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Do
n't
picture
a
team
of
men
tug-of-warring
your
legs
apart
.
A
million
miles
away
,
a
bah-zillion
miles
away
,
a
rough
warm
hand
wraps
around
the
base
of
you
and
pulls
you
back
,
and
something
is
holding
you
tight
,
tighter
,
tighter
.
A
rubber
band
.
You
're
in
Ireland
.
You
're
in
fight
club
.
You
're
at
work
.
You
're
anywhere
but
here
.
"
Three
minutes
!
"
Somebody
far
far
away
yells
,
"
You
know
the
speech
Mr.
Durden
.
Do
n't
fuck
with
fight
club
.
"
The
warm
hand
is
cupped
under
you
.
The
cold
tip
of
the
knife
.
An
arm
wraps
around
your
chest
.
Therapeutic
physical
contact
.
Hug
time
.
And
the
ether
presses
your
nose
and
mouth
,
hard
.
Then
nothing
,
less
than
nothing
.
Oblivion
.
