Shove David Housley’s short story “Fight Club Club” in your browser and read it already. If you can’t handle that, space monkey, at least check out this excerpt:
I check the lock again and Charles turns up the volume. “Maybe you better watch this,” he says. Onscreen, Brad Pitt is getting beat up by some fat old man. Pitt keeps on asking for more, getting abused, pulverized. Finally, he pins the guy, shakes his head, spurting blood all over until the old man freaks out, retreats up the stairs. James laughs and sneaks a glance at me. His long blond hair is tucked behind his ears and he wears flowered surf shorts. He’s been gaining weight since he moved in, the beginnings of a double chin swelling beneath his jaw.
The truth is we’re getting too old for this, sitting around and getting high, watching the same movie over and over. We should be getting married, having kids, putting money into retirement or college tuition funds. We were headed that way, right on schedule, with our grown-up furniture, real jobs, our love handles and serious girlfriends.
But bad things always happen in threes: Charles got fired, James moved in, I got in the accident. It seemed like, as slowly as the whole thing had built—relationships, jobs, responsibility—it was over in a flash. We were back to being twelve again, a bunch of guys goofing around, drinking too much, and hitting each other in the nuts.
And then Charles found this goddamn movie.
[hat-tip: Emerging Writers Network]