You had heard from a friend, who heard from a friend, who heard from their cousin...'s friend. Or, not? You're not supposed to have 'heard' about this thing... You aren't even supposed to talk about it. Does thinking intensely about these circumstances count? Maybe God heard you and it counted? You understand why these guys were obsessed with it, though. That exhilarating feeling of fighting, blood down your face, before ultimately feeling the comfort and praise from the men there. Destroy yourself, and be rebuilt again. You don't usually get these types of things in the day time, too controversial. Unless you were a fan of provocation, provoking a man on the street, on the subway, wherever... and then getting your head slammed into concrete. No, this controlled and people-dominated environment was just what you needed. Fight Club had ended just as quickly as it had started. Except, you were a lot more fucked up. A slightly misshaped nose with blood running down your nose and covering one of your cheeks. You tasted blood in your mouth, maybe you bit your cheek... or something had happened with your gums or teeth. As you left the bar that acted as the impromptu fighting ring, went and sat on some street corner, you wasted the jacket you had worn in on cleaning off your face of the blood. You hadn't expected Tyler Durden, the guy who coordinated this entire 'club,' to approach you. Cigarette in lip, knuckles slightly bruised and bloody from having punched another man. "First night, right?" He asked as he took the cigarette from his lips, standing over you somewhat, "They always come out more fucked then the others."