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I
held
the
face
of
mister
angel
like
a
baby
or
a
football
in
the
crook
of
my
arm
and
bashed
him
with
my
knuckles
,
bashed
him
until
his
teeth
broke
through
his
lips
.
Bashed
him
with
my
elbow
after
that
until
he
fell
through
my
arms
into
a
heap
at
my
feet
.
Until
the
skin
was
pounded
thin
across
his
cheekbones
and
turned
black
.
I
wanted
to
breathe
smoke
.
Birds
and
deer
are
a
silly
luxury
,
and
all
the
fish
should
be
floating
.
I
wanted
to
burn
the
Louvre
.
I
'd
do
the
Elgin
Marbles
with
a
sledgehammer
and
wipe
my
ass
with
the
Mona
Lira
.
This
is
my
world
,
now
.
This
is
my
world
,
my
world
,
and
those
ancient
people
are
dead
.
It
was
at
breakfast
that
morning
that
Tyler
invented
Project
Mayhem
.
We
wanted
to
blast
the
world
free
of
history
.
We
were
eating
breakfast
in
the
house
on
Paper
Street
,
and
Tyler
said
,
picture
yourself
planting
radishes
and
seed
potatoes
on
the
fifteenth
green
of
a
forgotten
golf
course
.
You
'll
hunt
elk
through
the
damp
canyon
forests
around
the
ruins
of
Rockefeller
Center
,
and
dig
clams
next
to
the
skeleton
of
the
Space
Needle
leaning
at
a
forty-five-degree
angle
.
We
'll
paint
the
skyscrapers
with
huge
totem
faces
and
goblin
tikis
,
and
every
evening
what
's
left
of
mankind
will
retreat
to
empty
zoos
and
lock
itself
in
cages
as
protection
against
bears
and
big
cats
and
wolves
that
pace
and
watch
us
from
outside
the
cage
bars
at
night
.
"
Recycling
and
speed
limits
are
bullshit
,
"
Tyler
said
.
"
They
're
like
someone
who
quits
smoking
on
his
deathbed
.
"
