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This
is
n't
real
.
This
is
a
dream
,
and
I
'll
wake
up
.
"
Then
wake
up
.
"
And
then
the
telephone
's
ringing
,
and
Tyler
's
gone
.
Sun
is
coming
through
the
curtains
.
It
's
my
7
A.
M.
wake-up
call
,
and
when
I
pick
up
the
receiver
,
the
fine
is
dead
FAST
FORWARD
,
fly
back
home
to
Marla
and
the
Paper
Street
Soap
Company
.
Everything
is
still
falling
apart
.
At
home
,
I
'm
too
scared
to
look
in
the
fridge
.
Picture
dozens
of
little
plastic
sandwich
bags
labeled
with
cities
like
Las
Vegas
and
Chicago
and
Milwaukee
where
Tyler
had
to
make
good
his
threats
to
protect
chapters
of
fight
club
.
Inside
each
bag
would
be
a
pair
of
messy
tidbits
,
frozen
solid
.
.
In
one
corner
of
the
kitchen
,
a
space
monkey
squats
on
the
cracked
linoleum
and
studies
himself
in
a
hand
mirror
.
"
I
am
the
all-singing
,
all-dancing
crap
of
this
world
,
"
the
space
monkey
tells
the
mirror
.
"
I
am
the
toxic
waste
byproduct
of
God
's
creation
.
"
Other
space
monkeys
move
around
in
the
garden
,
picking
things
,
killing
things
.
