Until now you have tried to make your business profitable with steady growth rate. Now when you have passed the first stage in business and have made a successful business is time to expand and take it to the next level. Here are some pointers that could guide you with your expansion:
Expand with another location – First of all make sure that you can financially support a new location. Don’t rush into renting one that is cheaper; find a location that matches your business needs.
You can invest into new domains – Domains that have a connection with your current business or domains that are completely new. For this you have to do a lot of market research.
You can target other markets – Make new products that are destined to other markets, and match consumer’s needs. In this way you can increase rapidly your revenues. But be careful with the market research, it has to be correct.
Franchise your business – In this way you can increase you brands awareness with minimal costs. Be careful, so those who buy your license keep your high standards.
Buy a business - If you want do diversify your portfolio, you can buy a business. In this way you have a client database, already established. The hard part will be to merge the two companies together.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
5 ways to take your business to the next level
Until now you have tried to make your business profitable with steady growth rate. Now when you have passed the first stage in business and have made a successful business is time to expand and take it to the next level. Here are some pointers that could guide you with your expansion:
Expand with another location – First of all make sure that you can financially support a new location. Don’t rush into renting one that is cheaper; find a location that matches your business needs.
You can invest into new domains – Domains that have a connection with your current business or domains that are completely new. For this you have to do a lot of market research.
You can target other markets – Make new products that are destined to other markets, and match consumer’s needs. In this way you can increase rapidly your revenues. But be careful with the market research, it has to be correct.
Franchise your business – In this way you can increase you brands awareness with minimal costs. Be careful, so those who buy your license keep your high standards.
Buy a business - If you want do diversify your portfolio, you can buy a business. In this way you have a client database, already established. The hard part will be to merge the two companies together.
Expand with another location – First of all make sure that you can financially support a new location. Don’t rush into renting one that is cheaper; find a location that matches your business needs.
You can invest into new domains – Domains that have a connection with your current business or domains that are completely new. For this you have to do a lot of market research.
You can target other markets – Make new products that are destined to other markets, and match consumer’s needs. In this way you can increase rapidly your revenues. But be careful with the market research, it has to be correct.
Franchise your business – In this way you can increase you brands awareness with minimal costs. Be careful, so those who buy your license keep your high standards.
Buy a business - If you want do diversify your portfolio, you can buy a business. In this way you have a client database, already established. The hard part will be to merge the two companies together.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Generating Revenue With Good Planning
For anything to work well, care must be taken to make firm, workable plans to execute it and the same goes for website designs. With a well thought out website design, you will be able to create a site that generates multiple streams of revenue for you. In fact, may websites turn into online wasteland because they are not well planned and do not get a single visitor. Gradually, the webmaster will not be motivated to update it anymore and it turns into wasted cyberspace.
The crucial point of planning your site is optimizing it for revenue if you want to gain any income from the site. Divide your site into major blocks, ordered by themes, and start building new pages and subsections in those blocks. For example, you might have a "food" section, an "accomodation" section and an "entertainment" section for a tourism site. You can then write and publish relevant articles in the respective sections to attract a stream of traffic that comes looking for further information.
When you have a broader, better-defined scope of themes for your website, you can sell space on your pages to people interested in advertising on your page. You can also earn from programs like Google's Adsense and Yahoo! Search Marketing if people surf to those themed pages and click on the ads. For this very reason, the advertisement blocks on your pages need to be relevant to the content, so a themed page fits that criteria perfectly.
As Internet becomes more widespread, advertising on the Internet will bear more results than on magazines or offline media. Hence, start tapping in on this lucrative stream of profit right away!
The crucial point of planning your site is optimizing it for revenue if you want to gain any income from the site. Divide your site into major blocks, ordered by themes, and start building new pages and subsections in those blocks. For example, you might have a "food" section, an "accomodation" section and an "entertainment" section for a tourism site. You can then write and publish relevant articles in the respective sections to attract a stream of traffic that comes looking for further information.
When you have a broader, better-defined scope of themes for your website, you can sell space on your pages to people interested in advertising on your page. You can also earn from programs like Google's Adsense and Yahoo! Search Marketing if people surf to those themed pages and click on the ads. For this very reason, the advertisement blocks on your pages need to be relevant to the content, so a themed page fits that criteria perfectly.
As Internet becomes more widespread, advertising on the Internet will bear more results than on magazines or offline media. Hence, start tapping in on this lucrative stream of profit right away!
Generating Revenue With Good Planning
For anything to work well, care must be taken to make firm, workable plans to execute it and the same goes for website designs. With a well thought out website design, you will be able to create a site that generates multiple streams of revenue for you. In fact, may websites turn into online wasteland because they are not well planned and do not get a single visitor. Gradually, the webmaster will not be motivated to update it anymore and it turns into wasted cyberspace.
The crucial point of planning your site is optimizing it for revenue if you want to gain any income from the site. Divide your site into major blocks, ordered by themes, and start building new pages and subsections in those blocks. For example, you might have a "food" section, an "accomodation" section and an "entertainment" section for a tourism site. You can then write and publish relevant articles in the respective sections to attract a stream of traffic that comes looking for further information.
When you have a broader, better-defined scope of themes for your website, you can sell space on your pages to people interested in advertising on your page. You can also earn from programs like Google's Adsense and Yahoo! Search Marketing if people surf to those themed pages and click on the ads. For this very reason, the advertisement blocks on your pages need to be relevant to the content, so a themed page fits that criteria perfectly.
As Internet becomes more widespread, advertising on the Internet will bear more results than on magazines or offline media. Hence, start tapping in on this lucrative stream of profit right away!
The crucial point of planning your site is optimizing it for revenue if you want to gain any income from the site. Divide your site into major blocks, ordered by themes, and start building new pages and subsections in those blocks. For example, you might have a "food" section, an "accomodation" section and an "entertainment" section for a tourism site. You can then write and publish relevant articles in the respective sections to attract a stream of traffic that comes looking for further information.
When you have a broader, better-defined scope of themes for your website, you can sell space on your pages to people interested in advertising on your page. You can also earn from programs like Google's Adsense and Yahoo! Search Marketing if people surf to those themed pages and click on the ads. For this very reason, the advertisement blocks on your pages need to be relevant to the content, so a themed page fits that criteria perfectly.
As Internet becomes more widespread, advertising on the Internet will bear more results than on magazines or offline media. Hence, start tapping in on this lucrative stream of profit right away!
5 Ways to Keep Visitors Coming Back
A lot of successful websites depend on returning visitors to account for a major part of their traffic. Returning visitors are easier to convert into paying customers because the more often they return to a site, the more trust they have in that site. The credibility issue just melts away. Hence, keep your visitors coming back to your site with the following methods:
1) Start a forum, chatroom or shoutbox
When you start a forum, chatroom or shoutbox, you are providing your visitors a place to voice their opinions and interact with their peers -- all of them are visitors of your site. As conversations build up, a sense of community will also follow and your visitors will come back to your site almost religiously every day.
2) Start a web log (blog)
Keep an online journal, or more commonly known as a blog, on your site and keep it updated with latest news about yourself. Human beings are curious creatures and they will keep their eyes glued to the monitor if you post fresh news frequently. You will also build up your credibility as you are proving to them that there is also a real life person behind the website.
3) Carry out polls or surveys
Polls and surveys are other forms of interaction that you should definitely consider adding to your site. They provide a quick way for visitors to voice their opinions and to get involved in your website. Be sure to publish polls or surveys that are strongly relevant to the target market of your website to keep them interested to find out about the results.
4) Hold puzzles, quizzes and games
Just imagine how many office workers procrastinate at work every day, and you will be able to gauge how many people will keep visiting your site if you provide a very interesting or addicting way of entertainment. You can also hold competitions to award the high score winner to keep people trying continuously to earn the prize.
5) Update frequently with fresh content
Update your site frequently with fresh content so that every time your visitors come back, they will have something to read on your site. This is the most widely known and most effective method of attracting returning visitors, but this is also the least carried out one because of the laziness of webmasters. No one will want to browse a site that looks the same over ten years, so keep your site updated with fresh bites!
1) Start a forum, chatroom or shoutbox
When you start a forum, chatroom or shoutbox, you are providing your visitors a place to voice their opinions and interact with their peers -- all of them are visitors of your site. As conversations build up, a sense of community will also follow and your visitors will come back to your site almost religiously every day.
2) Start a web log (blog)
Keep an online journal, or more commonly known as a blog, on your site and keep it updated with latest news about yourself. Human beings are curious creatures and they will keep their eyes glued to the monitor if you post fresh news frequently. You will also build up your credibility as you are proving to them that there is also a real life person behind the website.
3) Carry out polls or surveys
Polls and surveys are other forms of interaction that you should definitely consider adding to your site. They provide a quick way for visitors to voice their opinions and to get involved in your website. Be sure to publish polls or surveys that are strongly relevant to the target market of your website to keep them interested to find out about the results.
4) Hold puzzles, quizzes and games
Just imagine how many office workers procrastinate at work every day, and you will be able to gauge how many people will keep visiting your site if you provide a very interesting or addicting way of entertainment. You can also hold competitions to award the high score winner to keep people trying continuously to earn the prize.
5) Update frequently with fresh content
Update your site frequently with fresh content so that every time your visitors come back, they will have something to read on your site. This is the most widely known and most effective method of attracting returning visitors, but this is also the least carried out one because of the laziness of webmasters. No one will want to browse a site that looks the same over ten years, so keep your site updated with fresh bites!
5 Ways to Keep Visitors Coming Back
A lot of successful websites depend on returning visitors to account for a major part of their traffic. Returning visitors are easier to convert into paying customers because the more often they return to a site, the more trust they have in that site. The credibility issue just melts away. Hence, keep your visitors coming back to your site with the following methods:
1) Start a forum, chatroom or shoutbox
When you start a forum, chatroom or shoutbox, you are providing your visitors a place to voice their opinions and interact with their peers -- all of them are visitors of your site. As conversations build up, a sense of community will also follow and your visitors will come back to your site almost religiously every day.
2) Start a web log (blog)
Keep an online journal, or more commonly known as a blog, on your site and keep it updated with latest news about yourself. Human beings are curious creatures and they will keep their eyes glued to the monitor if you post fresh news frequently. You will also build up your credibility as you are proving to them that there is also a real life person behind the website.
3) Carry out polls or surveys
Polls and surveys are other forms of interaction that you should definitely consider adding to your site. They provide a quick way for visitors to voice their opinions and to get involved in your website. Be sure to publish polls or surveys that are strongly relevant to the target market of your website to keep them interested to find out about the results.
4) Hold puzzles, quizzes and games
Just imagine how many office workers procrastinate at work every day, and you will be able to gauge how many people will keep visiting your site if you provide a very interesting or addicting way of entertainment. You can also hold competitions to award the high score winner to keep people trying continuously to earn the prize.
5) Update frequently with fresh content
Update your site frequently with fresh content so that every time your visitors come back, they will have something to read on your site. This is the most widely known and most effective method of attracting returning visitors, but this is also the least carried out one because of the laziness of webmasters. No one will want to browse a site that looks the same over ten years, so keep your site updated with fresh bites!
1) Start a forum, chatroom or shoutbox
When you start a forum, chatroom or shoutbox, you are providing your visitors a place to voice their opinions and interact with their peers -- all of them are visitors of your site. As conversations build up, a sense of community will also follow and your visitors will come back to your site almost religiously every day.
2) Start a web log (blog)
Keep an online journal, or more commonly known as a blog, on your site and keep it updated with latest news about yourself. Human beings are curious creatures and they will keep their eyes glued to the monitor if you post fresh news frequently. You will also build up your credibility as you are proving to them that there is also a real life person behind the website.
3) Carry out polls or surveys
Polls and surveys are other forms of interaction that you should definitely consider adding to your site. They provide a quick way for visitors to voice their opinions and to get involved in your website. Be sure to publish polls or surveys that are strongly relevant to the target market of your website to keep them interested to find out about the results.
4) Hold puzzles, quizzes and games
Just imagine how many office workers procrastinate at work every day, and you will be able to gauge how many people will keep visiting your site if you provide a very interesting or addicting way of entertainment. You can also hold competitions to award the high score winner to keep people trying continuously to earn the prize.
5) Update frequently with fresh content
Update your site frequently with fresh content so that every time your visitors come back, they will have something to read on your site. This is the most widely known and most effective method of attracting returning visitors, but this is also the least carried out one because of the laziness of webmasters. No one will want to browse a site that looks the same over ten years, so keep your site updated with fresh bites!
5 Important Rules in Website Design
When it comes to your website, extra attention should be paid to every minute detail to make sure it performs optimally to serve its purpose. Here are seven important rules of thumb to observe to make sure your website performs well.
1) Do not use splash pages
Splash pages are the first pages you see when you arrive at a website. They normally have a very beautiful image with words like "welcome" or "click here to enter". In fact, they are just that -- pretty vases with no real purpose. Do not let your visitors have a reason to click on the "back" button! Give them the value of your site up front without the splash page.
2) Do not use excessive banner advertisements
Even the least net savvy people have trained themselves to ignore banner advertisements so you will be wasting valuable website real estate. Instead, provide more valueable content and weave relevant affiliate links into your content, and let your visitors feel that they want to buy instead of being pushed to buy.
3) Have a simple and clear navigation
You have to provide a simple and very straightforward navigation menu so that even a young child will know how to use it. Stay away from complicated Flash based menus or multi-tiered dropdown menus. If your visitors don't know how to navigate, they will leave your site.
4) Have a clear indication of where the user is
When visitors are deeply engrossed in browsing your site, you will want to make sure they know which part of the site they are in at that moment. That way, they will be able to browse relevant information or navigate to any section of the site easily. Don't confuse your visitors because confusion means "abandon ship"!
5) Avoid using audio on your site
If your visitor is going to stay a long time at your site, reading your content, you will want to make sure they're not annoyed by some audio looping on and on on your website. If you insist on adding audio, make sure they have some control over it -- volume or muting controls would work fine.
1) Do not use splash pages
Splash pages are the first pages you see when you arrive at a website. They normally have a very beautiful image with words like "welcome" or "click here to enter". In fact, they are just that -- pretty vases with no real purpose. Do not let your visitors have a reason to click on the "back" button! Give them the value of your site up front without the splash page.
2) Do not use excessive banner advertisements
Even the least net savvy people have trained themselves to ignore banner advertisements so you will be wasting valuable website real estate. Instead, provide more valueable content and weave relevant affiliate links into your content, and let your visitors feel that they want to buy instead of being pushed to buy.
3) Have a simple and clear navigation
You have to provide a simple and very straightforward navigation menu so that even a young child will know how to use it. Stay away from complicated Flash based menus or multi-tiered dropdown menus. If your visitors don't know how to navigate, they will leave your site.
4) Have a clear indication of where the user is
When visitors are deeply engrossed in browsing your site, you will want to make sure they know which part of the site they are in at that moment. That way, they will be able to browse relevant information or navigate to any section of the site easily. Don't confuse your visitors because confusion means "abandon ship"!
5) Avoid using audio on your site
If your visitor is going to stay a long time at your site, reading your content, you will want to make sure they're not annoyed by some audio looping on and on on your website. If you insist on adding audio, make sure they have some control over it -- volume or muting controls would work fine.
5 Important Rules in Website Design
When it comes to your website, extra attention should be paid to every minute detail to make sure it performs optimally to serve its purpose. Here are seven important rules of thumb to observe to make sure your website performs well.
1) Do not use splash pages
Splash pages are the first pages you see when you arrive at a website. They normally have a very beautiful image with words like "welcome" or "click here to enter". In fact, they are just that -- pretty vases with no real purpose. Do not let your visitors have a reason to click on the "back" button! Give them the value of your site up front without the splash page.
2) Do not use excessive banner advertisements
Even the least net savvy people have trained themselves to ignore banner advertisements so you will be wasting valuable website real estate. Instead, provide more valueable content and weave relevant affiliate links into your content, and let your visitors feel that they want to buy instead of being pushed to buy.
3) Have a simple and clear navigation
You have to provide a simple and very straightforward navigation menu so that even a young child will know how to use it. Stay away from complicated Flash based menus or multi-tiered dropdown menus. If your visitors don't know how to navigate, they will leave your site.
4) Have a clear indication of where the user is
When visitors are deeply engrossed in browsing your site, you will want to make sure they know which part of the site they are in at that moment. That way, they will be able to browse relevant information or navigate to any section of the site easily. Don't confuse your visitors because confusion means "abandon ship"!
5) Avoid using audio on your site
If your visitor is going to stay a long time at your site, reading your content, you will want to make sure they're not annoyed by some audio looping on and on on your website. If you insist on adding audio, make sure they have some control over it -- volume or muting controls would work fine.
1) Do not use splash pages
Splash pages are the first pages you see when you arrive at a website. They normally have a very beautiful image with words like "welcome" or "click here to enter". In fact, they are just that -- pretty vases with no real purpose. Do not let your visitors have a reason to click on the "back" button! Give them the value of your site up front without the splash page.
2) Do not use excessive banner advertisements
Even the least net savvy people have trained themselves to ignore banner advertisements so you will be wasting valuable website real estate. Instead, provide more valueable content and weave relevant affiliate links into your content, and let your visitors feel that they want to buy instead of being pushed to buy.
3) Have a simple and clear navigation
You have to provide a simple and very straightforward navigation menu so that even a young child will know how to use it. Stay away from complicated Flash based menus or multi-tiered dropdown menus. If your visitors don't know how to navigate, they will leave your site.
4) Have a clear indication of where the user is
When visitors are deeply engrossed in browsing your site, you will want to make sure they know which part of the site they are in at that moment. That way, they will be able to browse relevant information or navigate to any section of the site easily. Don't confuse your visitors because confusion means "abandon ship"!
5) Avoid using audio on your site
If your visitor is going to stay a long time at your site, reading your content, you will want to make sure they're not annoyed by some audio looping on and on on your website. If you insist on adding audio, make sure they have some control over it -- volume or muting controls would work fine.
Good Design Practices
Your website is where your business resides -- it's like the headquarter of an offline company. Hence, it is important to practise good design principles to make sure your site reaches out to the maximum number of visitors and sells to as many people as possible.
Make sure you have clear directions on the navigation of your website. The navigation menu should be uncluttered and concise so that visitors know how to navigate around your website without confusion.
Reduce the number of images on your website. They make your site load very slowly and more often than not they are very unnecessary. If you think any image is essential on your site, make sure you optimize them using image editing programs so that they have a minimum file size.
Keep your text paragraphs at a reasonable length. If a paragraph is too long, you should split it into seperate paragraphs so that the text blocks will not be too big. This is important because a block of text that is too large will deter visitors from reading your content.
Make sure your website complies to web standards at www.w3.org and make sure they are cross-browser compatible. If your website looks great in Internet Explorer but breaks horribly in Firefox and Opera, you will lose out on a lot of prospective visitors.
Avoid using scripting languages on your site unless it is absolutely necessary. Use scripting languages to handle or manipulate data, not to create visual effects on your website. Heavy scripts will slow down the loading time of your site and even crash some browsers. Also, scripts are not supported across all browsers, so some visitors might miss important information because of that.
Use CSS to style your page content because they save alot of work by styling all elements on your website in one go.
Make sure you have clear directions on the navigation of your website. The navigation menu should be uncluttered and concise so that visitors know how to navigate around your website without confusion.
Reduce the number of images on your website. They make your site load very slowly and more often than not they are very unnecessary. If you think any image is essential on your site, make sure you optimize them using image editing programs so that they have a minimum file size.
Keep your text paragraphs at a reasonable length. If a paragraph is too long, you should split it into seperate paragraphs so that the text blocks will not be too big. This is important because a block of text that is too large will deter visitors from reading your content.
Make sure your website complies to web standards at www.w3.org and make sure they are cross-browser compatible. If your website looks great in Internet Explorer but breaks horribly in Firefox and Opera, you will lose out on a lot of prospective visitors.
Avoid using scripting languages on your site unless it is absolutely necessary. Use scripting languages to handle or manipulate data, not to create visual effects on your website. Heavy scripts will slow down the loading time of your site and even crash some browsers. Also, scripts are not supported across all browsers, so some visitors might miss important information because of that.
Use CSS to style your page content because they save alot of work by styling all elements on your website in one go.
Good Design Practices
Your website is where your business resides -- it's like the headquarter of an offline company. Hence, it is important to practise good design principles to make sure your site reaches out to the maximum number of visitors and sells to as many people as possible.
Make sure you have clear directions on the navigation of your website. The navigation menu should be uncluttered and concise so that visitors know how to navigate around your website without confusion.
Reduce the number of images on your website. They make your site load very slowly and more often than not they are very unnecessary. If you think any image is essential on your site, make sure you optimize them using image editing programs so that they have a minimum file size.
Keep your text paragraphs at a reasonable length. If a paragraph is too long, you should split it into seperate paragraphs so that the text blocks will not be too big. This is important because a block of text that is too large will deter visitors from reading your content.
Make sure your website complies to web standards at www.w3.org and make sure they are cross-browser compatible. If your website looks great in Internet Explorer but breaks horribly in Firefox and Opera, you will lose out on a lot of prospective visitors.
Avoid using scripting languages on your site unless it is absolutely necessary. Use scripting languages to handle or manipulate data, not to create visual effects on your website. Heavy scripts will slow down the loading time of your site and even crash some browsers. Also, scripts are not supported across all browsers, so some visitors might miss important information because of that.
Use CSS to style your page content because they save alot of work by styling all elements on your website in one go.
Make sure you have clear directions on the navigation of your website. The navigation menu should be uncluttered and concise so that visitors know how to navigate around your website without confusion.
Reduce the number of images on your website. They make your site load very slowly and more often than not they are very unnecessary. If you think any image is essential on your site, make sure you optimize them using image editing programs so that they have a minimum file size.
Keep your text paragraphs at a reasonable length. If a paragraph is too long, you should split it into seperate paragraphs so that the text blocks will not be too big. This is important because a block of text that is too large will deter visitors from reading your content.
Make sure your website complies to web standards at www.w3.org and make sure they are cross-browser compatible. If your website looks great in Internet Explorer but breaks horribly in Firefox and Opera, you will lose out on a lot of prospective visitors.
Avoid using scripting languages on your site unless it is absolutely necessary. Use scripting languages to handle or manipulate data, not to create visual effects on your website. Heavy scripts will slow down the loading time of your site and even crash some browsers. Also, scripts are not supported across all browsers, so some visitors might miss important information because of that.
Use CSS to style your page content because they save alot of work by styling all elements on your website in one go.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Chapter 26
IN MY FATHER'S house are many mansions. Of course, when I pulled the trigger, I died.
Liar.
And Tyler died.
With the police helicopters thundering toward us, and Marla and all the support group people who couldn't save themselves, with all of them trying to save me, I had to pull the trigger.
This was better than real life.
And your one perfect moment won't last forever.
Everything in heaven is white on white.
Faker.
Everything in heaven is quiet, rubber-soled shoes.
I can sleep in heaven.
People write to me in heaven and tell me I'm remembered. That I'm their hero. I'll get better.
The angels here are the Old Testament kind, legions and lieutenants, a heavenly host who works in shifts, days, swing. Graveyard. They bring you your meals on a tray with a paper cup of meds. The Valley of the Dolls playset.
I've met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, "Why?"
Why did I cause so much pain?
Didn't I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?
Can't I see how we're all manifestations of love?
I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God's got this all wrong.
We are not special.
We are not crap or trash, either.
We just are.
We just are, and what happens just happens.
And God says, "No, that's not right."
Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.
God asks me what I remember.
I remember everything.
The bullet out of Tyler's gun, it tore out my other cheek to give me a jagged smile from ear to ear. Yeah, just like an angry Halloween pumpkin. Japanese demon. Dragon of Avarice.
Marla's still on Earth, and she writes to me. Someday, she says, they'll bring me back.
And if there were a telephone in Heaven, I would call Marla from Heaven and the moment she says, "Hello," I wouldn't hang up. I'd say, "Hi. What's happening? Tell me every little thing."
But I don't want to go back. Not yet.
Just because.
Because every once in a while, somebody brings me my lunch tray and my meds and he has a black eye or his forehead is swollen with stitches, and he says:
"We miss you Mr. Durden."
Or somebody with a broken nose pushes a mop past me and whispers:
"Everything's going according to the plan.
Whispers
"We're going to break up civilization so we can make something better out of the world."
Whispers
"We look forward to getting you back."
Liar.
And Tyler died.
With the police helicopters thundering toward us, and Marla and all the support group people who couldn't save themselves, with all of them trying to save me, I had to pull the trigger.
This was better than real life.
And your one perfect moment won't last forever.
Everything in heaven is white on white.
Faker.
Everything in heaven is quiet, rubber-soled shoes.
I can sleep in heaven.
People write to me in heaven and tell me I'm remembered. That I'm their hero. I'll get better.
The angels here are the Old Testament kind, legions and lieutenants, a heavenly host who works in shifts, days, swing. Graveyard. They bring you your meals on a tray with a paper cup of meds. The Valley of the Dolls playset.
I've met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, "Why?"
Why did I cause so much pain?
Didn't I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?
Can't I see how we're all manifestations of love?
I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God's got this all wrong.
We are not special.
We are not crap or trash, either.
We just are.
We just are, and what happens just happens.
And God says, "No, that's not right."
Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.
God asks me what I remember.
I remember everything.
The bullet out of Tyler's gun, it tore out my other cheek to give me a jagged smile from ear to ear. Yeah, just like an angry Halloween pumpkin. Japanese demon. Dragon of Avarice.
Marla's still on Earth, and she writes to me. Someday, she says, they'll bring me back.
And if there were a telephone in Heaven, I would call Marla from Heaven and the moment she says, "Hello," I wouldn't hang up. I'd say, "Hi. What's happening? Tell me every little thing."
But I don't want to go back. Not yet.
Just because.
Because every once in a while, somebody brings me my lunch tray and my meds and he has a black eye or his forehead is swollen with stitches, and he says:
"We miss you Mr. Durden."
Or somebody with a broken nose pushes a mop past me and whispers:
"Everything's going according to the plan.
Whispers
"We're going to break up civilization so we can make something better out of the world."
Whispers
"We look forward to getting you back."
Chapter 26
IN MY FATHER'S house are many mansions. Of course, when I pulled the trigger, I died.
Liar.
And Tyler died.
With the police helicopters thundering toward us, and Marla and all the support group people who couldn't save themselves, with all of them trying to save me, I had to pull the trigger.
This was better than real life.
And your one perfect moment won't last forever.
Everything in heaven is white on white.
Faker.
Everything in heaven is quiet, rubber-soled shoes.
I can sleep in heaven.
People write to me in heaven and tell me I'm remembered. That I'm their hero. I'll get better.
The angels here are the Old Testament kind, legions and lieutenants, a heavenly host who works in shifts, days, swing. Graveyard. They bring you your meals on a tray with a paper cup of meds. The Valley of the Dolls playset.
I've met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, "Why?"
Why did I cause so much pain?
Didn't I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?
Can't I see how we're all manifestations of love?
I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God's got this all wrong.
We are not special.
We are not crap or trash, either.
We just are.
We just are, and what happens just happens.
And God says, "No, that's not right."
Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.
God asks me what I remember.
I remember everything.
The bullet out of Tyler's gun, it tore out my other cheek to give me a jagged smile from ear to ear. Yeah, just like an angry Halloween pumpkin. Japanese demon. Dragon of Avarice.
Marla's still on Earth, and she writes to me. Someday, she says, they'll bring me back.
And if there were a telephone in Heaven, I would call Marla from Heaven and the moment she says, "Hello," I wouldn't hang up. I'd say, "Hi. What's happening? Tell me every little thing."
But I don't want to go back. Not yet.
Just because.
Because every once in a while, somebody brings me my lunch tray and my meds and he has a black eye or his forehead is swollen with stitches, and he says:
"We miss you Mr. Durden."
Or somebody with a broken nose pushes a mop past me and whispers:
"Everything's going according to the plan.
Whispers
"We're going to break up civilization so we can make something better out of the world."
Whispers
"We look forward to getting you back."
Liar.
And Tyler died.
With the police helicopters thundering toward us, and Marla and all the support group people who couldn't save themselves, with all of them trying to save me, I had to pull the trigger.
This was better than real life.
And your one perfect moment won't last forever.
Everything in heaven is white on white.
Faker.
Everything in heaven is quiet, rubber-soled shoes.
I can sleep in heaven.
People write to me in heaven and tell me I'm remembered. That I'm their hero. I'll get better.
The angels here are the Old Testament kind, legions and lieutenants, a heavenly host who works in shifts, days, swing. Graveyard. They bring you your meals on a tray with a paper cup of meds. The Valley of the Dolls playset.
I've met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, "Why?"
Why did I cause so much pain?
Didn't I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?
Can't I see how we're all manifestations of love?
I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God's got this all wrong.
We are not special.
We are not crap or trash, either.
We just are.
We just are, and what happens just happens.
And God says, "No, that's not right."
Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.
God asks me what I remember.
I remember everything.
The bullet out of Tyler's gun, it tore out my other cheek to give me a jagged smile from ear to ear. Yeah, just like an angry Halloween pumpkin. Japanese demon. Dragon of Avarice.
Marla's still on Earth, and she writes to me. Someday, she says, they'll bring me back.
And if there were a telephone in Heaven, I would call Marla from Heaven and the moment she says, "Hello," I wouldn't hang up. I'd say, "Hi. What's happening? Tell me every little thing."
But I don't want to go back. Not yet.
Just because.
Because every once in a while, somebody brings me my lunch tray and my meds and he has a black eye or his forehead is swollen with stitches, and he says:
"We miss you Mr. Durden."
Or somebody with a broken nose pushes a mop past me and whispers:
"Everything's going according to the plan.
Whispers
"We're going to break up civilization so we can make something better out of the world."
Whispers
"We look forward to getting you back."
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Chapter 25
TYLER'S STANDING THERE, perfectly handsome and an angel in his everything-blond way. My will to live amazes me.
Me, I'm a bloody tissue sample dried on a bare mattress in my room at the Paper Street Soap Company.
Everything in my room is gone.
My mirror with a picture of my foot from when I had cancer for ten minutes. Worse than cancer. The mirror is gone. The closet door is open and my six white shirts, black pants, underwear, socks, and shoes are gone. Tyler says, "Get up."
Under and behind and inside everything I took for granted, something horrible has been growing.
Everything has fallen apart.
The space monkeys are cleared out. Everything is relocated, the liposuction fat, the bunk beds, the money, especially the money. Only the garden is left behind, and the rented house.
Tyler says, "The last thing we have to do is your martyrdom thing. Your big death thing."
Not like death as a sad, downer thing, this was going to be death as a cheery, empowering thing.
Oh, Tyler, I hurt. Just kill me here.
"Get up."
Kill me, already. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.
"It has to be big," Tyler says. "Picture this: you on top of the world's tallest building, the whole building taken over by Project Mayhem. Smoke rolling out the windows. Desks falling into the crowds on the street. A real opera of a death, that's what you're going to get."
I say, no. You've used me enough.
"If you don't cooperate, we'll go after Marla."
I say, lead the way.
"Now get the fuck out of bed," Tyler said, "and get your ass into the fucking car."
So Tyler and I are up on top of the Parker-Morris Building with the gun stuck in my mouth.
We're down to our last ten minutes.
The Parker-Morris Building won't be here in ten minutes. I know this because Tyler knows this.
The barrel of the gun pressed against the back of my throat, Tyler says, "We won't really die."
I tongue the gun barrel into my surviving cheek and say, Tyler, you're thinking of vampires.
We're down to our last eight minutes.
The gun is just in case the police helicopters get here sooner.
To God, this looks like one man alone, holding a gun in his own mouth, but it's Tyler holding the gun, and it's my life.
You take a 98-percent concentration of fuming nitric acid and add the acid to three times that amount of sulfuric acid.
You have nitroglycerin.
Seven minutes.
Mix the vitro with sawdust, and you have a nice plastic explosive. A lot of the space monkeys mix their vitro with cotton and add Epsom salts as a sulfate. This works, too. Some monkeys, they use paraffin mixed with vitro. Paraffin has never, ever worked for me.
Four minutes.
Tyler and me at the edge of the roof, the gun in my mouth, I'm wondering how clean this gun is.
Three minutes.
Then somebody yells.
"Wait," and it's Marla coming toward us across the roof.
Marla's coming toward me, just me because Tyler's gone. Poor. Tyler's my hallucination, not hers. Fast as a magic trick, Tyler's disappeared. And now I'm just one man holding a gun in my mouth.
"We followed you," Marla yells. "All the people from the support group. You don't have to do this. Put the gun down."
Behind Marla, all the bowel cancers, the brain parasites, the melanoma people, the tuberculosis people are walking, limping, wheelchairing toward me.
They're saying, "Wait."
Their voices come to me on the cold wind, saying, "Stop."
And, "We can help you."
"Let us help you."
Across the sky comes the whop, whop, whop of police helicopters.
I yell, go. Get out of here. This building is going to explode.
Marla yells, "We know."
This is like a total epiphany moment for me.
I'm not killing myself, I yell. I'm killing Tyler.
I am Joe's Hard Drive.
I remember everything.
"It's not love or anything," Marla shouts, "but I think I like you, too."
One minute.
Marla likes Tyler.
"No, I like you," Marla shouts. "I know the difference."
And nothing.
Nothing explodes.
The barrel of the gun tucked in my surviving cheek, I say, Tyler, you mixed the vitro with paraffin, didn't you.
Paraffin never works.
I have to do this.
The police helicopters.
And I pull the trigger.
Me, I'm a bloody tissue sample dried on a bare mattress in my room at the Paper Street Soap Company.
Everything in my room is gone.
My mirror with a picture of my foot from when I had cancer for ten minutes. Worse than cancer. The mirror is gone. The closet door is open and my six white shirts, black pants, underwear, socks, and shoes are gone. Tyler says, "Get up."
Under and behind and inside everything I took for granted, something horrible has been growing.
Everything has fallen apart.
The space monkeys are cleared out. Everything is relocated, the liposuction fat, the bunk beds, the money, especially the money. Only the garden is left behind, and the rented house.
Tyler says, "The last thing we have to do is your martyrdom thing. Your big death thing."
Not like death as a sad, downer thing, this was going to be death as a cheery, empowering thing.
Oh, Tyler, I hurt. Just kill me here.
"Get up."
Kill me, already. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.
"It has to be big," Tyler says. "Picture this: you on top of the world's tallest building, the whole building taken over by Project Mayhem. Smoke rolling out the windows. Desks falling into the crowds on the street. A real opera of a death, that's what you're going to get."
I say, no. You've used me enough.
"If you don't cooperate, we'll go after Marla."
I say, lead the way.
"Now get the fuck out of bed," Tyler said, "and get your ass into the fucking car."
So Tyler and I are up on top of the Parker-Morris Building with the gun stuck in my mouth.
We're down to our last ten minutes.
The Parker-Morris Building won't be here in ten minutes. I know this because Tyler knows this.
The barrel of the gun pressed against the back of my throat, Tyler says, "We won't really die."
I tongue the gun barrel into my surviving cheek and say, Tyler, you're thinking of vampires.
We're down to our last eight minutes.
The gun is just in case the police helicopters get here sooner.
To God, this looks like one man alone, holding a gun in his own mouth, but it's Tyler holding the gun, and it's my life.
You take a 98-percent concentration of fuming nitric acid and add the acid to three times that amount of sulfuric acid.
You have nitroglycerin.
Seven minutes.
Mix the vitro with sawdust, and you have a nice plastic explosive. A lot of the space monkeys mix their vitro with cotton and add Epsom salts as a sulfate. This works, too. Some monkeys, they use paraffin mixed with vitro. Paraffin has never, ever worked for me.
Four minutes.
Tyler and me at the edge of the roof, the gun in my mouth, I'm wondering how clean this gun is.
Three minutes.
Then somebody yells.
"Wait," and it's Marla coming toward us across the roof.
Marla's coming toward me, just me because Tyler's gone. Poor. Tyler's my hallucination, not hers. Fast as a magic trick, Tyler's disappeared. And now I'm just one man holding a gun in my mouth.
"We followed you," Marla yells. "All the people from the support group. You don't have to do this. Put the gun down."
Behind Marla, all the bowel cancers, the brain parasites, the melanoma people, the tuberculosis people are walking, limping, wheelchairing toward me.
They're saying, "Wait."
Their voices come to me on the cold wind, saying, "Stop."
And, "We can help you."
"Let us help you."
Across the sky comes the whop, whop, whop of police helicopters.
I yell, go. Get out of here. This building is going to explode.
Marla yells, "We know."
This is like a total epiphany moment for me.
I'm not killing myself, I yell. I'm killing Tyler.
I am Joe's Hard Drive.
I remember everything.
"It's not love or anything," Marla shouts, "but I think I like you, too."
One minute.
Marla likes Tyler.
"No, I like you," Marla shouts. "I know the difference."
And nothing.
Nothing explodes.
The barrel of the gun tucked in my surviving cheek, I say, Tyler, you mixed the vitro with paraffin, didn't you.
Paraffin never works.
I have to do this.
The police helicopters.
And I pull the trigger.
Chapter 25
TYLER'S STANDING THERE, perfectly handsome and an angel in his everything-blond way. My will to live amazes me.
Me, I'm a bloody tissue sample dried on a bare mattress in my room at the Paper Street Soap Company.
Everything in my room is gone.
My mirror with a picture of my foot from when I had cancer for ten minutes. Worse than cancer. The mirror is gone. The closet door is open and my six white shirts, black pants, underwear, socks, and shoes are gone. Tyler says, "Get up."
Under and behind and inside everything I took for granted, something horrible has been growing.
Everything has fallen apart.
The space monkeys are cleared out. Everything is relocated, the liposuction fat, the bunk beds, the money, especially the money. Only the garden is left behind, and the rented house.
Tyler says, "The last thing we have to do is your martyrdom thing. Your big death thing."
Not like death as a sad, downer thing, this was going to be death as a cheery, empowering thing.
Oh, Tyler, I hurt. Just kill me here.
"Get up."
Kill me, already. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.
"It has to be big," Tyler says. "Picture this: you on top of the world's tallest building, the whole building taken over by Project Mayhem. Smoke rolling out the windows. Desks falling into the crowds on the street. A real opera of a death, that's what you're going to get."
I say, no. You've used me enough.
"If you don't cooperate, we'll go after Marla."
I say, lead the way.
"Now get the fuck out of bed," Tyler said, "and get your ass into the fucking car."
So Tyler and I are up on top of the Parker-Morris Building with the gun stuck in my mouth.
We're down to our last ten minutes.
The Parker-Morris Building won't be here in ten minutes. I know this because Tyler knows this.
The barrel of the gun pressed against the back of my throat, Tyler says, "We won't really die."
I tongue the gun barrel into my surviving cheek and say, Tyler, you're thinking of vampires.
We're down to our last eight minutes.
The gun is just in case the police helicopters get here sooner.
To God, this looks like one man alone, holding a gun in his own mouth, but it's Tyler holding the gun, and it's my life.
You take a 98-percent concentration of fuming nitric acid and add the acid to three times that amount of sulfuric acid.
You have nitroglycerin.
Seven minutes.
Mix the vitro with sawdust, and you have a nice plastic explosive. A lot of the space monkeys mix their vitro with cotton and add Epsom salts as a sulfate. This works, too. Some monkeys, they use paraffin mixed with vitro. Paraffin has never, ever worked for me.
Four minutes.
Tyler and me at the edge of the roof, the gun in my mouth, I'm wondering how clean this gun is.
Three minutes.
Then somebody yells.
"Wait," and it's Marla coming toward us across the roof.
Marla's coming toward me, just me because Tyler's gone. Poor. Tyler's my hallucination, not hers. Fast as a magic trick, Tyler's disappeared. And now I'm just one man holding a gun in my mouth.
"We followed you," Marla yells. "All the people from the support group. You don't have to do this. Put the gun down."
Behind Marla, all the bowel cancers, the brain parasites, the melanoma people, the tuberculosis people are walking, limping, wheelchairing toward me.
They're saying, "Wait."
Their voices come to me on the cold wind, saying, "Stop."
And, "We can help you."
"Let us help you."
Across the sky comes the whop, whop, whop of police helicopters.
I yell, go. Get out of here. This building is going to explode.
Marla yells, "We know."
This is like a total epiphany moment for me.
I'm not killing myself, I yell. I'm killing Tyler.
I am Joe's Hard Drive.
I remember everything.
"It's not love or anything," Marla shouts, "but I think I like you, too."
One minute.
Marla likes Tyler.
"No, I like you," Marla shouts. "I know the difference."
And nothing.
Nothing explodes.
The barrel of the gun tucked in my surviving cheek, I say, Tyler, you mixed the vitro with paraffin, didn't you.
Paraffin never works.
I have to do this.
The police helicopters.
And I pull the trigger.
Me, I'm a bloody tissue sample dried on a bare mattress in my room at the Paper Street Soap Company.
Everything in my room is gone.
My mirror with a picture of my foot from when I had cancer for ten minutes. Worse than cancer. The mirror is gone. The closet door is open and my six white shirts, black pants, underwear, socks, and shoes are gone. Tyler says, "Get up."
Under and behind and inside everything I took for granted, something horrible has been growing.
Everything has fallen apart.
The space monkeys are cleared out. Everything is relocated, the liposuction fat, the bunk beds, the money, especially the money. Only the garden is left behind, and the rented house.
Tyler says, "The last thing we have to do is your martyrdom thing. Your big death thing."
Not like death as a sad, downer thing, this was going to be death as a cheery, empowering thing.
Oh, Tyler, I hurt. Just kill me here.
"Get up."
Kill me, already. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.
"It has to be big," Tyler says. "Picture this: you on top of the world's tallest building, the whole building taken over by Project Mayhem. Smoke rolling out the windows. Desks falling into the crowds on the street. A real opera of a death, that's what you're going to get."
I say, no. You've used me enough.
"If you don't cooperate, we'll go after Marla."
I say, lead the way.
"Now get the fuck out of bed," Tyler said, "and get your ass into the fucking car."
So Tyler and I are up on top of the Parker-Morris Building with the gun stuck in my mouth.
We're down to our last ten minutes.
The Parker-Morris Building won't be here in ten minutes. I know this because Tyler knows this.
The barrel of the gun pressed against the back of my throat, Tyler says, "We won't really die."
I tongue the gun barrel into my surviving cheek and say, Tyler, you're thinking of vampires.
We're down to our last eight minutes.
The gun is just in case the police helicopters get here sooner.
To God, this looks like one man alone, holding a gun in his own mouth, but it's Tyler holding the gun, and it's my life.
You take a 98-percent concentration of fuming nitric acid and add the acid to three times that amount of sulfuric acid.
You have nitroglycerin.
Seven minutes.
Mix the vitro with sawdust, and you have a nice plastic explosive. A lot of the space monkeys mix their vitro with cotton and add Epsom salts as a sulfate. This works, too. Some monkeys, they use paraffin mixed with vitro. Paraffin has never, ever worked for me.
Four minutes.
Tyler and me at the edge of the roof, the gun in my mouth, I'm wondering how clean this gun is.
Three minutes.
Then somebody yells.
"Wait," and it's Marla coming toward us across the roof.
Marla's coming toward me, just me because Tyler's gone. Poor. Tyler's my hallucination, not hers. Fast as a magic trick, Tyler's disappeared. And now I'm just one man holding a gun in my mouth.
"We followed you," Marla yells. "All the people from the support group. You don't have to do this. Put the gun down."
Behind Marla, all the bowel cancers, the brain parasites, the melanoma people, the tuberculosis people are walking, limping, wheelchairing toward me.
They're saying, "Wait."
Their voices come to me on the cold wind, saying, "Stop."
And, "We can help you."
"Let us help you."
Across the sky comes the whop, whop, whop of police helicopters.
I yell, go. Get out of here. This building is going to explode.
Marla yells, "We know."
This is like a total epiphany moment for me.
I'm not killing myself, I yell. I'm killing Tyler.
I am Joe's Hard Drive.
I remember everything.
"It's not love or anything," Marla shouts, "but I think I like you, too."
One minute.
Marla likes Tyler.
"No, I like you," Marla shouts. "I know the difference."
And nothing.
Nothing explodes.
The barrel of the gun tucked in my surviving cheek, I say, Tyler, you mixed the vitro with paraffin, didn't you.
Paraffin never works.
I have to do this.
The police helicopters.
And I pull the trigger.
Friday, September 19, 2008
What does your staff want?
To have a successful business is not just to develop services and products. Many entrepreneurs concentrate on increasing sales and revenues an forget about the human factor. This factor is very important because without out it the business could not run. In this post I would like to show you some suggestions regarding the relationship the owner has with his employees.
1. It is wrong for you to think that your employee cares only about money. He looks for recognition of his efforts, to be appreciated for his work, also he wants to know exactly what he has to do in the company. Statistics have shown that 60 % on the staff complains the lack of communication they have with their boss regarding what they have to do for the company.
Some entrepreneurs think that they could obtain the best results if they adopt a cold and distant attitude with his employees. They want their staff to see them like a rough officer that gives orders to his soldiers. This technique is not good in a company because unlike soldiers that can`t leave, employees can. That is why you should congratulate your staff with every good work .
2. Signs that people from your staff want to quit Do you think that when your employee gives you the 2 weeks` notice before he quits is a sign that he is looking for a new job? WRONG. The search for a new job started perhaps months ago, and now he found what he was looking for.
Some of the real signs are: a newspaper on his desk opened at the small publicity section, the increase of days he spends in medical leave (he has to go to interviews, doesn`t he?), he is not as active in the meetings as he was before (could mean that he doesn`t care anymore about the company)
1. It is wrong for you to think that your employee cares only about money. He looks for recognition of his efforts, to be appreciated for his work, also he wants to know exactly what he has to do in the company. Statistics have shown that 60 % on the staff complains the lack of communication they have with their boss regarding what they have to do for the company.
Some entrepreneurs think that they could obtain the best results if they adopt a cold and distant attitude with his employees. They want their staff to see them like a rough officer that gives orders to his soldiers. This technique is not good in a company because unlike soldiers that can`t leave, employees can. That is why you should congratulate your staff with every good work .
2. Signs that people from your staff want to quit Do you think that when your employee gives you the 2 weeks` notice before he quits is a sign that he is looking for a new job? WRONG. The search for a new job started perhaps months ago, and now he found what he was looking for.
Some of the real signs are: a newspaper on his desk opened at the small publicity section, the increase of days he spends in medical leave (he has to go to interviews, doesn`t he?), he is not as active in the meetings as he was before (could mean that he doesn`t care anymore about the company)
Finance your business - Problem or Challenge?
"I don`t have money to start my own business", I hear that very often. People all over the world use those words when they want to express their fear of entering in business and becoming a successful entrepreneur. They say it like have everything except money, they have the knowledge, the experience, they have studied the market, they have the rare business sense, but no money.
You need money to start your business? of course you need. A lot? That depends on the profile of your future business, you have to calculate for yourself all the costs that are involved. You may have a surprise to discover that the costs are not as high as you thought and, in fact are relatively small. Your business seems to have a bright future. Why does everyone think that a business can only be started with tens of thousand of $. You are right to say that, if you look at a couple of successful businesses you will see that they didn`t started with a small amount of money.
They have luxurious cars, lots of employees, big office buildings, you see their names everywhere, and you say to yourself that you don`t stand a chance. You are forgetting a crucial aspect regarding those businesses. They didn`t appear over night, they have a history of 10 -20 years, and when they started they didn`t have luxurious cars, big office buildings, they started just like you. They were happy if they didn`t go bankrupt, and their growth was small but steady. If we take a look at global companies like Gillette or Nike we will see that they started with a small amount of money. If they could do it, why can`t you?
10 ways to save your business from bankruptcy - Part 1
A friend of mine, that wants to start his first business, asked me the other day what are the most important things to watch out in order to avoid bankruptcy within the first year. So I came out with 10 factors you should watch out when you start your own business.
1. Watch out about the small loses you have in your company - Over 50% of the companies discover that their balance sheet is not so good as they hoped because of loses that relate with their activity, like: employees that you don`t need or unused space and equipment.
2. Lack of interest for human resources - American scientists discover that the management is so busy to maintain the profitability of the company and they neglect the human resource department. A manager should always take care of his employees, if they are unhappy they wont work as well and the team relations will disappear.
3. Building your business with your family - Don`t get me wrong, it is good to have a family business, but watch out if you hire a family member that is no so good trained as an other candidate for the position, it will drag down your business. You should forget about feelings when you discuss business.
4. Keep your files in order - If you don`t keep them in order you can have problems with the IRS, and you may scare your future clients when they see you have lost their order.
5. Costs - Don`t forget about costs. For a successful business you should always keep your costs as lower as possible. You may find out that by reducing costs, your business may become more profitable.
1. Watch out about the small loses you have in your company - Over 50% of the companies discover that their balance sheet is not so good as they hoped because of loses that relate with their activity, like: employees that you don`t need or unused space and equipment.
2. Lack of interest for human resources - American scientists discover that the management is so busy to maintain the profitability of the company and they neglect the human resource department. A manager should always take care of his employees, if they are unhappy they wont work as well and the team relations will disappear.
3. Building your business with your family - Don`t get me wrong, it is good to have a family business, but watch out if you hire a family member that is no so good trained as an other candidate for the position, it will drag down your business. You should forget about feelings when you discuss business.
4. Keep your files in order - If you don`t keep them in order you can have problems with the IRS, and you may scare your future clients when they see you have lost their order.
5. Costs - Don`t forget about costs. For a successful business you should always keep your costs as lower as possible. You may find out that by reducing costs, your business may become more profitable.
Sudden problems in a company
They are very rare the cases when a company gets suddenly in a whole lot of trouble. Usually the sudden crash of some companies is not made by a problem, it is made by lots of smaller problems that managers should see, and take care, like:
- Staff fluctuation – employees work for your company only short periods of time
- Work related expenses rises but your cash-flow doesn`t
- Credit lines are always taken to a maximum and paying them is always done in the last moment
- Similar products appear on the market
- Your business only depends by one or two clients
- You argue with your partners more often than usual, regarding the direction of the company
- You don`t bring anything new
- Your clients pay you late
So, you should expect pretty hard times if some of the elements above are translated into your business. Good luck!!
How to sell
Try not to sell the product, try to sell the experience, the feeling. The item is just a pretext; you sell the experience to your client. If you are a Bentley dealer, you don`t sell a car, you sell the sensation of luxury. Let`s take another example: People who get sophisticated phones, but they have nothing to do with all those features, they just want to seem important and busy. You don` buy a Rolex because it`s a very good watch, you buy one because you want to show the whole world that you are rich.
You should be asking yourself two questions before you sell something:
1) What am I selling?
2) Why would anyone buy my product?
The great psychologist Abraham Maslow made a pyramid of 5 needs that people should be satisfied with.
1. Physiological needs – food , water
2. Security needs – a job, medical insurance
3. Social needs – friend, co-workers
4. Ego needs – respect, responsibility
5. Self accomplished needs – achieving in life
For a sell to take place a certain need from the Maslow pyramid should be satisfied, and before you make you offer it is very important to understand what kind of need motivates the client to buy.
10 ways to save your business from bankruptcy - Part 2
This is a continuation of my post 10 ways to save your business from bankruptcy
6. Don`t ignore your competitors mistakes - usually in business publication you can only read about successful entrepreneurs and successful businesses, nobody writes about bankrupt businesses because that kind of business doesn`t sell the paper. Try to get in touch with business owners that got bankrupt and ask their advice, I know it is hard to do that but try it; it will help you a lot.
7. Having lots of clients – I know that sound normal, but think of those companies that have exclusive contract with just one client. In the beginning they will think that is going to be easy dealing with just one client, especially if it is a long term contract. But what if your “big” client decides to end the contract because you are not doing your job right? What would you do then?
8. Always get the experts opinion – Most times business people avoid asking business advices from certified companies, because they say it is a waste of money. But trust me a good certified opinion may save you a lot of money, even after you pay the experts fee.
9. Keep in touch with the latest technologies that go around your business – you will lose many clients and most important your competitors will go in front of you if you use the same old products or services.
10. Be careful when you launch new products – if you launch on the market new products that need a lot of recourses from your company make sure that you have studied that market very well and taking in consideration the risks. If the product is not a success your company may have lots of financial problems.
What do you do with a product that doesn`t sell
You spend a lot of money and time in the research of a new product and when you get it out on the market, it doesn`t sell as much as you waned, what do you do? Well, you have two options:
1. You change something : design, price
2. You get it out of the market – in the world 30 % of new products are taken out of markets within the first year.
I would suggest a combination: get the product out of the market, is much more cheaper and doesn`t involve as much risks, and then when you revise your marketing strategy and position the product better, with small modifications you release the product again. This strategy is called: “turnaround strategy”, it is believed that a brand restyling is cheaper than launching a new product.
The product must have something new, to attract more clients and to satisfy new needs, people won’t buy a product that has old features. But be careful you could launch a much more innovative product that the market is demanding, you could be ahead of your time, and that is not good either.
Every product has a life cycle, from the day he is launch till the day it is no longer produced. Usually engineers and designers begin work on a new product with a couple of years before launching. In the car industry they start working on a new project before the latest model is launched.
So try to stay in front of your competition, but not in front of your customers.
What does your staff want?
To have a successful business is not just to develop services and products. Many entrepreneurs concentrate on increasing sales and revenues an forget about the human factor. This factor is very important because without out it the business could not run. In this post I would like to show you some suggestions regarding the relationship the owner has with his employees.
1. It is wrong for you to think that your employee cares only about money. He looks for recognition of his efforts, to be appreciated for his work, also he wants to know exactly what he has to do in the company. Statistics have shown that 60 % on the staff complains the lack of communication they have with their boss regarding what they have to do for the company.
Some entrepreneurs think that they could obtain the best results if they adopt a cold and distant attitude with his employees. They want their staff to see them like a rough officer that gives orders to his soldiers. This technique is not good in a company because unlike soldiers that can`t leave, employees can. That is why you should congratulate your staff with every good work .
2. Signs that people from your staff want to quit Do you think that when your employee gives you the 2 weeks` notice before he quits is a sign that he is looking for a new job? WRONG. The search for a new job started perhaps months ago, and now he found what he was looking for.
Some of the real signs are: a newspaper on his desk opened at the small publicity section, the increase of days he spends in medical leave (he has to go to interviews, doesn`t he?), he is not as active in the meetings as he was before (could mean that he doesn`t care anymore about the company)
1. It is wrong for you to think that your employee cares only about money. He looks for recognition of his efforts, to be appreciated for his work, also he wants to know exactly what he has to do in the company. Statistics have shown that 60 % on the staff complains the lack of communication they have with their boss regarding what they have to do for the company.
Some entrepreneurs think that they could obtain the best results if they adopt a cold and distant attitude with his employees. They want their staff to see them like a rough officer that gives orders to his soldiers. This technique is not good in a company because unlike soldiers that can`t leave, employees can. That is why you should congratulate your staff with every good work .
2. Signs that people from your staff want to quit Do you think that when your employee gives you the 2 weeks` notice before he quits is a sign that he is looking for a new job? WRONG. The search for a new job started perhaps months ago, and now he found what he was looking for.
Some of the real signs are: a newspaper on his desk opened at the small publicity section, the increase of days he spends in medical leave (he has to go to interviews, doesn`t he?), he is not as active in the meetings as he was before (could mean that he doesn`t care anymore about the company)
Finance your business - Problem or Challenge?
"I don`t have money to start my own business", I hear that very often. People all over the world use those words when they want to express their fear of entering in business and becoming a successful entrepreneur. They say it like have everything except money, they have the knowledge, the experience, they have studied the market, they have the rare business sense, but no money.
You need money to start your business? of course you need. A lot? That depends on the profile of your future business, you have to calculate for yourself all the costs that are involved. You may have a surprise to discover that the costs are not as high as you thought and, in fact are relatively small. Your business seems to have a bright future. Why does everyone think that a business can only be started with tens of thousand of $. You are right to say that, if you look at a couple of successful businesses you will see that they didn`t started with a small amount of money.
They have luxurious cars, lots of employees, big office buildings, you see their names everywhere, and you say to yourself that you don`t stand a chance. You are forgetting a crucial aspect regarding those businesses. They didn`t appear over night, they have a history of 10 -20 years, and when they started they didn`t have luxurious cars, big office buildings, they started just like you. They were happy if they didn`t go bankrupt, and their growth was small but steady. If we take a look at global companies like Gillette or Nike we will see that they started with a small amount of money. If they could do it, why can`t you?
10 ways to save your business from bankruptcy - Part 1
A friend of mine, that wants to start his first business, asked me the other day what are the most important things to watch out in order to avoid bankruptcy within the first year. So I came out with 10 factors you should watch out when you start your own business.
1. Watch out about the small loses you have in your company - Over 50% of the companies discover that their balance sheet is not so good as they hoped because of loses that relate with their activity, like: employees that you don`t need or unused space and equipment.
2. Lack of interest for human resources - American scientists discover that the management is so busy to maintain the profitability of the company and they neglect the human resource department. A manager should always take care of his employees, if they are unhappy they wont work as well and the team relations will disappear.
3. Building your business with your family - Don`t get me wrong, it is good to have a family business, but watch out if you hire a family member that is no so good trained as an other candidate for the position, it will drag down your business. You should forget about feelings when you discuss business.
4. Keep your files in order - If you don`t keep them in order you can have problems with the IRS, and you may scare your future clients when they see you have lost their order.
5. Costs - Don`t forget about costs. For a successful business you should always keep your costs as lower as possible. You may find out that by reducing costs, your business may become more profitable.
1. Watch out about the small loses you have in your company - Over 50% of the companies discover that their balance sheet is not so good as they hoped because of loses that relate with their activity, like: employees that you don`t need or unused space and equipment.
2. Lack of interest for human resources - American scientists discover that the management is so busy to maintain the profitability of the company and they neglect the human resource department. A manager should always take care of his employees, if they are unhappy they wont work as well and the team relations will disappear.
3. Building your business with your family - Don`t get me wrong, it is good to have a family business, but watch out if you hire a family member that is no so good trained as an other candidate for the position, it will drag down your business. You should forget about feelings when you discuss business.
4. Keep your files in order - If you don`t keep them in order you can have problems with the IRS, and you may scare your future clients when they see you have lost their order.
5. Costs - Don`t forget about costs. For a successful business you should always keep your costs as lower as possible. You may find out that by reducing costs, your business may become more profitable.
Sudden problems in a company
They are very rare the cases when a company gets suddenly in a whole lot of trouble. Usually the sudden crash of some companies is not made by a problem, it is made by lots of smaller problems that managers should see, and take care, like:
- Staff fluctuation – employees work for your company only short periods of time
- Work related expenses rises but your cash-flow doesn`t
- Credit lines are always taken to a maximum and paying them is always done in the last moment
- Similar products appear on the market
- Your business only depends by one or two clients
- You argue with your partners more often than usual, regarding the direction of the company
- You don`t bring anything new
- Your clients pay you late
So, you should expect pretty hard times if some of the elements above are translated into your business. Good luck!!
How to sell
Try not to sell the product, try to sell the experience, the feeling. The item is just a pretext; you sell the experience to your client. If you are a Bentley dealer, you don`t sell a car, you sell the sensation of luxury. Let`s take another example: People who get sophisticated phones, but they have nothing to do with all those features, they just want to seem important and busy. You don` buy a Rolex because it`s a very good watch, you buy one because you want to show the whole world that you are rich.
You should be asking yourself two questions before you sell something:
1) What am I selling?
2) Why would anyone buy my product?
The great psychologist Abraham Maslow made a pyramid of 5 needs that people should be satisfied with.
1. Physiological needs – food , water
2. Security needs – a job, medical insurance
3. Social needs – friend, co-workers
4. Ego needs – respect, responsibility
5. Self accomplished needs – achieving in life
For a sell to take place a certain need from the Maslow pyramid should be satisfied, and before you make you offer it is very important to understand what kind of need motivates the client to buy.
10 ways to save your business from bankruptcy - Part 2
This is a continuation of my post 10 ways to save your business from bankruptcy
6. Don`t ignore your competitors mistakes - usually in business publication you can only read about successful entrepreneurs and successful businesses, nobody writes about bankrupt businesses because that kind of business doesn`t sell the paper. Try to get in touch with business owners that got bankrupt and ask their advice, I know it is hard to do that but try it; it will help you a lot.
7. Having lots of clients – I know that sound normal, but think of those companies that have exclusive contract with just one client. In the beginning they will think that is going to be easy dealing with just one client, especially if it is a long term contract. But what if your “big” client decides to end the contract because you are not doing your job right? What would you do then?
8. Always get the experts opinion – Most times business people avoid asking business advices from certified companies, because they say it is a waste of money. But trust me a good certified opinion may save you a lot of money, even after you pay the experts fee.
9. Keep in touch with the latest technologies that go around your business – you will lose many clients and most important your competitors will go in front of you if you use the same old products or services.
10. Be careful when you launch new products – if you launch on the market new products that need a lot of recourses from your company make sure that you have studied that market very well and taking in consideration the risks. If the product is not a success your company may have lots of financial problems.
What do you do with a product that doesn`t sell
You spend a lot of money and time in the research of a new product and when you get it out on the market, it doesn`t sell as much as you waned, what do you do? Well, you have two options:
1. You change something : design, price
2. You get it out of the market – in the world 30 % of new products are taken out of markets within the first year.
I would suggest a combination: get the product out of the market, is much more cheaper and doesn`t involve as much risks, and then when you revise your marketing strategy and position the product better, with small modifications you release the product again. This strategy is called: “turnaround strategy”, it is believed that a brand restyling is cheaper than launching a new product.
The product must have something new, to attract more clients and to satisfy new needs, people won’t buy a product that has old features. But be careful you could launch a much more innovative product that the market is demanding, you could be ahead of your time, and that is not good either.
Every product has a life cycle, from the day he is launch till the day it is no longer produced. Usually engineers and designers begin work on a new product with a couple of years before launching. In the car industry they start working on a new project before the latest model is launched.
So try to stay in front of your competition, but not in front of your customers.
Chapter 24
HIS NAME WAS Patrick Madden, and he was the mayor's special envoy on recycling. His name was Patrick Madden, and he was an enemy of Project Mayhem.
I walk out into the night around First Methodist, and it's all coming back to me.
All the things that Tyler knows are all coming back to me.
Patrick Madden was compiling a list of bars where fight clubs met.
All of the sudden, I know how to run a movie projector. I know how to break locks and how Tyler had rented the house on Paper Street just before he revealed himself to me at the beach.
I know why Tyler had occurred. Tyler loved Marla. From the first night I met her, Tyler or some part of me had needed a way to be with Marla.
Not that any of this matters. Not now. But all the details are coming back to me as I walk through the night to the closest fight club.
There's a fight club in the basement of the Armory Bar on Saturday nights. You can probably find it on the list Patrick Madden was compiling, poor dead Patrick Madden.
Tonight, I go to the Armory Bar and the crowds part zipper style when I walk in. To everybody there, I am Tyler Durden the Great and Powerful. God and father.
All around me I hear, "Good evening, sir."
"Welcome to fight club, sir."
"Thank you for joining us, sir."
Me, my monster face just starting to heal. The hole in my face smiling through my cheek. A frown on my real mouth.
Because I'm Tyler Durden, and you can kiss my ass, I register to fight every guy in the club that night. Fifty fights. One fight at a time. No shoes. No shirts.
The fights go on as long as they have to.
And if Tyler loves Marla.
I love Marla.
And what happens doesn't happen in words. I want to smother all the French beaches I'll never see. Imagine stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around Rockefeller Center.
The first fight I get, the guy gets me in a full nelson and rams my face, rams my cheek, rams the hole in my cheek into the concrete floor until my teeth inside snap off and plant their jagged roots into my tongue.
Now I can remember Patrick Madden, dead on the floor, his little figurine of a wife, just a little girl with a chignon. His wife giggled and tried to pour champagne between her dead husband's lips.
The wife said the fake blood was too, too red. Mrs. Patrick Madden put two fingers in the blood pooled next to her husband and then put the fingers in her mouth.
The teeth planted in my tongue, I taste the blood.
Mrs. Patrick Madden tasted the blood.
I remember being there on the outskirts of the murder mystery party with the space monkey waiters standing bodyguard around me. Marla in her dress with a wallpaper pattern of dark roses watched from the other side of the ballroom.
My second fight, the guy puts a knee between my shoulder blades. The guy pulls both my arms together behind my back, and slams my chest into the concrete floor. My collarbone on one side, I hear it snap.
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 aren't your name.
You aren'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.
How everything you ever love will reject you or die.
Everything you ever create will be thrown away.
Everything you're proud of will end up as trash.
I am Ozymandias, king of kings.
One more punch and my teeth click shut on my tongue. Half of my tongue drops to the floor and gets kicked away.
The little figurine of Mrs. Patrick Madden knelt on the floor next to the body of her husband, the rich people, the people they called friends, towering drunk around her and laughing.
The wife, she said, "Patrick?"
The pool of blood spreading wider and wider until it touches her skirt.
She says, "Patrick, that's enough, stop being dead."
The blood climbs the hem of her skirt, capillary action, thread to thread, climbing her skirt.
Around me the men of Project Mayhem are screaming.
Then Mrs. Patrick Madden is screaming.
And in the basement of the Armory Bar, Tyler Durden slips to the floor in a warm jumble. Tyler Durden the great, who was perfect for one moment, and who said that a moment is the most you could ever expect from perfection.
And the fight goes on and on because I want to be dead. Because only in death do we have names. Only in death are we no longer part of Project Mayhem.
I walk out into the night around First Methodist, and it's all coming back to me.
All the things that Tyler knows are all coming back to me.
Patrick Madden was compiling a list of bars where fight clubs met.
All of the sudden, I know how to run a movie projector. I know how to break locks and how Tyler had rented the house on Paper Street just before he revealed himself to me at the beach.
I know why Tyler had occurred. Tyler loved Marla. From the first night I met her, Tyler or some part of me had needed a way to be with Marla.
Not that any of this matters. Not now. But all the details are coming back to me as I walk through the night to the closest fight club.
There's a fight club in the basement of the Armory Bar on Saturday nights. You can probably find it on the list Patrick Madden was compiling, poor dead Patrick Madden.
Tonight, I go to the Armory Bar and the crowds part zipper style when I walk in. To everybody there, I am Tyler Durden the Great and Powerful. God and father.
All around me I hear, "Good evening, sir."
"Welcome to fight club, sir."
"Thank you for joining us, sir."
Me, my monster face just starting to heal. The hole in my face smiling through my cheek. A frown on my real mouth.
Because I'm Tyler Durden, and you can kiss my ass, I register to fight every guy in the club that night. Fifty fights. One fight at a time. No shoes. No shirts.
The fights go on as long as they have to.
And if Tyler loves Marla.
I love Marla.
And what happens doesn't happen in words. I want to smother all the French beaches I'll never see. Imagine stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around Rockefeller Center.
The first fight I get, the guy gets me in a full nelson and rams my face, rams my cheek, rams the hole in my cheek into the concrete floor until my teeth inside snap off and plant their jagged roots into my tongue.
Now I can remember Patrick Madden, dead on the floor, his little figurine of a wife, just a little girl with a chignon. His wife giggled and tried to pour champagne between her dead husband's lips.
The wife said the fake blood was too, too red. Mrs. Patrick Madden put two fingers in the blood pooled next to her husband and then put the fingers in her mouth.
The teeth planted in my tongue, I taste the blood.
Mrs. Patrick Madden tasted the blood.
I remember being there on the outskirts of the murder mystery party with the space monkey waiters standing bodyguard around me. Marla in her dress with a wallpaper pattern of dark roses watched from the other side of the ballroom.
My second fight, the guy puts a knee between my shoulder blades. The guy pulls both my arms together behind my back, and slams my chest into the concrete floor. My collarbone on one side, I hear it snap.
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 aren't your name.
You aren'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.
How everything you ever love will reject you or die.
Everything you ever create will be thrown away.
Everything you're proud of will end up as trash.
I am Ozymandias, king of kings.
One more punch and my teeth click shut on my tongue. Half of my tongue drops to the floor and gets kicked away.
The little figurine of Mrs. Patrick Madden knelt on the floor next to the body of her husband, the rich people, the people they called friends, towering drunk around her and laughing.
The wife, she said, "Patrick?"
The pool of blood spreading wider and wider until it touches her skirt.
She says, "Patrick, that's enough, stop being dead."
The blood climbs the hem of her skirt, capillary action, thread to thread, climbing her skirt.
Around me the men of Project Mayhem are screaming.
Then Mrs. Patrick Madden is screaming.
And in the basement of the Armory Bar, Tyler Durden slips to the floor in a warm jumble. Tyler Durden the great, who was perfect for one moment, and who said that a moment is the most you could ever expect from perfection.
And the fight goes on and on because I want to be dead. Because only in death do we have names. Only in death are we no longer part of Project Mayhem.
Chapter 24
HIS NAME WAS Patrick Madden, and he was the mayor's special envoy on recycling. His name was Patrick Madden, and he was an enemy of Project Mayhem.
I walk out into the night around First Methodist, and it's all coming back to me.
All the things that Tyler knows are all coming back to me.
Patrick Madden was compiling a list of bars where fight clubs met.
All of the sudden, I know how to run a movie projector. I know how to break locks and how Tyler had rented the house on Paper Street just before he revealed himself to me at the beach.
I know why Tyler had occurred. Tyler loved Marla. From the first night I met her, Tyler or some part of me had needed a way to be with Marla.
Not that any of this matters. Not now. But all the details are coming back to me as I walk through the night to the closest fight club.
There's a fight club in the basement of the Armory Bar on Saturday nights. You can probably find it on the list Patrick Madden was compiling, poor dead Patrick Madden.
Tonight, I go to the Armory Bar and the crowds part zipper style when I walk in. To everybody there, I am Tyler Durden the Great and Powerful. God and father.
All around me I hear, "Good evening, sir."
"Welcome to fight club, sir."
"Thank you for joining us, sir."
Me, my monster face just starting to heal. The hole in my face smiling through my cheek. A frown on my real mouth.
Because I'm Tyler Durden, and you can kiss my ass, I register to fight every guy in the club that night. Fifty fights. One fight at a time. No shoes. No shirts.
The fights go on as long as they have to.
And if Tyler loves Marla.
I love Marla.
And what happens doesn't happen in words. I want to smother all the French beaches I'll never see. Imagine stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around Rockefeller Center.
The first fight I get, the guy gets me in a full nelson and rams my face, rams my cheek, rams the hole in my cheek into the concrete floor until my teeth inside snap off and plant their jagged roots into my tongue.
Now I can remember Patrick Madden, dead on the floor, his little figurine of a wife, just a little girl with a chignon. His wife giggled and tried to pour champagne between her dead husband's lips.
The wife said the fake blood was too, too red. Mrs. Patrick Madden put two fingers in the blood pooled next to her husband and then put the fingers in her mouth.
The teeth planted in my tongue, I taste the blood.
Mrs. Patrick Madden tasted the blood.
I remember being there on the outskirts of the murder mystery party with the space monkey waiters standing bodyguard around me. Marla in her dress with a wallpaper pattern of dark roses watched from the other side of the ballroom.
My second fight, the guy puts a knee between my shoulder blades. The guy pulls both my arms together behind my back, and slams my chest into the concrete floor. My collarbone on one side, I hear it snap.
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 aren't your name.
You aren'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.
How everything you ever love will reject you or die.
Everything you ever create will be thrown away.
Everything you're proud of will end up as trash.
I am Ozymandias, king of kings.
One more punch and my teeth click shut on my tongue. Half of my tongue drops to the floor and gets kicked away.
The little figurine of Mrs. Patrick Madden knelt on the floor next to the body of her husband, the rich people, the people they called friends, towering drunk around her and laughing.
The wife, she said, "Patrick?"
The pool of blood spreading wider and wider until it touches her skirt.
She says, "Patrick, that's enough, stop being dead."
The blood climbs the hem of her skirt, capillary action, thread to thread, climbing her skirt.
Around me the men of Project Mayhem are screaming.
Then Mrs. Patrick Madden is screaming.
And in the basement of the Armory Bar, Tyler Durden slips to the floor in a warm jumble. Tyler Durden the great, who was perfect for one moment, and who said that a moment is the most you could ever expect from perfection.
And the fight goes on and on because I want to be dead. Because only in death do we have names. Only in death are we no longer part of Project Mayhem.
I walk out into the night around First Methodist, and it's all coming back to me.
All the things that Tyler knows are all coming back to me.
Patrick Madden was compiling a list of bars where fight clubs met.
All of the sudden, I know how to run a movie projector. I know how to break locks and how Tyler had rented the house on Paper Street just before he revealed himself to me at the beach.
I know why Tyler had occurred. Tyler loved Marla. From the first night I met her, Tyler or some part of me had needed a way to be with Marla.
Not that any of this matters. Not now. But all the details are coming back to me as I walk through the night to the closest fight club.
There's a fight club in the basement of the Armory Bar on Saturday nights. You can probably find it on the list Patrick Madden was compiling, poor dead Patrick Madden.
Tonight, I go to the Armory Bar and the crowds part zipper style when I walk in. To everybody there, I am Tyler Durden the Great and Powerful. God and father.
All around me I hear, "Good evening, sir."
"Welcome to fight club, sir."
"Thank you for joining us, sir."
Me, my monster face just starting to heal. The hole in my face smiling through my cheek. A frown on my real mouth.
Because I'm Tyler Durden, and you can kiss my ass, I register to fight every guy in the club that night. Fifty fights. One fight at a time. No shoes. No shirts.
The fights go on as long as they have to.
And if Tyler loves Marla.
I love Marla.
And what happens doesn't happen in words. I want to smother all the French beaches I'll never see. Imagine stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around Rockefeller Center.
The first fight I get, the guy gets me in a full nelson and rams my face, rams my cheek, rams the hole in my cheek into the concrete floor until my teeth inside snap off and plant their jagged roots into my tongue.
Now I can remember Patrick Madden, dead on the floor, his little figurine of a wife, just a little girl with a chignon. His wife giggled and tried to pour champagne between her dead husband's lips.
The wife said the fake blood was too, too red. Mrs. Patrick Madden put two fingers in the blood pooled next to her husband and then put the fingers in her mouth.
The teeth planted in my tongue, I taste the blood.
Mrs. Patrick Madden tasted the blood.
I remember being there on the outskirts of the murder mystery party with the space monkey waiters standing bodyguard around me. Marla in her dress with a wallpaper pattern of dark roses watched from the other side of the ballroom.
My second fight, the guy puts a knee between my shoulder blades. The guy pulls both my arms together behind my back, and slams my chest into the concrete floor. My collarbone on one side, I hear it snap.
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 aren't your name.
You aren'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.
How everything you ever love will reject you or die.
Everything you ever create will be thrown away.
Everything you're proud of will end up as trash.
I am Ozymandias, king of kings.
One more punch and my teeth click shut on my tongue. Half of my tongue drops to the floor and gets kicked away.
The little figurine of Mrs. Patrick Madden knelt on the floor next to the body of her husband, the rich people, the people they called friends, towering drunk around her and laughing.
The wife, she said, "Patrick?"
The pool of blood spreading wider and wider until it touches her skirt.
She says, "Patrick, that's enough, stop being dead."
The blood climbs the hem of her skirt, capillary action, thread to thread, climbing her skirt.
Around me the men of Project Mayhem are screaming.
Then Mrs. Patrick Madden is screaming.
And in the basement of the Armory Bar, Tyler Durden slips to the floor in a warm jumble. Tyler Durden the great, who was perfect for one moment, and who said that a moment is the most you could ever expect from perfection.
And the fight goes on and on because I want to be dead. Because only in death do we have names. Only in death are we no longer part of Project Mayhem.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Chapter 23
THE EXPLODED SHELL of my burned-out condo is outer space black and devastated in the night above the little lights of the city. With the windows gone, a yellow ribbon of police crime scene tape twists and swings at the edge of the fifteen-story drop.
I wake up on the concrete subfloor. There was maple flooring once. There was art on the walls before the explosion. There was Swedish furniture. Before Tyler.
I'm dressed. I put my hand in my pocket and feel.
I'm whole.
Scared but intact.
Go to the edge of the floor, fifteen stories above the parking lot, and look at the city lights and the stars, and you're gone.
It's all so beyond us.
Up here, in the miles of night between the stars and the Earth, I feel just like one of those space animals.
Dogs.
Monkeys.
Men.
You just do your little job. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don't really understand any of it.
The world is going crazy. My boss is dead. My home is gone. My job is gone. And I'm responsible for it all.
There's nothing left.
I'm overdrawn at the bank.
Step over the edge.
The police tape flutters between me and oblivion.
Step over the edge.
What else is there?
Step over the edge.
There's Marla.
Jump over the edge.
There's Marla, and she's in the middle of everything and doesn't know it.
And she loves you.
She loves Tyler.
She doesn't know the difference.
Somebody has to tell her. Get out. Get out. Get out.
Save yourself. You ride the elevator down to the lobby, and the doorman who never liked you, now he smiles at you with three teeth knocked out of his mouth and says, "Good evening, Mr. Durden. Can I get you a cab? Are you feeling alright? Do you want to use the phone?"
You call Marla at the Regent Hotel.
The clerk at the Regent says, "Right away, Mr. Durden."
Then Marla comes on the line.
The doorman is listening over your shoulder. The clerk at the Regent is probably listening. You say, Marla, we have to talk.
Marla says, "You can suck shit."
She might be in danger, you say. She deserves to know what's going on. She has to meet you. You have to talk.
"Where?"
She should go to the first place we ever met. Remember. Think back.
The white healing ball of light. The palace of seven doors.
"Got it," she says. "I can be there in twenty minutes."
Be there.
You hang up, and the doorman says, "I can get you a cab, Mr. burden. Free of charge to anywhere you want."
The fight club boys are tracking you. No, you say, it's such a nice night, 1 think I'll walk.
It's Saturday night, bowel cancer night in the basement of First Methodist, and Marla is there when you arrive.
Marla Singer smoking her cigarette. Marla Singer rolling her eyes. Marla Singer with a black eye.
You sit on the shag carpet at opposite sides of the meditation circle and try to summon up your power animal while Marla glares at you with her black eye. You close your eyes and meditate to the palace of the seven doors, and you can still feel Marla's glare. You cradle your inner child.
Marla glares.
Then it's time to hug.
Open your eyes.
We should all choose a partner.
Marla crosses the room in three quick steps and slaps me hard across the face.
Share yourself completely.
"You fucking suck-ass piece of shit," Marla says.
Around us, everyone stands staring.
Then both of Marla's fists are beating me from every direction. "You killed someone," she's screaming. "I called the police and they should be here any minute."
I grab her wrists and say, maybe the police will come, but probably they won't.
Marla twists and says the police are speeding over here to hook me up to the electric chair and bake my eyes out or at least give me a lethal injection.
This will feel just like a bee sting.
An overdose shot of sodium phenobarbital, and then the big sleep. Valley of the Dogs style.
Marla says she saw me kill somebody today.
If she means my boss, I say, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, the police know, everyone's looking for me to lethally inject me, already, but it was Tyler who killed my boss.
Tyler and I just happen to have the same fingerprints, but no one understands.
"You can suck shit," Marla says and pushes her punched-out black eye at me. "Just because you and your little disciples like getting beat up, you touch me ever again, and you're dead."
"I saw you shoot a man tonight," Marla says.
No, it was a bomb, I say, and it happened this morning. Tyler drilled a computer monitor and filled it with gasoline or black powder.
All the people with real bowel cancers are standing around watching this.
"No," Marla says. "I followed you to the Pressman Hotel, and you were a waiter at one of those murder mystery parties."
The murder mystery parties, rich people would come to the hotel for a big dinner party, and act out a sort of Agatha Christie story. Sometime between the Boudin of Gravlax arid the Saddle of Venison, the lights would go out for a minute and someone would fake getting killed. It's supposed to be a fun let's-pretend sort of death.
The rest of the meal, the guests would get drunk and eat their Madeira Consomme and try to find clues to who among them was a psychotic killer.
Marla yells, "You shot the mayor's special envoy on recycling!"
Tyler shot the mayor's special envoy on whatever.
Marla says, "And you don't even have cancer!"
It happens that fast.
Snap your fingers.
Everyone's looking.
I yell, you don't have cancer either!
"He's been coming here for two years," Marla shouts, "and he doesn't have anything!"
I'm trying to save your life!
"What? Why does my life need saving?"
Because you've been following me. Because you followed me tonight, because you saw Tyler Durden kill someone, and Tyler will kill anybody who threatens Project Mayhem.
Everybody in the room looks snapped out of their little tragedies. Their little cancer thing. Even the people on pain meds look wide-eyed and alert.
I say to the crowd, I'm sorry. I never meant any harm. We should go. We should talk about this outside.
Everybody goes, "No! Stay! What else?"
I didn't kill anybody, I say. I'm not Tyler Durden. He's the other side of my split personality. I say, has anybody here seen the movie Sybil?
Marla says, "So who's going to kill me?"
Tyler.
"You?"
Tyler, I say, but I can take care of Tyler. You just have to watch out for the members of Project Mayhem. Tyler might've given them orders to follow you or kidnap you or something.
"Why should I believe any of this?"
It happens that fast.
I say, because I think I like you.
Marla says, "Not love?"
This is a cheesy enough moment, I say. Don't push it.
Everybody watching smiles.
I have to go. I have to get out of here. I say, watch out for guys with shaved heads or guys who look beat up. Black eyes. Missing teeth. That sort of thing.
And Marla says, "So where are you going?"
I have to take care of Tyler Durden.
I wake up on the concrete subfloor. There was maple flooring once. There was art on the walls before the explosion. There was Swedish furniture. Before Tyler.
I'm dressed. I put my hand in my pocket and feel.
I'm whole.
Scared but intact.
Go to the edge of the floor, fifteen stories above the parking lot, and look at the city lights and the stars, and you're gone.
It's all so beyond us.
Up here, in the miles of night between the stars and the Earth, I feel just like one of those space animals.
Dogs.
Monkeys.
Men.
You just do your little job. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don't really understand any of it.
The world is going crazy. My boss is dead. My home is gone. My job is gone. And I'm responsible for it all.
There's nothing left.
I'm overdrawn at the bank.
Step over the edge.
The police tape flutters between me and oblivion.
Step over the edge.
What else is there?
Step over the edge.
There's Marla.
Jump over the edge.
There's Marla, and she's in the middle of everything and doesn't know it.
And she loves you.
She loves Tyler.
She doesn't know the difference.
Somebody has to tell her. Get out. Get out. Get out.
Save yourself. You ride the elevator down to the lobby, and the doorman who never liked you, now he smiles at you with three teeth knocked out of his mouth and says, "Good evening, Mr. Durden. Can I get you a cab? Are you feeling alright? Do you want to use the phone?"
You call Marla at the Regent Hotel.
The clerk at the Regent says, "Right away, Mr. Durden."
Then Marla comes on the line.
The doorman is listening over your shoulder. The clerk at the Regent is probably listening. You say, Marla, we have to talk.
Marla says, "You can suck shit."
She might be in danger, you say. She deserves to know what's going on. She has to meet you. You have to talk.
"Where?"
She should go to the first place we ever met. Remember. Think back.
The white healing ball of light. The palace of seven doors.
"Got it," she says. "I can be there in twenty minutes."
Be there.
You hang up, and the doorman says, "I can get you a cab, Mr. burden. Free of charge to anywhere you want."
The fight club boys are tracking you. No, you say, it's such a nice night, 1 think I'll walk.
It's Saturday night, bowel cancer night in the basement of First Methodist, and Marla is there when you arrive.
Marla Singer smoking her cigarette. Marla Singer rolling her eyes. Marla Singer with a black eye.
You sit on the shag carpet at opposite sides of the meditation circle and try to summon up your power animal while Marla glares at you with her black eye. You close your eyes and meditate to the palace of the seven doors, and you can still feel Marla's glare. You cradle your inner child.
Marla glares.
Then it's time to hug.
Open your eyes.
We should all choose a partner.
Marla crosses the room in three quick steps and slaps me hard across the face.
Share yourself completely.
"You fucking suck-ass piece of shit," Marla says.
Around us, everyone stands staring.
Then both of Marla's fists are beating me from every direction. "You killed someone," she's screaming. "I called the police and they should be here any minute."
I grab her wrists and say, maybe the police will come, but probably they won't.
Marla twists and says the police are speeding over here to hook me up to the electric chair and bake my eyes out or at least give me a lethal injection.
This will feel just like a bee sting.
An overdose shot of sodium phenobarbital, and then the big sleep. Valley of the Dogs style.
Marla says she saw me kill somebody today.
If she means my boss, I say, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, the police know, everyone's looking for me to lethally inject me, already, but it was Tyler who killed my boss.
Tyler and I just happen to have the same fingerprints, but no one understands.
"You can suck shit," Marla says and pushes her punched-out black eye at me. "Just because you and your little disciples like getting beat up, you touch me ever again, and you're dead."
"I saw you shoot a man tonight," Marla says.
No, it was a bomb, I say, and it happened this morning. Tyler drilled a computer monitor and filled it with gasoline or black powder.
All the people with real bowel cancers are standing around watching this.
"No," Marla says. "I followed you to the Pressman Hotel, and you were a waiter at one of those murder mystery parties."
The murder mystery parties, rich people would come to the hotel for a big dinner party, and act out a sort of Agatha Christie story. Sometime between the Boudin of Gravlax arid the Saddle of Venison, the lights would go out for a minute and someone would fake getting killed. It's supposed to be a fun let's-pretend sort of death.
The rest of the meal, the guests would get drunk and eat their Madeira Consomme and try to find clues to who among them was a psychotic killer.
Marla yells, "You shot the mayor's special envoy on recycling!"
Tyler shot the mayor's special envoy on whatever.
Marla says, "And you don't even have cancer!"
It happens that fast.
Snap your fingers.
Everyone's looking.
I yell, you don't have cancer either!
"He's been coming here for two years," Marla shouts, "and he doesn't have anything!"
I'm trying to save your life!
"What? Why does my life need saving?"
Because you've been following me. Because you followed me tonight, because you saw Tyler Durden kill someone, and Tyler will kill anybody who threatens Project Mayhem.
Everybody in the room looks snapped out of their little tragedies. Their little cancer thing. Even the people on pain meds look wide-eyed and alert.
I say to the crowd, I'm sorry. I never meant any harm. We should go. We should talk about this outside.
Everybody goes, "No! Stay! What else?"
I didn't kill anybody, I say. I'm not Tyler Durden. He's the other side of my split personality. I say, has anybody here seen the movie Sybil?
Marla says, "So who's going to kill me?"
Tyler.
"You?"
Tyler, I say, but I can take care of Tyler. You just have to watch out for the members of Project Mayhem. Tyler might've given them orders to follow you or kidnap you or something.
"Why should I believe any of this?"
It happens that fast.
I say, because I think I like you.
Marla says, "Not love?"
This is a cheesy enough moment, I say. Don't push it.
Everybody watching smiles.
I have to go. I have to get out of here. I say, watch out for guys with shaved heads or guys who look beat up. Black eyes. Missing teeth. That sort of thing.
And Marla says, "So where are you going?"
I have to take care of Tyler Durden.
Chapter 23
THE EXPLODED SHELL of my burned-out condo is outer space black and devastated in the night above the little lights of the city. With the windows gone, a yellow ribbon of police crime scene tape twists and swings at the edge of the fifteen-story drop.
I wake up on the concrete subfloor. There was maple flooring once. There was art on the walls before the explosion. There was Swedish furniture. Before Tyler.
I'm dressed. I put my hand in my pocket and feel.
I'm whole.
Scared but intact.
Go to the edge of the floor, fifteen stories above the parking lot, and look at the city lights and the stars, and you're gone.
It's all so beyond us.
Up here, in the miles of night between the stars and the Earth, I feel just like one of those space animals.
Dogs.
Monkeys.
Men.
You just do your little job. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don't really understand any of it.
The world is going crazy. My boss is dead. My home is gone. My job is gone. And I'm responsible for it all.
There's nothing left.
I'm overdrawn at the bank.
Step over the edge.
The police tape flutters between me and oblivion.
Step over the edge.
What else is there?
Step over the edge.
There's Marla.
Jump over the edge.
There's Marla, and she's in the middle of everything and doesn't know it.
And she loves you.
She loves Tyler.
She doesn't know the difference.
Somebody has to tell her. Get out. Get out. Get out.
Save yourself. You ride the elevator down to the lobby, and the doorman who never liked you, now he smiles at you with three teeth knocked out of his mouth and says, "Good evening, Mr. Durden. Can I get you a cab? Are you feeling alright? Do you want to use the phone?"
You call Marla at the Regent Hotel.
The clerk at the Regent says, "Right away, Mr. Durden."
Then Marla comes on the line.
The doorman is listening over your shoulder. The clerk at the Regent is probably listening. You say, Marla, we have to talk.
Marla says, "You can suck shit."
She might be in danger, you say. She deserves to know what's going on. She has to meet you. You have to talk.
"Where?"
She should go to the first place we ever met. Remember. Think back.
The white healing ball of light. The palace of seven doors.
"Got it," she says. "I can be there in twenty minutes."
Be there.
You hang up, and the doorman says, "I can get you a cab, Mr. burden. Free of charge to anywhere you want."
The fight club boys are tracking you. No, you say, it's such a nice night, 1 think I'll walk.
It's Saturday night, bowel cancer night in the basement of First Methodist, and Marla is there when you arrive.
Marla Singer smoking her cigarette. Marla Singer rolling her eyes. Marla Singer with a black eye.
You sit on the shag carpet at opposite sides of the meditation circle and try to summon up your power animal while Marla glares at you with her black eye. You close your eyes and meditate to the palace of the seven doors, and you can still feel Marla's glare. You cradle your inner child.
Marla glares.
Then it's time to hug.
Open your eyes.
We should all choose a partner.
Marla crosses the room in three quick steps and slaps me hard across the face.
Share yourself completely.
"You fucking suck-ass piece of shit," Marla says.
Around us, everyone stands staring.
Then both of Marla's fists are beating me from every direction. "You killed someone," she's screaming. "I called the police and they should be here any minute."
I grab her wrists and say, maybe the police will come, but probably they won't.
Marla twists and says the police are speeding over here to hook me up to the electric chair and bake my eyes out or at least give me a lethal injection.
This will feel just like a bee sting.
An overdose shot of sodium phenobarbital, and then the big sleep. Valley of the Dogs style.
Marla says she saw me kill somebody today.
If she means my boss, I say, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, the police know, everyone's looking for me to lethally inject me, already, but it was Tyler who killed my boss.
Tyler and I just happen to have the same fingerprints, but no one understands.
"You can suck shit," Marla says and pushes her punched-out black eye at me. "Just because you and your little disciples like getting beat up, you touch me ever again, and you're dead."
"I saw you shoot a man tonight," Marla says.
No, it was a bomb, I say, and it happened this morning. Tyler drilled a computer monitor and filled it with gasoline or black powder.
All the people with real bowel cancers are standing around watching this.
"No," Marla says. "I followed you to the Pressman Hotel, and you were a waiter at one of those murder mystery parties."
The murder mystery parties, rich people would come to the hotel for a big dinner party, and act out a sort of Agatha Christie story. Sometime between the Boudin of Gravlax arid the Saddle of Venison, the lights would go out for a minute and someone would fake getting killed. It's supposed to be a fun let's-pretend sort of death.
The rest of the meal, the guests would get drunk and eat their Madeira Consomme and try to find clues to who among them was a psychotic killer.
Marla yells, "You shot the mayor's special envoy on recycling!"
Tyler shot the mayor's special envoy on whatever.
Marla says, "And you don't even have cancer!"
It happens that fast.
Snap your fingers.
Everyone's looking.
I yell, you don't have cancer either!
"He's been coming here for two years," Marla shouts, "and he doesn't have anything!"
I'm trying to save your life!
"What? Why does my life need saving?"
Because you've been following me. Because you followed me tonight, because you saw Tyler Durden kill someone, and Tyler will kill anybody who threatens Project Mayhem.
Everybody in the room looks snapped out of their little tragedies. Their little cancer thing. Even the people on pain meds look wide-eyed and alert.
I say to the crowd, I'm sorry. I never meant any harm. We should go. We should talk about this outside.
Everybody goes, "No! Stay! What else?"
I didn't kill anybody, I say. I'm not Tyler Durden. He's the other side of my split personality. I say, has anybody here seen the movie Sybil?
Marla says, "So who's going to kill me?"
Tyler.
"You?"
Tyler, I say, but I can take care of Tyler. You just have to watch out for the members of Project Mayhem. Tyler might've given them orders to follow you or kidnap you or something.
"Why should I believe any of this?"
It happens that fast.
I say, because I think I like you.
Marla says, "Not love?"
This is a cheesy enough moment, I say. Don't push it.
Everybody watching smiles.
I have to go. I have to get out of here. I say, watch out for guys with shaved heads or guys who look beat up. Black eyes. Missing teeth. That sort of thing.
And Marla says, "So where are you going?"
I have to take care of Tyler Durden.
I wake up on the concrete subfloor. There was maple flooring once. There was art on the walls before the explosion. There was Swedish furniture. Before Tyler.
I'm dressed. I put my hand in my pocket and feel.
I'm whole.
Scared but intact.
Go to the edge of the floor, fifteen stories above the parking lot, and look at the city lights and the stars, and you're gone.
It's all so beyond us.
Up here, in the miles of night between the stars and the Earth, I feel just like one of those space animals.
Dogs.
Monkeys.
Men.
You just do your little job. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don't really understand any of it.
The world is going crazy. My boss is dead. My home is gone. My job is gone. And I'm responsible for it all.
There's nothing left.
I'm overdrawn at the bank.
Step over the edge.
The police tape flutters between me and oblivion.
Step over the edge.
What else is there?
Step over the edge.
There's Marla.
Jump over the edge.
There's Marla, and she's in the middle of everything and doesn't know it.
And she loves you.
She loves Tyler.
She doesn't know the difference.
Somebody has to tell her. Get out. Get out. Get out.
Save yourself. You ride the elevator down to the lobby, and the doorman who never liked you, now he smiles at you with three teeth knocked out of his mouth and says, "Good evening, Mr. Durden. Can I get you a cab? Are you feeling alright? Do you want to use the phone?"
You call Marla at the Regent Hotel.
The clerk at the Regent says, "Right away, Mr. Durden."
Then Marla comes on the line.
The doorman is listening over your shoulder. The clerk at the Regent is probably listening. You say, Marla, we have to talk.
Marla says, "You can suck shit."
She might be in danger, you say. She deserves to know what's going on. She has to meet you. You have to talk.
"Where?"
She should go to the first place we ever met. Remember. Think back.
The white healing ball of light. The palace of seven doors.
"Got it," she says. "I can be there in twenty minutes."
Be there.
You hang up, and the doorman says, "I can get you a cab, Mr. burden. Free of charge to anywhere you want."
The fight club boys are tracking you. No, you say, it's such a nice night, 1 think I'll walk.
It's Saturday night, bowel cancer night in the basement of First Methodist, and Marla is there when you arrive.
Marla Singer smoking her cigarette. Marla Singer rolling her eyes. Marla Singer with a black eye.
You sit on the shag carpet at opposite sides of the meditation circle and try to summon up your power animal while Marla glares at you with her black eye. You close your eyes and meditate to the palace of the seven doors, and you can still feel Marla's glare. You cradle your inner child.
Marla glares.
Then it's time to hug.
Open your eyes.
We should all choose a partner.
Marla crosses the room in three quick steps and slaps me hard across the face.
Share yourself completely.
"You fucking suck-ass piece of shit," Marla says.
Around us, everyone stands staring.
Then both of Marla's fists are beating me from every direction. "You killed someone," she's screaming. "I called the police and they should be here any minute."
I grab her wrists and say, maybe the police will come, but probably they won't.
Marla twists and says the police are speeding over here to hook me up to the electric chair and bake my eyes out or at least give me a lethal injection.
This will feel just like a bee sting.
An overdose shot of sodium phenobarbital, and then the big sleep. Valley of the Dogs style.
Marla says she saw me kill somebody today.
If she means my boss, I say, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, the police know, everyone's looking for me to lethally inject me, already, but it was Tyler who killed my boss.
Tyler and I just happen to have the same fingerprints, but no one understands.
"You can suck shit," Marla says and pushes her punched-out black eye at me. "Just because you and your little disciples like getting beat up, you touch me ever again, and you're dead."
"I saw you shoot a man tonight," Marla says.
No, it was a bomb, I say, and it happened this morning. Tyler drilled a computer monitor and filled it with gasoline or black powder.
All the people with real bowel cancers are standing around watching this.
"No," Marla says. "I followed you to the Pressman Hotel, and you were a waiter at one of those murder mystery parties."
The murder mystery parties, rich people would come to the hotel for a big dinner party, and act out a sort of Agatha Christie story. Sometime between the Boudin of Gravlax arid the Saddle of Venison, the lights would go out for a minute and someone would fake getting killed. It's supposed to be a fun let's-pretend sort of death.
The rest of the meal, the guests would get drunk and eat their Madeira Consomme and try to find clues to who among them was a psychotic killer.
Marla yells, "You shot the mayor's special envoy on recycling!"
Tyler shot the mayor's special envoy on whatever.
Marla says, "And you don't even have cancer!"
It happens that fast.
Snap your fingers.
Everyone's looking.
I yell, you don't have cancer either!
"He's been coming here for two years," Marla shouts, "and he doesn't have anything!"
I'm trying to save your life!
"What? Why does my life need saving?"
Because you've been following me. Because you followed me tonight, because you saw Tyler Durden kill someone, and Tyler will kill anybody who threatens Project Mayhem.
Everybody in the room looks snapped out of their little tragedies. Their little cancer thing. Even the people on pain meds look wide-eyed and alert.
I say to the crowd, I'm sorry. I never meant any harm. We should go. We should talk about this outside.
Everybody goes, "No! Stay! What else?"
I didn't kill anybody, I say. I'm not Tyler Durden. He's the other side of my split personality. I say, has anybody here seen the movie Sybil?
Marla says, "So who's going to kill me?"
Tyler.
"You?"
Tyler, I say, but I can take care of Tyler. You just have to watch out for the members of Project Mayhem. Tyler might've given them orders to follow you or kidnap you or something.
"Why should I believe any of this?"
It happens that fast.
I say, because I think I like you.
Marla says, "Not love?"
This is a cheesy enough moment, I say. Don't push it.
Everybody watching smiles.
I have to go. I have to get out of here. I say, watch out for guys with shaved heads or guys who look beat up. Black eyes. Missing teeth. That sort of thing.
And Marla says, "So where are you going?"
I have to take care of Tyler Durden.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Chapter 22
THAT OLD SAYING, about how you always kill the thing you love, well, it works both ways.
And it does work both ways.
This morning I went to work and there were police barricades between the building and the parking lot with the police at the front doors, taking statements from the people I work with. Everybody milling around.
I didn't even get off the bus.
I am Joe's Cold Sweat.
From the bus, I can see the floor-to-ceiling windows on the third floor of my office building are blown out, and inside a fireman in a dirty yellow slicker is whacking at a burnt panel in the suspended ceiling. A smoldering desk inches out the broken window, pushed by two firemen, then the desk tilts and slides and falls the quick three stories to the sidewalk and lands with more of a feeling than a sound.
Breaks open and it's still smoking.'
I am the Pit of Joe's Stomach.
It's my desk.
I know my boss is dead.
The three ways to make napalm. I knew Tyler was going to kill my boss. The second I smelled gasoline on my hands, when I said I wanted out of my job, I was giving him permission. Be my guest.
Kill my boss.
Oh, Tyler.
I know a computer blew up.
I know this because Tyler knows this.
I don't want to know this, but you use a jeweler's drill to drill a hole through the top of a computer monitor. All the space monkeys know this. I typed up Tyler's notes. This is a new version of the lightbulb bomb, where you drill a hole in a lightbulb and fill the bulb with gasoline. Plug the hole with wax or silicone, then screw the bulb into a socket and let someone walk into the room and throw the switch.
A computer tube can hold a lot more gasoline than a lightbulb.
A cathode ray tube, CRT, you either remove the plastic housing around the tube, this is easy enough, or you work through the vent panels in the top of the housing.
First you have to unplug the monitor from the power source and from the computer.
This would also work with a television.
Just understand, if there's a spark, even static electricity from the carpet, you're dead. Screaming, burned-alive dead.
A cathode ray tube can hold 300 volts of passive electrical storage, so use a hefty screwdriver across the main power supply capacitor, first. If you're dead at this point, you didn't use an insulated screwdriver.
There's a vacuum inside the cathode ray tube so the moment you drill through, the tube will suck air, sort of inhale a little whistle of it.
Ream the little hole with a larger bit, then a larger bit, until you can put the tip of a funnel into the hole. Then, fill the tube with your choice of explosive. Homemade napalm is good. Gasoline or gasoline mixed with frozen orange juice concentrate or cat litter.
A sort of fun explosive is potassium permanganate mixed with powdered sugar. The idea is to mix one ingredient that will burn very F fast with a second ingredient that will supply enough oxygen for that burning. This burns so fast, it's an explosion.
Barium peroxide and zinc dust.
Ammonium nitrate and powdered aluminum.
The nouvelle cuisine of anarchy.
Barium nitrate in a sauce of sulfur and garnished with charcoal. That's your basic gunpowder.
Bon appetit.
Pack the computer monitor full of this, and when someone turns on the power, this is five or six pounds of gunpowder exploding in their face.
The problem is, I sort of liked my boss.
If you're male, and you're Christian and living in America, your father is your model for God. And sometimes you find your father in your career.
Except Tyler didn't like my boss.
The police would be looking for me. I was the last person out of the building last Friday night. I woke up at my desk with my breath condensed on the desktop and Tyler on the telephone, telling me, "Go outside. We have a car."
We have a Cadillac.
The gasoline was still on my hands.
The fight club mechanic asked, what will you wish you'd done before you died?
I wanted out of my job. I was giving Tyler permission. Be my guest. Kill my boss.
From my exploded office, I ride the bus to the gravel turnaround point at the end of the line. This is where the subdivisions peter out to vacant lots and plowed fields. The driver takes out a sack lunch and a thermos and watches me in his overhead mirror.
I'm trying to figure where I can go that the cops won't be looking for me. From the back of the bus, I can see maybe twenty people sitting between me and the driver. I count the backs of twenty heads.
Twenty shaved heads.
The driver twists around in his seat and calls to me in the back seat, "Mr. Durden, sir, I really admire what you're doing."
I've never seen him before.
"You have to forgive me for this," the driver says. "The committee says this is your own idea sir."
The shaved heads turn around one after another. Then one by one they stand. One's got a rag in his hand, and you can smell the ether. The closest one has a hunting knife. The one with the knife is the fight club mechanic.
"You're a brave man," the bus driver says, "to make yourself a homework assignment."
The mechanic tells the bus driver, "Shut up," and "The lookout doesn't say shit."
You know one of the space monkeys has a rubber band to wrap around your nuts. They fill up the front of the bus.
The mechanic says, "You know the drill, Mr. Durden. You said it yourself. You said, if anyone ever tries to shut down the club, even you, then we have to get him by the nuts."
Gonads.
Jewels.
Testes.
Huevos.
Picture the best part of yourself frozen in a sandwich bag at the Paper Street Soap Company.
"You know it's useless to fight us," the mechanic says.
The bus driver chews his sandwich and watches us in the overhead mirror.
A police siren wails, coming closer. A tractor rattles across a field in the distance. Birds. A window in the back of the bus is half open. Clouds. Weeds grow at the edge of the gravel turnaround. Bees or flies buzz around the weeds.
"We're just after a little collateral," the fight club mechanic says. "This isn't just a threat, this time, Mr. Durden. This time, we have to cut them."
The bus driver says, "It's cops."
The siren arrives somewhere at the front of the bus.
So what do I have to fight back with?
A police car pulls up to the bus, lights flashing blue and red through the bus windshield, and someone outside the bus is shouting, "Hold up in there."
And I'm saved.
Sort of.
I can tell the cops about Tyler. I'll tell them everything about fight club, and maybe I'll go to jail, and then Project Mayhem will be their problem to solve, and I won't be staring down a knife.
The cops come up the bus steps, the first cop saying, "You cut him yet?"
The second cop says, "Do it quick, there's a warrant out for his arrest."
Then he takes off his hat, and to me he says, "Nothing personal, Mr. Durden. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
I say, you all are making a big mistake.
The mechanic says, "You told us you'd probably say that."
I'm not Tyler Durden.
"You told us you'd say that, too."
I'm changing the rules. You can still have fight club, but we're not going to castrate anyone, anymore.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the mechanic says. He's halfway down the aisle holding the knife out in front of him. "You said you would definitely say that."
Okay so I'm Tyler Durden. I am. I'm Tyler Durden, and I dictate the rules, and I say, put the knife down.
The mechanic calls back over his shoulder, "What's our best time to date for a cut-and-run?"
Somebody yells, "Four minutes."
The mechanic yells, "Is somebody timing this?"
Both cops have climbed up into the front of the bus now, and one looks at his watch and says, "Just a sec. Wait for the second hand to get up to the twelve."
The cop says, "Nine."
"Eight."
"Seven."
I dive for the open window.
My stomach hits the thin metal windowsill, and behind me, the fight club mechanic yells, "Mr. Durden! You're going to fuck up the time."
Hanging half out the window, I claw at the black rubber sidewalk of the rear tire. I grab the wheelwell trim and pull. Someone grabs my feet and pulls. I'm yelling at the little tractor in the distance, "Hey." And "Hey." My face swelling hot and full of blood, I'm hanging upside down. I pull myself out a little. Hands around my ankles pull me back in. My tie flops in my face. My belt buckle catches on the windowsill. The bees and the flies and weeds are inches from in front of my face, and I'm yelling, "Hey!"
Hands are hooked in the back of my pants, tugging me in, hugging my pants and belt down over my ass.
Somebody inside the bus yells, "One minute!"
My shoes slip off my feet.
My belt buckle slips inside the windowsill.
The hands bring my legs together. The windowsill cuts hot from the sun into my stomach. My white shirt billows and drops down around my head and shoulders, my hands still gripping the wheelwell trim, me still yelling, "Hey!"
My legs are stretched out straight and together behind me. My pants slip down my legs and are gone. The sun shines warm on my ass.
Blood pounding in my head, my eyes bugging from the pressure, all I can see is the white shirt hanging around my face. The tractor rattles somewhere. The bees buzz. Somewhere. Everything is a million miles away. Somewhere a million miles behind me someone is yelling, "Two minutes!"
And a hand slips between my legs and gropes for me.
"Don't hurt him," someone says.
The hands around my ankles are a million miles away. Picture them at the end of a long, long road. Guided meditation.
Don't picture the windowsill as a dull hot knife slitting open your belly.
Don't picture a team of men tug-of-warring your legs apart.
A million miles away, a bah-zillion miles away, a rough warm hand wraps around the base of you and pulls you back, and something is holding you tight, tighter, tighter.
A rubber band.
You're in Ireland.
You're in fight club.
You're at work.
You're anywhere but here.
"Three minutes!"
Somebody far far away yells, "You know the speech Mr. Durden. Don't fuck with fight club."
The warm hand is cupped under you. The cold tip of the knife. An arm wraps around your chest. Therapeutic physical contact. Hug time. And the ether presses your nose and mouth, hard. Then nothing, less than nothing. Oblivion.
And it does work both ways.
This morning I went to work and there were police barricades between the building and the parking lot with the police at the front doors, taking statements from the people I work with. Everybody milling around.
I didn't even get off the bus.
I am Joe's Cold Sweat.
From the bus, I can see the floor-to-ceiling windows on the third floor of my office building are blown out, and inside a fireman in a dirty yellow slicker is whacking at a burnt panel in the suspended ceiling. A smoldering desk inches out the broken window, pushed by two firemen, then the desk tilts and slides and falls the quick three stories to the sidewalk and lands with more of a feeling than a sound.
Breaks open and it's still smoking.'
I am the Pit of Joe's Stomach.
It's my desk.
I know my boss is dead.
The three ways to make napalm. I knew Tyler was going to kill my boss. The second I smelled gasoline on my hands, when I said I wanted out of my job, I was giving him permission. Be my guest.
Kill my boss.
Oh, Tyler.
I know a computer blew up.
I know this because Tyler knows this.
I don't want to know this, but you use a jeweler's drill to drill a hole through the top of a computer monitor. All the space monkeys know this. I typed up Tyler's notes. This is a new version of the lightbulb bomb, where you drill a hole in a lightbulb and fill the bulb with gasoline. Plug the hole with wax or silicone, then screw the bulb into a socket and let someone walk into the room and throw the switch.
A computer tube can hold a lot more gasoline than a lightbulb.
A cathode ray tube, CRT, you either remove the plastic housing around the tube, this is easy enough, or you work through the vent panels in the top of the housing.
First you have to unplug the monitor from the power source and from the computer.
This would also work with a television.
Just understand, if there's a spark, even static electricity from the carpet, you're dead. Screaming, burned-alive dead.
A cathode ray tube can hold 300 volts of passive electrical storage, so use a hefty screwdriver across the main power supply capacitor, first. If you're dead at this point, you didn't use an insulated screwdriver.
There's a vacuum inside the cathode ray tube so the moment you drill through, the tube will suck air, sort of inhale a little whistle of it.
Ream the little hole with a larger bit, then a larger bit, until you can put the tip of a funnel into the hole. Then, fill the tube with your choice of explosive. Homemade napalm is good. Gasoline or gasoline mixed with frozen orange juice concentrate or cat litter.
A sort of fun explosive is potassium permanganate mixed with powdered sugar. The idea is to mix one ingredient that will burn very F fast with a second ingredient that will supply enough oxygen for that burning. This burns so fast, it's an explosion.
Barium peroxide and zinc dust.
Ammonium nitrate and powdered aluminum.
The nouvelle cuisine of anarchy.
Barium nitrate in a sauce of sulfur and garnished with charcoal. That's your basic gunpowder.
Bon appetit.
Pack the computer monitor full of this, and when someone turns on the power, this is five or six pounds of gunpowder exploding in their face.
The problem is, I sort of liked my boss.
If you're male, and you're Christian and living in America, your father is your model for God. And sometimes you find your father in your career.
Except Tyler didn't like my boss.
The police would be looking for me. I was the last person out of the building last Friday night. I woke up at my desk with my breath condensed on the desktop and Tyler on the telephone, telling me, "Go outside. We have a car."
We have a Cadillac.
The gasoline was still on my hands.
The fight club mechanic asked, what will you wish you'd done before you died?
I wanted out of my job. I was giving Tyler permission. Be my guest. Kill my boss.
From my exploded office, I ride the bus to the gravel turnaround point at the end of the line. This is where the subdivisions peter out to vacant lots and plowed fields. The driver takes out a sack lunch and a thermos and watches me in his overhead mirror.
I'm trying to figure where I can go that the cops won't be looking for me. From the back of the bus, I can see maybe twenty people sitting between me and the driver. I count the backs of twenty heads.
Twenty shaved heads.
The driver twists around in his seat and calls to me in the back seat, "Mr. Durden, sir, I really admire what you're doing."
I've never seen him before.
"You have to forgive me for this," the driver says. "The committee says this is your own idea sir."
The shaved heads turn around one after another. Then one by one they stand. One's got a rag in his hand, and you can smell the ether. The closest one has a hunting knife. The one with the knife is the fight club mechanic.
"You're a brave man," the bus driver says, "to make yourself a homework assignment."
The mechanic tells the bus driver, "Shut up," and "The lookout doesn't say shit."
You know one of the space monkeys has a rubber band to wrap around your nuts. They fill up the front of the bus.
The mechanic says, "You know the drill, Mr. Durden. You said it yourself. You said, if anyone ever tries to shut down the club, even you, then we have to get him by the nuts."
Gonads.
Jewels.
Testes.
Huevos.
Picture the best part of yourself frozen in a sandwich bag at the Paper Street Soap Company.
"You know it's useless to fight us," the mechanic says.
The bus driver chews his sandwich and watches us in the overhead mirror.
A police siren wails, coming closer. A tractor rattles across a field in the distance. Birds. A window in the back of the bus is half open. Clouds. Weeds grow at the edge of the gravel turnaround. Bees or flies buzz around the weeds.
"We're just after a little collateral," the fight club mechanic says. "This isn't just a threat, this time, Mr. Durden. This time, we have to cut them."
The bus driver says, "It's cops."
The siren arrives somewhere at the front of the bus.
So what do I have to fight back with?
A police car pulls up to the bus, lights flashing blue and red through the bus windshield, and someone outside the bus is shouting, "Hold up in there."
And I'm saved.
Sort of.
I can tell the cops about Tyler. I'll tell them everything about fight club, and maybe I'll go to jail, and then Project Mayhem will be their problem to solve, and I won't be staring down a knife.
The cops come up the bus steps, the first cop saying, "You cut him yet?"
The second cop says, "Do it quick, there's a warrant out for his arrest."
Then he takes off his hat, and to me he says, "Nothing personal, Mr. Durden. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
I say, you all are making a big mistake.
The mechanic says, "You told us you'd probably say that."
I'm not Tyler Durden.
"You told us you'd say that, too."
I'm changing the rules. You can still have fight club, but we're not going to castrate anyone, anymore.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the mechanic says. He's halfway down the aisle holding the knife out in front of him. "You said you would definitely say that."
Okay so I'm Tyler Durden. I am. I'm Tyler Durden, and I dictate the rules, and I say, put the knife down.
The mechanic calls back over his shoulder, "What's our best time to date for a cut-and-run?"
Somebody yells, "Four minutes."
The mechanic yells, "Is somebody timing this?"
Both cops have climbed up into the front of the bus now, and one looks at his watch and says, "Just a sec. Wait for the second hand to get up to the twelve."
The cop says, "Nine."
"Eight."
"Seven."
I dive for the open window.
My stomach hits the thin metal windowsill, and behind me, the fight club mechanic yells, "Mr. Durden! You're going to fuck up the time."
Hanging half out the window, I claw at the black rubber sidewalk of the rear tire. I grab the wheelwell trim and pull. Someone grabs my feet and pulls. I'm yelling at the little tractor in the distance, "Hey." And "Hey." My face swelling hot and full of blood, I'm hanging upside down. I pull myself out a little. Hands around my ankles pull me back in. My tie flops in my face. My belt buckle catches on the windowsill. The bees and the flies and weeds are inches from in front of my face, and I'm yelling, "Hey!"
Hands are hooked in the back of my pants, tugging me in, hugging my pants and belt down over my ass.
Somebody inside the bus yells, "One minute!"
My shoes slip off my feet.
My belt buckle slips inside the windowsill.
The hands bring my legs together. The windowsill cuts hot from the sun into my stomach. My white shirt billows and drops down around my head and shoulders, my hands still gripping the wheelwell trim, me still yelling, "Hey!"
My legs are stretched out straight and together behind me. My pants slip down my legs and are gone. The sun shines warm on my ass.
Blood pounding in my head, my eyes bugging from the pressure, all I can see is the white shirt hanging around my face. The tractor rattles somewhere. The bees buzz. Somewhere. Everything is a million miles away. Somewhere a million miles behind me someone is yelling, "Two minutes!"
And a hand slips between my legs and gropes for me.
"Don't hurt him," someone says.
The hands around my ankles are a million miles away. Picture them at the end of a long, long road. Guided meditation.
Don't picture the windowsill as a dull hot knife slitting open your belly.
Don't picture a team of men tug-of-warring your legs apart.
A million miles away, a bah-zillion miles away, a rough warm hand wraps around the base of you and pulls you back, and something is holding you tight, tighter, tighter.
A rubber band.
You're in Ireland.
You're in fight club.
You're at work.
You're anywhere but here.
"Three minutes!"
Somebody far far away yells, "You know the speech Mr. Durden. Don't fuck with fight club."
The warm hand is cupped under you. The cold tip of the knife. An arm wraps around your chest. Therapeutic physical contact. Hug time. And the ether presses your nose and mouth, hard. Then nothing, less than nothing. Oblivion.
Chapter 22
THAT OLD SAYING, about how you always kill the thing you love, well, it works both ways.
And it does work both ways.
This morning I went to work and there were police barricades between the building and the parking lot with the police at the front doors, taking statements from the people I work with. Everybody milling around.
I didn't even get off the bus.
I am Joe's Cold Sweat.
From the bus, I can see the floor-to-ceiling windows on the third floor of my office building are blown out, and inside a fireman in a dirty yellow slicker is whacking at a burnt panel in the suspended ceiling. A smoldering desk inches out the broken window, pushed by two firemen, then the desk tilts and slides and falls the quick three stories to the sidewalk and lands with more of a feeling than a sound.
Breaks open and it's still smoking.'
I am the Pit of Joe's Stomach.
It's my desk.
I know my boss is dead.
The three ways to make napalm. I knew Tyler was going to kill my boss. The second I smelled gasoline on my hands, when I said I wanted out of my job, I was giving him permission. Be my guest.
Kill my boss.
Oh, Tyler.
I know a computer blew up.
I know this because Tyler knows this.
I don't want to know this, but you use a jeweler's drill to drill a hole through the top of a computer monitor. All the space monkeys know this. I typed up Tyler's notes. This is a new version of the lightbulb bomb, where you drill a hole in a lightbulb and fill the bulb with gasoline. Plug the hole with wax or silicone, then screw the bulb into a socket and let someone walk into the room and throw the switch.
A computer tube can hold a lot more gasoline than a lightbulb.
A cathode ray tube, CRT, you either remove the plastic housing around the tube, this is easy enough, or you work through the vent panels in the top of the housing.
First you have to unplug the monitor from the power source and from the computer.
This would also work with a television.
Just understand, if there's a spark, even static electricity from the carpet, you're dead. Screaming, burned-alive dead.
A cathode ray tube can hold 300 volts of passive electrical storage, so use a hefty screwdriver across the main power supply capacitor, first. If you're dead at this point, you didn't use an insulated screwdriver.
There's a vacuum inside the cathode ray tube so the moment you drill through, the tube will suck air, sort of inhale a little whistle of it.
Ream the little hole with a larger bit, then a larger bit, until you can put the tip of a funnel into the hole. Then, fill the tube with your choice of explosive. Homemade napalm is good. Gasoline or gasoline mixed with frozen orange juice concentrate or cat litter.
A sort of fun explosive is potassium permanganate mixed with powdered sugar. The idea is to mix one ingredient that will burn very F fast with a second ingredient that will supply enough oxygen for that burning. This burns so fast, it's an explosion.
Barium peroxide and zinc dust.
Ammonium nitrate and powdered aluminum.
The nouvelle cuisine of anarchy.
Barium nitrate in a sauce of sulfur and garnished with charcoal. That's your basic gunpowder.
Bon appetit.
Pack the computer monitor full of this, and when someone turns on the power, this is five or six pounds of gunpowder exploding in their face.
The problem is, I sort of liked my boss.
If you're male, and you're Christian and living in America, your father is your model for God. And sometimes you find your father in your career.
Except Tyler didn't like my boss.
The police would be looking for me. I was the last person out of the building last Friday night. I woke up at my desk with my breath condensed on the desktop and Tyler on the telephone, telling me, "Go outside. We have a car."
We have a Cadillac.
The gasoline was still on my hands.
The fight club mechanic asked, what will you wish you'd done before you died?
I wanted out of my job. I was giving Tyler permission. Be my guest. Kill my boss.
From my exploded office, I ride the bus to the gravel turnaround point at the end of the line. This is where the subdivisions peter out to vacant lots and plowed fields. The driver takes out a sack lunch and a thermos and watches me in his overhead mirror.
I'm trying to figure where I can go that the cops won't be looking for me. From the back of the bus, I can see maybe twenty people sitting between me and the driver. I count the backs of twenty heads.
Twenty shaved heads.
The driver twists around in his seat and calls to me in the back seat, "Mr. Durden, sir, I really admire what you're doing."
I've never seen him before.
"You have to forgive me for this," the driver says. "The committee says this is your own idea sir."
The shaved heads turn around one after another. Then one by one they stand. One's got a rag in his hand, and you can smell the ether. The closest one has a hunting knife. The one with the knife is the fight club mechanic.
"You're a brave man," the bus driver says, "to make yourself a homework assignment."
The mechanic tells the bus driver, "Shut up," and "The lookout doesn't say shit."
You know one of the space monkeys has a rubber band to wrap around your nuts. They fill up the front of the bus.
The mechanic says, "You know the drill, Mr. Durden. You said it yourself. You said, if anyone ever tries to shut down the club, even you, then we have to get him by the nuts."
Gonads.
Jewels.
Testes.
Huevos.
Picture the best part of yourself frozen in a sandwich bag at the Paper Street Soap Company.
"You know it's useless to fight us," the mechanic says.
The bus driver chews his sandwich and watches us in the overhead mirror.
A police siren wails, coming closer. A tractor rattles across a field in the distance. Birds. A window in the back of the bus is half open. Clouds. Weeds grow at the edge of the gravel turnaround. Bees or flies buzz around the weeds.
"We're just after a little collateral," the fight club mechanic says. "This isn't just a threat, this time, Mr. Durden. This time, we have to cut them."
The bus driver says, "It's cops."
The siren arrives somewhere at the front of the bus.
So what do I have to fight back with?
A police car pulls up to the bus, lights flashing blue and red through the bus windshield, and someone outside the bus is shouting, "Hold up in there."
And I'm saved.
Sort of.
I can tell the cops about Tyler. I'll tell them everything about fight club, and maybe I'll go to jail, and then Project Mayhem will be their problem to solve, and I won't be staring down a knife.
The cops come up the bus steps, the first cop saying, "You cut him yet?"
The second cop says, "Do it quick, there's a warrant out for his arrest."
Then he takes off his hat, and to me he says, "Nothing personal, Mr. Durden. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
I say, you all are making a big mistake.
The mechanic says, "You told us you'd probably say that."
I'm not Tyler Durden.
"You told us you'd say that, too."
I'm changing the rules. You can still have fight club, but we're not going to castrate anyone, anymore.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the mechanic says. He's halfway down the aisle holding the knife out in front of him. "You said you would definitely say that."
Okay so I'm Tyler Durden. I am. I'm Tyler Durden, and I dictate the rules, and I say, put the knife down.
The mechanic calls back over his shoulder, "What's our best time to date for a cut-and-run?"
Somebody yells, "Four minutes."
The mechanic yells, "Is somebody timing this?"
Both cops have climbed up into the front of the bus now, and one looks at his watch and says, "Just a sec. Wait for the second hand to get up to the twelve."
The cop says, "Nine."
"Eight."
"Seven."
I dive for the open window.
My stomach hits the thin metal windowsill, and behind me, the fight club mechanic yells, "Mr. Durden! You're going to fuck up the time."
Hanging half out the window, I claw at the black rubber sidewalk of the rear tire. I grab the wheelwell trim and pull. Someone grabs my feet and pulls. I'm yelling at the little tractor in the distance, "Hey." And "Hey." My face swelling hot and full of blood, I'm hanging upside down. I pull myself out a little. Hands around my ankles pull me back in. My tie flops in my face. My belt buckle catches on the windowsill. The bees and the flies and weeds are inches from in front of my face, and I'm yelling, "Hey!"
Hands are hooked in the back of my pants, tugging me in, hugging my pants and belt down over my ass.
Somebody inside the bus yells, "One minute!"
My shoes slip off my feet.
My belt buckle slips inside the windowsill.
The hands bring my legs together. The windowsill cuts hot from the sun into my stomach. My white shirt billows and drops down around my head and shoulders, my hands still gripping the wheelwell trim, me still yelling, "Hey!"
My legs are stretched out straight and together behind me. My pants slip down my legs and are gone. The sun shines warm on my ass.
Blood pounding in my head, my eyes bugging from the pressure, all I can see is the white shirt hanging around my face. The tractor rattles somewhere. The bees buzz. Somewhere. Everything is a million miles away. Somewhere a million miles behind me someone is yelling, "Two minutes!"
And a hand slips between my legs and gropes for me.
"Don't hurt him," someone says.
The hands around my ankles are a million miles away. Picture them at the end of a long, long road. Guided meditation.
Don't picture the windowsill as a dull hot knife slitting open your belly.
Don't picture a team of men tug-of-warring your legs apart.
A million miles away, a bah-zillion miles away, a rough warm hand wraps around the base of you and pulls you back, and something is holding you tight, tighter, tighter.
A rubber band.
You're in Ireland.
You're in fight club.
You're at work.
You're anywhere but here.
"Three minutes!"
Somebody far far away yells, "You know the speech Mr. Durden. Don't fuck with fight club."
The warm hand is cupped under you. The cold tip of the knife. An arm wraps around your chest. Therapeutic physical contact. Hug time. And the ether presses your nose and mouth, hard. Then nothing, less than nothing. Oblivion.
And it does work both ways.
This morning I went to work and there were police barricades between the building and the parking lot with the police at the front doors, taking statements from the people I work with. Everybody milling around.
I didn't even get off the bus.
I am Joe's Cold Sweat.
From the bus, I can see the floor-to-ceiling windows on the third floor of my office building are blown out, and inside a fireman in a dirty yellow slicker is whacking at a burnt panel in the suspended ceiling. A smoldering desk inches out the broken window, pushed by two firemen, then the desk tilts and slides and falls the quick three stories to the sidewalk and lands with more of a feeling than a sound.
Breaks open and it's still smoking.'
I am the Pit of Joe's Stomach.
It's my desk.
I know my boss is dead.
The three ways to make napalm. I knew Tyler was going to kill my boss. The second I smelled gasoline on my hands, when I said I wanted out of my job, I was giving him permission. Be my guest.
Kill my boss.
Oh, Tyler.
I know a computer blew up.
I know this because Tyler knows this.
I don't want to know this, but you use a jeweler's drill to drill a hole through the top of a computer monitor. All the space monkeys know this. I typed up Tyler's notes. This is a new version of the lightbulb bomb, where you drill a hole in a lightbulb and fill the bulb with gasoline. Plug the hole with wax or silicone, then screw the bulb into a socket and let someone walk into the room and throw the switch.
A computer tube can hold a lot more gasoline than a lightbulb.
A cathode ray tube, CRT, you either remove the plastic housing around the tube, this is easy enough, or you work through the vent panels in the top of the housing.
First you have to unplug the monitor from the power source and from the computer.
This would also work with a television.
Just understand, if there's a spark, even static electricity from the carpet, you're dead. Screaming, burned-alive dead.
A cathode ray tube can hold 300 volts of passive electrical storage, so use a hefty screwdriver across the main power supply capacitor, first. If you're dead at this point, you didn't use an insulated screwdriver.
There's a vacuum inside the cathode ray tube so the moment you drill through, the tube will suck air, sort of inhale a little whistle of it.
Ream the little hole with a larger bit, then a larger bit, until you can put the tip of a funnel into the hole. Then, fill the tube with your choice of explosive. Homemade napalm is good. Gasoline or gasoline mixed with frozen orange juice concentrate or cat litter.
A sort of fun explosive is potassium permanganate mixed with powdered sugar. The idea is to mix one ingredient that will burn very F fast with a second ingredient that will supply enough oxygen for that burning. This burns so fast, it's an explosion.
Barium peroxide and zinc dust.
Ammonium nitrate and powdered aluminum.
The nouvelle cuisine of anarchy.
Barium nitrate in a sauce of sulfur and garnished with charcoal. That's your basic gunpowder.
Bon appetit.
Pack the computer monitor full of this, and when someone turns on the power, this is five or six pounds of gunpowder exploding in their face.
The problem is, I sort of liked my boss.
If you're male, and you're Christian and living in America, your father is your model for God. And sometimes you find your father in your career.
Except Tyler didn't like my boss.
The police would be looking for me. I was the last person out of the building last Friday night. I woke up at my desk with my breath condensed on the desktop and Tyler on the telephone, telling me, "Go outside. We have a car."
We have a Cadillac.
The gasoline was still on my hands.
The fight club mechanic asked, what will you wish you'd done before you died?
I wanted out of my job. I was giving Tyler permission. Be my guest. Kill my boss.
From my exploded office, I ride the bus to the gravel turnaround point at the end of the line. This is where the subdivisions peter out to vacant lots and plowed fields. The driver takes out a sack lunch and a thermos and watches me in his overhead mirror.
I'm trying to figure where I can go that the cops won't be looking for me. From the back of the bus, I can see maybe twenty people sitting between me and the driver. I count the backs of twenty heads.
Twenty shaved heads.
The driver twists around in his seat and calls to me in the back seat, "Mr. Durden, sir, I really admire what you're doing."
I've never seen him before.
"You have to forgive me for this," the driver says. "The committee says this is your own idea sir."
The shaved heads turn around one after another. Then one by one they stand. One's got a rag in his hand, and you can smell the ether. The closest one has a hunting knife. The one with the knife is the fight club mechanic.
"You're a brave man," the bus driver says, "to make yourself a homework assignment."
The mechanic tells the bus driver, "Shut up," and "The lookout doesn't say shit."
You know one of the space monkeys has a rubber band to wrap around your nuts. They fill up the front of the bus.
The mechanic says, "You know the drill, Mr. Durden. You said it yourself. You said, if anyone ever tries to shut down the club, even you, then we have to get him by the nuts."
Gonads.
Jewels.
Testes.
Huevos.
Picture the best part of yourself frozen in a sandwich bag at the Paper Street Soap Company.
"You know it's useless to fight us," the mechanic says.
The bus driver chews his sandwich and watches us in the overhead mirror.
A police siren wails, coming closer. A tractor rattles across a field in the distance. Birds. A window in the back of the bus is half open. Clouds. Weeds grow at the edge of the gravel turnaround. Bees or flies buzz around the weeds.
"We're just after a little collateral," the fight club mechanic says. "This isn't just a threat, this time, Mr. Durden. This time, we have to cut them."
The bus driver says, "It's cops."
The siren arrives somewhere at the front of the bus.
So what do I have to fight back with?
A police car pulls up to the bus, lights flashing blue and red through the bus windshield, and someone outside the bus is shouting, "Hold up in there."
And I'm saved.
Sort of.
I can tell the cops about Tyler. I'll tell them everything about fight club, and maybe I'll go to jail, and then Project Mayhem will be their problem to solve, and I won't be staring down a knife.
The cops come up the bus steps, the first cop saying, "You cut him yet?"
The second cop says, "Do it quick, there's a warrant out for his arrest."
Then he takes off his hat, and to me he says, "Nothing personal, Mr. Durden. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
I say, you all are making a big mistake.
The mechanic says, "You told us you'd probably say that."
I'm not Tyler Durden.
"You told us you'd say that, too."
I'm changing the rules. You can still have fight club, but we're not going to castrate anyone, anymore.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the mechanic says. He's halfway down the aisle holding the knife out in front of him. "You said you would definitely say that."
Okay so I'm Tyler Durden. I am. I'm Tyler Durden, and I dictate the rules, and I say, put the knife down.
The mechanic calls back over his shoulder, "What's our best time to date for a cut-and-run?"
Somebody yells, "Four minutes."
The mechanic yells, "Is somebody timing this?"
Both cops have climbed up into the front of the bus now, and one looks at his watch and says, "Just a sec. Wait for the second hand to get up to the twelve."
The cop says, "Nine."
"Eight."
"Seven."
I dive for the open window.
My stomach hits the thin metal windowsill, and behind me, the fight club mechanic yells, "Mr. Durden! You're going to fuck up the time."
Hanging half out the window, I claw at the black rubber sidewalk of the rear tire. I grab the wheelwell trim and pull. Someone grabs my feet and pulls. I'm yelling at the little tractor in the distance, "Hey." And "Hey." My face swelling hot and full of blood, I'm hanging upside down. I pull myself out a little. Hands around my ankles pull me back in. My tie flops in my face. My belt buckle catches on the windowsill. The bees and the flies and weeds are inches from in front of my face, and I'm yelling, "Hey!"
Hands are hooked in the back of my pants, tugging me in, hugging my pants and belt down over my ass.
Somebody inside the bus yells, "One minute!"
My shoes slip off my feet.
My belt buckle slips inside the windowsill.
The hands bring my legs together. The windowsill cuts hot from the sun into my stomach. My white shirt billows and drops down around my head and shoulders, my hands still gripping the wheelwell trim, me still yelling, "Hey!"
My legs are stretched out straight and together behind me. My pants slip down my legs and are gone. The sun shines warm on my ass.
Blood pounding in my head, my eyes bugging from the pressure, all I can see is the white shirt hanging around my face. The tractor rattles somewhere. The bees buzz. Somewhere. Everything is a million miles away. Somewhere a million miles behind me someone is yelling, "Two minutes!"
And a hand slips between my legs and gropes for me.
"Don't hurt him," someone says.
The hands around my ankles are a million miles away. Picture them at the end of a long, long road. Guided meditation.
Don't picture the windowsill as a dull hot knife slitting open your belly.
Don't picture a team of men tug-of-warring your legs apart.
A million miles away, a bah-zillion miles away, a rough warm hand wraps around the base of you and pulls you back, and something is holding you tight, tighter, tighter.
A rubber band.
You're in Ireland.
You're in fight club.
You're at work.
You're anywhere but here.
"Three minutes!"
Somebody far far away yells, "You know the speech Mr. Durden. Don't fuck with fight club."
The warm hand is cupped under you. The cold tip of the knife. An arm wraps around your chest. Therapeutic physical contact. Hug time. And the ether presses your nose and mouth, hard. Then nothing, less than nothing. Oblivion.
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