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I
would
do
the
Elgin
Marbles
with
a
sledgehammer
and
wipe
my
ass
with
the
Mona
Lisa
.
Mrs.
Patrick
Madden
held
her
two
bloody
fingers
up
,
the
blood
climbing
the
cracks
between
her
teeth
,
and
the
blood
ran
down
her
fingers
,
down
her
wrist
,
across
a
diamond
bracelet
,
and
to
her
elbow
where
it
dripped
.
Fight
number
three
,
I
wake
up
and
it
's
time
for
fight
number
three
.
There
are
no
more
names
in
fight
club
.
You
are
n't
your
name
.
You
are
n't
your
family
.
Number
three
seems
to
know
what
I
need
and
holds
my
head
in
the
dark
and
the
smother
.
There
's
a
sleeper
hold
that
gives
you
just
enough
air
to
stay
awake
.
Number
three
holds
my
head
in
the
crook
of
his
arm
,
the
way
he
'd
hold
a
baby
or
a
football
,
in
the
crook
of
his
arm
,
and
hammers
my
face
with
the
pounding
molar
of
his
clenched
fist
.
Until
my
teeth
bite
through
the
inside
of
my
cheek
.
Until
the
hole
in
my
cheek
meets
the
corner
of
my
mouth
,
the
two
run
together
into
a
ragged
leer
that
opens
from
under
my
nose
to
under
my
ear
.
Number
three
pounds
until
his
fist
is
raw
.
Until
I
'm
crying
.
