people were always asking me, did i know tyler durden.
 i.  ann. iinn.  ff. nnyin.
with a gun barrel between your teeth, you only speak in vowels.
i can't think of anything.
with my tongue, i can feel the rifling in the barrel. for a second, i totally forgot about tyler's whole controlled demolition thing and i wondered how clean this gun is.
that old saying, how you always hurt the one you love, well, it works both way.
we have front row seats for this theater of mass destruction. the demolitions committee of project mayhem wrapped the foundation columns of ten buildings with blasting gelatin. in two minutes, primary charges will blow base charges, and those buildings will be reduced to smoldering rubble. i know this because tyler knows this.
somehow, i realize all of this -- the gun, the bombs, the revolution -- is really about marla singer.
bob had bitch tits.
this was a support group for men with testicular cancer. the big moosie slobbering all over me was bob.
yes. we're men. men is what we are.
six months ago, bob's testicles were removed. then hormone therapy. he developed bitch tits because his testosterone was too high and his body upped the estrogen. that was where my head fit -- into his huge, sweating tits that hung enormous, the way we think of god's as big.
wait. back up. let me start earlier.
for six months. i could not sleep.
with insomnia, nothing is real. everything is far away. everything is a copy of a copy of a copy.
when deep space exploration ramps up, it will be corporations that name everything. the ibm stellar sphere. the philip morris galaxy. planet starbucks.
it must've been tuesday. he was wearing his "cornflower-blue" tie.
you want me to de-prioritize my current reports until you advise of a status upgrade?
he was full of pep. must've had his grande latte enema.
like everyone else, i had become a slave to the ikea nesting instinct.
yes. i'd like to order the erika pekkari slip covers.
if i saw something like clever coffee table sin the shape of a yin and yang, i had to have it.
like the johanneshov armchair in the strinne green stripe pattern.
or the rislampa wire lamps of environmentally-friendly unbleached paper.
even the vild hall clock of galvanized steel, resting on the klipsk shelving unit.
i would flip through catalogs and wonder, "what kind of dining set defines me as a person?" we used to read pornography. now it was the horchow collection.
no, i don't want cobalt. oh, that sounds nice. apricot.
i had it all. even the glass dishes with tiny bubbles and imperfections, proof they were crafted by the honest, simple, hard-working indigenous peoples of wherever.
maybe i died already. look at my face.
can't you give me something?
red-and-blue tuinal, lipstick-red seconals.
i'm in pain.
the big moosie, his eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears. knees together, invisible steps.
bob was a champion bodybuilder. you know that chest expansion program you see on tv? that was his idea.
strangers with this kind of honesty make me go a big rubbery one.
then.  something happened. i was lost in oblivion -- dark and silent and complete.
i found freedom. losing all hope was freedom.
babies don't sleep this well.
i became addicted.
if i didn't say anything, people assumed the worst. they cried harder. i cried harder.
i wasn't really dying, i wasn't host to cancer or parasites; i was the warm little center that the life of this world crowded around.
every evening i died and every evening i was born again. resurrected.
bob loved me because he thought my testicles were removed too. being there, my face against his tits, ready to cry -- this was my vacation.
and, she ruined everything.
this .  chick .  marla singer .  did not have testicular cancer. she was a liar.
she had no diseases at all. i had seen her at my melanoma monday night group .
 and at "free and clear," my blood parasites group thursdays.
-- and, again, at "seize the day," my tuberculosis friday night.
marla -- the big tourist. her lie reflected my lie.
and suddenly, i felt nothing. i couldn't cry. so, once again, i could not sleep.
no, i just can't believe that card is declined -- okay, okay, let me give you a different card number.
next group, after guided meditation, after we open our chakras, when it's time to hug, i'm going to grab that little bitch, marla singer, pin her arms against her sides and say.
marla, you liar, you big tourist. i need this. get out.
when you have insomnia, you're never really asleep and you're never really awake. i hadn't slept in four days.
-- but, in here, in everyone, there's the squint of a five-day headache. yet they forced themselves to be positive. they never said "parasite;" they said "agent." they always talked about getting better.
ahh, chloe. chloe looked the way joni mitchell's skeleton would look if you made it smile and walk around a party being extra nice to everyone.
if i did have a tumor, i'd name it marla. marla. the little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can't.
i never gave my real name at support groups.
hi, chloe.
you look good. you .  look .  like a pirate.
excuse me, i have to.
we need to talk.
i'm on to you. you're a faker. you aren't dying.
okay, in the sylvia plath philosophy way, we're all dying. but you're not dying the way chloe is dying.
you're a tourist. i saw you at melanoma, tuberculosis and testicular cancer.
practicing what?
i'll expose you.
why are you doing this?
these are my groups. i was here first. i've been coming for a year.
anyone who might've noticed either died or recovered and never came back.
i.  i don't know. i guess.  when people think you're dying, they really listen, instead.
yeah.
it becomes an addiction.
look, i can't cry with a faker present.
please. can't we do something.  ?
we'll split up the week. you can have lymphoma, tuberculosis and --
i think testicular cancer should be no contest.
you're kidding.
you can't have both parasites. you can take blood parasites --
okay. i'll take blood parasites and organic brain dementia --
you can't have the whole brain!
then, take blood parasites. it's yours. now we each have three.
you.  left half your clothes.
you're selling those?
the girl had done her homework.
i want ascending bowel cancer.
we'll split it. you get it the first and third sunday of the month.
let's not make a big thing out of it.
um.  marla, should we maybe exchange numbers?
in case we want to switch nights.
this is how i met marla singer.
you wake up at o'hare.
you wake up at seatac.
pacific, mountain, central. lose an hour, gain an hour. this is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.
you wake up at air harbor international.
if you wake up at a different time and in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?
everywhere i travel -- tiny life. single-serving sugar, single-serving cream, single pat of butter.
microwave cordon bleu hobby kit.
shampoo. conditioner combo. single- serving mouthwash, tiny bar of soap.
the people i meet on each flight -- they're single-serving friends. between take-off and landing, we have our time together, but that's all we get.
you wake up at logan.
on a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.
i'm a recall coordinator. my job is to apply the formula. it's a story problem.
a new car built by my company leaves somewhere traveling at 60 miles per hour. the rear differential locks up.
the car crashes and burns with everyone trapped inside. now: do we initiate a recall?
take the number of vehicles in the field, , and multiply it by the probable rate of failure, , then multiply the result by the average out-of-court settlement, . a times b times c equals x.
if x is less than the cost of a recall, we don't do one.
oh, you wouldn't believe.
a major one.
every time the plane banked too sharply on take-off or landing, i prayed for a crash, or a mid-air collision -- anything.
no more haircuts. nothing matters, not even bad breath.
life insurance pays off triple if you die on a business trip.
pardon me?
this is how i met --
no, supply oxygen?
what do you do, tyler?
i mean -- for a living.
we have the same briefcase.
tyler, you are by far the most interesting "single-serving" friend i've ever met.
you see, when you travel, everything is small, self-contained--
thank you.
what?
well, uh.  great.
how i came to live with tyler is: airlines have this policy about vibrating luggage.
excuse me? "throwers?"
my suitcase was vibrating?
i had everything in that bag. my c.k. shirts.  my d.k.n.y. shoes.
home was a condo on the fifteenth floor of a filing cabinet for widows and young professionals. the walls were solid concrete. a foot of concrete is important when your next- door neighbor lets her hearing aid go and has to watch game shows at full volume.
-- or when a volcanic blast of debris that used to be your furniture and personal effects blows out your floor- to-ceiling windows and sails flaming into the night.
how embarrassing.
the police would later tell me that the pilot light might have gone out.  letting out just a little bit of gas.
the gas could have slowly filled the condo. seventeen-hundred square feet with high ceilings, for days and days.
then, the refrigerator's compressor could have clicked on.
if you asked me now, i couldn't tell you why i called him.
hello?
tyler?
uh.  i'm sorry. we met on the plane. we had the same briefcase. i'm.  you know, the clever guy.
i just called a second ago. there was no answer. i'm at a payphone.
well.  let me see.  here's the thing.
you buy furniture. you tell yourself: this is the last sofa i'll ever need. no matter what else happens, i've got the sofa issue handled. then, the right set of dishes. the right dinette.
i guess so.
all gone.
there's always that.
no . no .
delivered from swedish furniture.
delivered from martha stewart.
insurance'll cover it.
what list?
i don't.  think so.
well, i have to file a claim.
don't i?
god, it's late. i should find a hotel.
yeah.
i don't follow.
huh?
no, i.
would that be a problem?
can i stay at your place?
thank you.
what's that?
what?
let me tell you a little bit about tyler durden.
tyler was a night person. he sometimes worked as a projectionist. a movie doesn't come in one big reel, it's on a few. in old theaters, two projectors are used, so someone has to change projectors at the exact second when one reel ends and another reel begins. sometimes you can see two dots on screen in the upper right hand corner.
it's called a "changeover." the movie goes on, and nobody in the audience has any idea.
it affords him other interesting opportunities.
in reel three, right after the courageous dog and the snooty cag -- who have celebrity voices -- eat out of a garbage can, there's the flash of tyler's contribution.
no one really knows that they've seen it. but they did.
only a hummingbird could have caught tyler at work.
tyler also worked as a banquet waiter at the luxurious pressman hotel.
he was the guerrilla terrorist of the food service industry.
he farted on meringue; he sneezed on braised endive; and, with creme of mushroom soup, well.
you get the idea.
i don't know about this.
no. that's a good thing, isn't it?
me?
this is crazy.
where do you want it? in the face?
shit. sorry. that didn't count.
strange.
is it?
call what off?
what fight?
anyone?
my boss, probably. who would you fight?
oh, yeah. i didn't know my dad. well, i knew him, till i was six. he went and married another woman, had more kids. every six years or so he'd do it again -- new city, new family.
i know that.
same here.
we should do this again sometime.
where's your car?
i don't know how tyler found the house, but he'd been there for half a year.
it looked like it was waiting to be torn down. most of the windows were boarded up.
none of the doors locked. the stairs were ready to collapse. i didn't know if he owned it or he was squatting.
neither would have surprised me.
nothing worked. the rusty plumbing leaked. turning on a light meant another light in the house went out.
there were no neighbors. just warehouses and the paper mill. the fart smell of steam, the hamster cage smell of wood chips.
at night, tyler and i were alone for half a mile in every direction.
when it rained, we had to kill the power. by the end of the first month, i didn't care about tv. i didn't mind the warm, stale refrigerator.
the previous occupant had been a bit of a shut-in.
what?
"i am joe's lungs." it's written in first person. "without me, joe could not take in oxygen to feed his red blood cells." there's a whole series -- "i am joe's prostate."
what are you reading?
show-off.
i should have been haggling with my insurance company. i should have been looking for a new condo.
 i should have been upset about my nice, neat, flaming little shit.
but i wasn't.
most of the week, we were ozzie and harriet.
but, wednesday night, ever wednesday night.
 we were finding something out: we were finding out, more and more, that we were not alone.
thursday mornings, all i could do was think about next week.
walter, the microsoft account exec. walter, with his smooth, soft hands. maybe he was thinking about the free- range potluck he'd been to last weekend, or his church-group car-wash fund-raiser. or, probably not.
you can swallow a pint of blood before you get sick.
screw walter. his candy-ass wouldn't last a second wednesday night.
it was right in everyone's face. tyler and i just made it visible.
it was on the tip of everyone's tongue. tyler and i just gave it a name.
every week, tyler gave the rules that he and i decided.
this kid, ricky -- supply clerk -- couldn't remember whether you ordered pens with blue ink or black ink .
but ricky was a god for ten minutes last week when he trounced an actuary twice his size.
sometimes all you could hear were flat, hard packing sounds over the yelling, or the wet choke when someone caught their breath and sprayed.
even if i could tell someone they had a good fight, i wouldn't be talking to the same man.
who you were in fight club is not who you were in the rest of the world.
you weren't alive anywhere like you were there. but fight club only exists in the hours between when fight club starts and when fight club ends.
after fight club, everything else in your life gets the volume turned down. you can deal with anything.
yes.
the people who had power over you have less and less.
by this point, i could wiggle most of the teeth in my jaw.
a guy came to fight club for the first time, his ass was a wad of cookie dough. after a few weeks, he was carved out of wood.
if you could fight any celebrity?
doesn't matter.
shatner. william shatner.
we all started seeing things differently. wherever we went.
i felt sorry for all the guys packing into gyms, trying to look like what calvin klein and tommy hilfiger said they should.
you could take him.
fight club wasn't about winning or losing. it wasn't about words.
they hysterical shouting was in tongues, like at a pentecostal church.
 stop.
when the fight was over, nothing was solved, but nothing mattered.
look at me. how about next month?
afterwards, we all felt saved.
i fell down some stairs.
sometimes tyler spoke for me.
fight club became the reason to cut your hair short and trim your fingernails.
okay.  ghandi.
you?
hello?
marla?
how did you find me?
that's the idea -- we split them.
i found a new one.
it's for men.
look, this is a bad time.
i'm just on my way out.
picture yourself watching marla singer throw herself around her crummy apartment.
this could go on for hours.
so you're staying in tonight?
tyler's door was closed. i'd been living here two months, and tyler's door was never closed.
you're not going to believe what i dreamt last night.
what are you doing here?
what the hell are you doing here?
i already knew the story before he told it to me.
how could tyler, off all people, think it was a bad thing that marla singer was about to die?
he was obviously able to handle it.
no. not at all.
i am jack's raging bile duct.
yeah, i'm sure.
how could tyler not go for that? night before last, he was splicing sex organs into "little mermaid."
i'm fine.
put a gun to my head and paint the wall with my brains.
oh, and my pace is more librarians.
marla doesn't need a lover. she needs a case worker.
she'd invaded my support groups, now she's invading my home.
what?
okay.
yes, i promise.
i said i promise!
if only i had wasted a couple of minutes and gone to watch marla die, none of this would have happened.
i could've moved to another room, one on the third floor -- so i wouldn't have heard them. but i didn't.
i.  uh.  just going to bed.
uh.  nah.
i became the calm, little center of the world. i was the zen master.
i wrote little haiku poems.
i faxed them around to everyone.
some of it, yes.
i got right in everyone's hostile little face. yes, these are bruises from fighting. i'm comfortable with them. i am enlightened.
you give up the condo life, give up all your flaming worldly possessions, go live in a dilapidated house in the toxic waste part of town.
 and you come home to this.
yeah. speaking.
yes?
no, i wasn't aware.
i am jack's cold sweat.
yes, sire, strange. very strange.
dynamite?
what does that mean?
this is.  really a shock.
who do you think could've done this?
huh?
shhhhhh! i don't know what to make of this, sir, i really don't.
no. no, sir. i loved that condo. i loved every stick of furniture. the lamps, the chairs, the rugs, were me. the dishes were me. the plants were.
i'd like to thank the academy.
except for their humping, tyler and marla were never in the same room.
worth every penny.
my parents pulled this exact act for years -- one came in, the other disappeared.
it suits you.
you get rid of her.
i'm six years old again, passing messages between my parents.
i, uh.  think you should go now.
it's time for you to leave.
goodbye.
what is this place?
hard to imagine you in boy scouts.
tyler's kiss was a bonfire on the back of my hand.
guided meditation worked for cancer, it could work for this.
i tried not to think of the words "searing" or "flesh." i imagined my pain as a ball of healing white light.
i was going to my cave to find my power animal.
i.  i think i understand. i think i get it.
no, i'm not.
i don't know.
it isn't.  ?
we don't.  ?
 marla .  ?
you .  you don't know what this feels like, tyler.
tyler sold the soap to department stores at twenty bucks a ear. god knows what they charged. how ironic. we were selling rich women their own fat asses back to them.
he was wearing a yellow tie. it must be thursday. i didn't even wear a tie to work anymore.
i must've left the original in the copy machine.
hmm?
"abuse" the copy machine. there's an image.
me? i'd be very careful who i talked to about this. it sounds like someone dangerous wrote it.  someone who might snap at any moment, stalking from office to office with an armalite ar-10 carbine-gas semiautomatic, bitterly pumping round after round into colleagues and co- workers.
might be someone you've known for years.  somebody very close to you. or, maybe you shouldn't be bringing me every little piece of trash you pick up.
compliance and liability.
just a second. could you excuse me? i need to take this call.
what are you talking about?
i don't know .
she didn't call tyler. i'm neutral in her book.
this is a sweet side of you. picking these up for .  "mrs. haniver" and.  "mrs. raines." where are they?
no, thanks.
nothing.
where? here?
there?
here.
no.
okay. okay, i'm sure.
nothing.
no.  no problem.
i think everything's okay here.
uh .  nah.
so.  are we done?
bob. i'm okay. how are you?
really? great. still "remaining men together?"
really, what's that?
oh.
bob, bob.  i'm a member.
look at my face.
yeah, both of us.
you're welcome.
fight club -- this was mine and tyler's gift.  our gift to the world.
you quit?
work. going to work.
what.  ?
we need to talk.
i am jack's complete lack of surprise.
let's pretend. you're the department of transportation, and you discover that our company intentionally did nothing about leather seats cured in third world countries with chemicals we know cause birth defects? brake linings that fail after a thousand miles. fuel injectors that burn people alive.
what about this? keep me on payroll as an outside consultant. in exchange for my salary, i'll keep my mouth shut. i won't need to come to the office. i can do this job from home.
i am jack's smirking revenge.
please.  don't hit me again, please. i'm your responsibility.
for some reason, i thought of my first fight -- with tyler.
please.  give me the paychecks like i asked for. i won't be any trouble. you won't see me again.
under and behind and inside everything this man took for granted, something horrible had been growing.
please.  please.
and right then, at our most excellent moment together.
please don't hit me again.
six months advance pay. six months!
okay, and.  and.
forty-eight airline flight coupons. plus.  hold on.  just a minute.
i am now officially self-employed.
not as easy as it sounds. people'll do just about anything to avoid a fight.
now nobody was the center of fight club except the two men fighting. the leader walked around in the crowd, out in the darkness.
everyone took a homework assignment.
there's fight club in delaware city.
local 8 just started in penns grove. and, bob said he was at fight club in newcastle last week.
i thought you did.
what are we doing?
what is it?
on a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.
tyler.
tell him!
answer him!
i feel sick.
i don't care, that was horrible.
he had a plan. maybe you just didn't see it till it hit you between the eyes. but, it started to make sense.  in a tyler sort of way. no fear. no distractions. the ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.
hey.
what did you guys do?
i felt like putting a bullet between the eyes of every panda that wouldn't screw to save its species.
i wanted to open the dump valves on oil tankers and smother all the french beaches i'd never see.
i felt like destroying something beautiful.
after you, mr. durden.
no.
why wasn't i told about "project mayhem?"
why wasn't i involved from the beginning? you and i started fight club together.
this is as much mine as yours.
you know what i mean.
look.
i want to know --
shut up!! i want to know what's going on.
what are you doing?!
tyler.
what the hell .  ?!
i'm not asking you to.
i don't think that's true.
tyler.  what is this.  !
i don't know! nothing!
i would feel nothing about my life? is that what you want to hear?!
fuck my life. fuck fight club. fuck you and fuck marla. i'm sick of this. how's that?
what?
okay, okay.  fine.
i'd never been in a car accident. this must've been what all those statistics felt like before i filed them into my reports.
you.  don't have to.  leave.
really.  i mean it. have you been going to your groups?
when?
i don't know.
why are we both.  caught up like this.  with.  ?
i came so close to saying tyler's name, i could feel it vibrate inside my mouth.
i don't understand. why does a weak person have to go out and find a strong person.  to hang onto?
you hear that?
that.  sawing and hammering.
no.
nothing.
this conversation.
 is over.
 a person.
why would you ask if it's a guy or a girl?!
let go of me.  leave me alone.
tyler.  ? what's this for?
um.  what can i do for you, ricky?
wait a minute.
"too young?"
"applicant?"
"training?" tyler.
uh, look. you're too.  young to.  train here. you should probably be on you way.
are you deaf?! i told you to leave! you will never get inside this house!
you're never getting through this door, you stupid little weasel! look at me when i talk to you.  !
what is your major malfunction!?
sooner or later, we all became what tyler wanted us to be.
bob.  bob, wait.  let me explain this to you.
so it went.
tyler built his army.
to what purpose, might one ask? well, one might ask, if not for the first rule of project mayhem.
in tyler we trust.
and, then.
tyler.
he was gone.
planet tyler.
i had to hug the walls, trapped inside this clockwork of space monkeys, cooking and working and sleeping in teams.
the house became a living thing, wet inside from so many people sweating and breathing. so many people moving, the house moved.
where's tyler?
right, right.
i'm all alone. i am jack's broken heart.
get away from me!
the paper street soap company.
he's not here.
he's not here! tyler's not here anymore! he's gone away!
what's going on?
bob.  oh, christ.
what.  what happened.  ?
what.  ?
no.  !
get your hands off him! get off! what the hell do you think you're doing.  ? evidence?! this is a man.  ! you killed him!
no! look at you! you're.  you're running around in ski masks, exploding things.
what he wanted? look.  look at him. look at him! what does he want? this is a person. this is not a cog in your machine.
no, no. this is a man -- this man has a name.
no! wrong! this man's name is robert paulson.
robert paulson is dead. he's dead, because of you.
no -- !
no!
stop that -- !
tyler?
i went to the cities on tyler's used tickets stubs.
in every city, i branched out from the airport to downtown, bar- hopping.
here. let me out, right here.
i'm looking for tyler durden.
this is an emergency. it's important i find him.
every city i went to.
tyler was setting up franchises, all over the country.
i need to know where tyler is. can't you help me?
there's no one else here.
look at my face. i'm a member. i just need to know if you've seen tyler durden.
you are a moron.
under and behind and inside everything i took for granted, something horrible had been growing.
that's the stupidest thing i've ever heard.
am i asleep.  ?
have i slept? i'm not sure if tyler is my bad dream or if i'm tyler's.
i was living in a state of perpetual deja vu.
everywhere i went, i felt i had already been there.
 you know me?
yes.  it's a test.
what?
who do you think i am?
please return your seatbacks to their full upright and locked position.
marla, it's me. have we.  have we ever had sex?
because the answer's "yes" or because the answer's "no?"
will you just answer me, for christsake?!
we did make love?
answer the question!
we've just lost cabin pressure.
what did you say.  ?
say my name.
say my name! what's my name!?
marla, no, wait.
what's this all about, tyler?
why do people think i'm you?
why do people think i'm tyler durden?
answer me, tyler.
i don't know! tell me!
what.  ?
what are you talking about.  ?
the first rule of fight club is -- you don't talk about fight club.
he's not here! tyler's not here anymore! he's gone away!
anyone? my boss, probably. who would you fight?
oh, yeah. i didn't really know my dad.
you are not your job. you are not how much money you have in the bank.
this isn't possible.
what.  what are you saying?
no! this isn't true. we.  we were around other people, together, both of us.
wrong, wrong -- what about the car crash.  the two guys in the backseat?
you took me to the house.
you have jobs.
what about marla?
she's.  you.  you're fucking her.
it's called a "changeover." the movie goes on, and nobody in the audience has any idea.
yes.
bill me!
wait. when were these made?
i need a copy of this.
had i been going to bed earlier every night? have i been sleeping later? has tyler been in charge longer and longer?
wait here.
deja vu, all over again.
who is this?
listen, something is going to happen, something terrible.
excuse me?
now wait, there's been a mix-up. everything's changed.
abort the plan.
did i tell you i'd call you a fascist dickhead?!
marla!
marla.
i'm sorry, i.
marla.  i need to talk to you. it's going to take a tremendous act of faith on your part for you to hear me out.
-- a little more faith than that.
give me a minute, marla, alright.  just sixty seconds.
absolutely, you have every right. i need you to do me a favor.
because.  i'm tyler durden.
clean food, please.
thanks, no clam chowder. that's it.
i know that i've been.  unwell. i know it's been like there's two sides to me.
i deserve that. anyway, i've.  i've only just realized
i mean, the depth and breadth of our relationship has only recently been illuminated for me. i know this.  i know us hasn't been such a great thing for you.
sit down! sit down and give me my last fifteen seconds without opening your mouth!
i'm trying to tell you -- and this is where you have to trust me -- but, i think your life might be in real danger.
you have to get out of here. leave as soon as possible. go to any rural town, away from any major city.
marla.
i'm sorry, but i.
i can't explain. you wouldn't believe me anyway. i'm trying to protect you.
do this for me, marla. do this for me, if you never do anything else.
okay, if that's what it takes, you'll never have to see me again. here.  here.
take this money, get on this bus.  get on, and i promise you, i'll never bother you again, if that's what you want. please.
i'm begging you. get on the bus. get on the bus.
i can't let myself see where you're going. go wherever it takes you, remember.  keep away from major cities.
yes, fine. just, get on. stay away a couple of weeks, at least.
son of a bitch!
i want you to arrest me. i'm the leader of a terrorist organization responsible for acts of vandalism all over the city. detective stern in arson knows who i am.
there are probably several hundred members in the metropolitan area. chapters are sprouting in at least five other major cities. they're tightly-regimented, with many cells capable of operating without a central leader. check this address: 1537 paper street. you'll find the body of robert paulson buried in the garden. you'll also find numerous tubs used to make gallons of nitroglycerin. the plan, i believe, is to blow up these credit card headquarters and the trw building.
you are not your job. you are not how much money you have in the bank.
what?
no.  you're making a mistake!
i'm not tyler durden!
okay, i am tyler durden and i'm ordering you to abort the mission!
you.  you can't be serious about this.
i can't let you.
i'm going to.
i'm not going.
stop finishing.
since when is project mayhem about murder?
you don't know that. there could still be people inside.
if you know, i know.
if i'm wrong, we're both dead.
i'm pulling the green wire.
yes.
fuck you.
bob is dead, tyler. the police blew a hole in his head. was that part of your plan?
fuck your struggle. i want out.
i quit.
tyler.
defuse the bomb.
defuse the bomb, please.
yes.
please.
i think this is about where we came in.
i.  ann. iinn.  ff. nnyin.
i still can't think of anything.
can't you call it off.  ?
please.
paraffin.
paraffin. your merry band mixed the nitro with paraffin. i saw it floating in the bomb.
not exactly according to plan.
how'd you do that?! you're a fucking figment of my imagination.  you're psychogenic fugue state.
oh.  christ.
why.  why.  why.  ?
why can't i get rid of you? why can't i just wish you away?
no, no, i don't. i thank you, i really do. thank you, but i don't need you anymore.
noooo, please.
 no, no, no.
why are you doing this?!
please understand.  i've gotten all i can from this, tyler.
i swear on my life, i won't.
what have you left for me?
not my mouth. our mouth.
it's the only way to get rid of you.
do something for me.
appreciate something.
look at me.
my eyes are open.
i'm okay.
everything's fine.
bring the girl to me. the rest of you get out. now!
don't ask.
get to the rendezvous point. move it!
yes.
i did, i think. but, i'm okay.  i'm fine.
I'm sorry.  you met me at a very strange time in my life.