Tyler had been up to with Marla’s mother, but for the first time since I’ve known him, Tyler had some real play money. Tyler was making real bucks. Nordstrom’s called and left an order for two hundred bars of Tyler’s brown sugar facial soap before Christmas. At twenty bucks a bar, suggested retail price, we had money to go out on Saturday night. Money to fix the leak in the gas line. Go dancing. Without money to worry about, maybe I could quit my job.
    Tyler calls himself the Paper Street Soap Company. People are saying it’s the best soap ever.
    "What would’ve been worse,” Tyler says, "is if you had accidentally eaten Marla’s mother.”
    Through a mouthful of Kung Pao Chicken, I say to just shut the hell up.
    Where we are this Saturday night is the front seat of a 1968 Impala sitting on two flats in the front row of a used-car lot. Tyler and me, we’re talking, drinking beer out of cans, and the front seat of this Impala is bigger than most people’s sofas. The car lots up and down this part of the boulevard, in the industry they call these lots the Pot Lots where the cars all cost around two hundred dollars and during the day, the gypsy guys who run these lots stand around in their plywood offices smoking long, thin cigars.
    The cars are the beater first cars kids drive