I made a fist and not a plan
WHO: The Narrator and Thomas Blake
WHERE: Outside a bar, parking lot
WHEN: Sunday night
WARNINGS: FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT
SUMMARY: The Narrator gives in and contacts Thomas for a fight.
FORMAT: Introduction is paragraph, log itself is quickpara!
Thomas was the obvious choice.
It couldn't have been Tyler. Tyler, who still haunted his thoughts, who gave him images of someone else's chipped teeth and bloody knuckles between every one of his blinks. Tyler had been pounding away at strangers in bars for as long as he'd been in the City, and every fight filtered seamlessly into the Narrator's consciousness, manifesting in dreams and phantom smells of sweat and copper. The two of them were separate, but not, and in a way, that was even more maddening. He found the bars where Tyler had his fights, running on sickness and deja vu, and sat in them until they closed, seeking out bruises on the familiar faces his other half ruined hours earlier.
When he left, he stole their playing cards.
He figured out where bars liked to keep them. Sometimes, they were behind the bar, and that always made it trickier, but usually they were left out on tables, smudged queens and torn aces, waiting for the Narrator's trembling hands to take them up and shove them into his coat pocket. He took them home and built card castles on every surface of his apartment. On the kitchen table. On the coffee table. On the bed, because he barely used it anymore. When he went to the bathroom, he'd watch the houses he built under the cheap, wobbling sink and imagine little people were living there, privy to every detail of his naked body and the way he sometimes talked to the mirror, searching for God.
The breakdown was inevitable. On Sunday night, the day pain was real to him, he sent an SOS of sorts to Thomas Blake. He barely knew him except that there was a certain bite to his voice and that he probably ate two people alive, but since this whole world was a dream, it was more tantalizing than terrifying. Do you fight? he had asked. I'm at Perch's Bar. I need this.
Thomas was the obvious choice.
The Narrator waited outside without any jacket, shivering, not bothering to shield his face from the wind that actually stung, as though the pain itself were a miracle.
WHERE: Outside a bar, parking lot
WHEN: Sunday night
WARNINGS: FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT
SUMMARY: The Narrator gives in and contacts Thomas for a fight.
FORMAT: Introduction is paragraph, log itself is quickpara!
Thomas was the obvious choice.
It couldn't have been Tyler. Tyler, who still haunted his thoughts, who gave him images of someone else's chipped teeth and bloody knuckles between every one of his blinks. Tyler had been pounding away at strangers in bars for as long as he'd been in the City, and every fight filtered seamlessly into the Narrator's consciousness, manifesting in dreams and phantom smells of sweat and copper. The two of them were separate, but not, and in a way, that was even more maddening. He found the bars where Tyler had his fights, running on sickness and deja vu, and sat in them until they closed, seeking out bruises on the familiar faces his other half ruined hours earlier.
When he left, he stole their playing cards.
He figured out where bars liked to keep them. Sometimes, they were behind the bar, and that always made it trickier, but usually they were left out on tables, smudged queens and torn aces, waiting for the Narrator's trembling hands to take them up and shove them into his coat pocket. He took them home and built card castles on every surface of his apartment. On the kitchen table. On the coffee table. On the bed, because he barely used it anymore. When he went to the bathroom, he'd watch the houses he built under the cheap, wobbling sink and imagine little people were living there, privy to every detail of his naked body and the way he sometimes talked to the mirror, searching for God.
The breakdown was inevitable. On Sunday night, the day pain was real to him, he sent an SOS of sorts to Thomas Blake. He barely knew him except that there was a certain bite to his voice and that he probably ate two people alive, but since this whole world was a dream, it was more tantalizing than terrifying. Do you fight? he had asked. I'm at Perch's Bar. I need this.
Thomas was the obvious choice.
The Narrator waited outside without any jacket, shivering, not bothering to shield his face from the wind that actually stung, as though the pain itself were a miracle.