Disclaimer: Notice how I magically inform you this is not a completely original work and am getting slightly annoyed that people don't already know that. . . . .
Tuesday Night. Blood was in the air. It just hadn't been spilled yet. We all shuffled as quickly as possible down the steps into the musty cellar of the bar. Tyler and I the head of the pack as always. You could have called it poetic, the way that we all queued into a line ready to willingly break bones and bruise limbs. It was great. This is what most of us all lived for, all week long.
Tyler stood in front of us as we all waited for him to give the rules, the new revised rules that he and I had decided on. He stood barefoot, like the rest of us, waiting wordlessly for everyone to cease their exited mumblings.
"Rule One: You do not talk about fight club. Rule number two: You do NOT talk about fight club. Rule three: No shoes, no shirt. Rule four: If someone goes limp, says 'stop', taps out, the fight is over! Rule five: One fight at a time fellas. And the final rule: If this is your first night. . . . . You have to fight."
A secretive smile played on his lips as he stared at the rest of us. He twitched and turned quickly when there were more steps on the stairs. No one ever came to fight clubs late. Everyone was too excited to wait, so mostly when all just mobbed the bar until it closed up and we were taken downstairs, where we anxiously waited for the rules and the first fighters to start off.
A pair of tall blond girls walked enthusiastically down the stairs, their flats making positive chunking sounds on the plywood used to make the steps. When they reached the bottom they seemed to glide over to where everyone else was standing with subtlety and ease like if the stairs hadn't been so old they never would have known that they had slipped in.
They had identical platinum blonde hair down to their waists, as well as identical everything else. Two pairs of gray-green eyes, two identical ski jump noses, two sets of plush pink lips, and two porcelain faces looking with familiar bemusement.
What the fuck are they doing here? What the fuck are those two girls doing here? Everything was coming back, everything about Marla, everything about Marla fucking Singer horning in on my support groups and everything that was helping me finally sleep. Marla had started coming around to the house, to me, to Tyler, having me check her breasts for goddamn breast cancer, now I can accept Marla, now I don't mind fucking Marla, but that's because she's never set foot in Fight Club!
The men tittered with the hilarity and amusement of two girls walking in on the shindig. These girls were coming on, looking like a couple of cosmonaut shoe-shopping, midol popping, full-on females, in to a balls to the wall brawl of epic proportion to pan out the sadomasochistic tendencies in all of them.
"Shhh..." Tyler told them, putting up a hand to signal that he wanted silence from them all. He worked his jaw curiously to try and figure these two girls out by looking at them. Neither of them could have been more than twenty-five. Neither one of them looked like uber-dykes. Neither one of them had any copious muscle mass. So what the fuck were they doing here? "Can I help you?" Tyler asked in a sarcastic way, that was mindblowing to any seriousness that might of occurred from that point on.
The two cocked identical smiles on opposite sides. The crooked smiles of ones to play. Mirror images of hands flying up to hips to rest.
"Is this the place?" One asked. The one on the left.
"The place for what?" Tyler inquired politely.
The two girls smiled devilishly and swayed side to side like they'd done something sneaky behind their mother's back.
Tyler chuckled slowly and turned to the group of men behind him.
"Great. This is just great. Obviously someone is breaking the first two rules!" He bellowed. "But not you," He turned on the twins and looked them in the eyes. "How am I supposed to answer your question if you don't answer mine?" Tyler pursed his lips. "The place for what?"
The twins looked to each other before making a soft 'hmmmm' noise and they said together, "Fight Club."
Tyler looked back at us and smirked.
Are these girls serious? These beautiful, vogue cover twins want to join a group were we beat the shit out of each other ever week to rid ourselves of the frustrations of everyday business life? Where we shirk our responsibilities to pummel opponents from everywhere from the fishmarket to the Holiday Inn front desk. And they wanted to join us? Uh-uh.
"You want to join Fight Club?" He asked.
The twins nodded quickly and crossed their twin arms over their twin C-cups.
Tyler chucked like the entire scenario was hilarious. "First and second rules' you do not talk about Fight Club."
The girls shrugged.
"Third rule's no shoes no shirt," Tyler smile working his jaw quixotically. He knew that would set a problem for the new female demographic.
The twins looked at each other every time they needed guidance. Like a parents or guardian that gave them advice on what to do.
They smirked at Tyler and fluidly stripped off their t-shirts, now garbed only in relaxed fit jeans and lace bras. Identically manicured eyebrows raised to challenge the next conditions.
Everyone was panicking by now. How could these two chicks be in like that just for acting like this was 'Girls Gone Wild' or something. So what they stripped for a chance, there's no way that any of us would feel comfortable hitting a delicate little girl. Everyone else apparently felt the same because there were mumblings of "You gotta be kidding me," and "No fucking way."
"Shhh!" Tyler hissed again, the coolest and collected of them all, amused with the girls who wanted to fight with the big boys. He pressed a finger to his lips. "You really want to be in fight club?'
They laughed like nymphs and nodded, crossing their arms over their chests.
"Fight each other," Tyler said with a smirk.