tyler_gone | 33 Apocalypse Ave., Saturday

The first thing Tyler did when he woke up was be glad he wasn't going to dress as an imaginary animal today.

The second was to remember it was his birthday. 28. Or 18. Depending. 28 worked.

The third was to remember what had happened the first time he had lived through this particular date.

"...and if this is your first night at Fight Club," Tyler finished his recitation, barefoot, sweaty, enjoying the eyes on him in this Tuscaloosa church basement, "you have to fight." He pointed to the only two new recruits he saw, a beefy middle-aged man and a skinny blond kid with a goatee that was probably going to get ripped out by the roots. "You two. Go. Now."

It seemed like they were going to. He saw the fight burning in their eyes, tensed his muscles in sympathy -- and then they didn't. The blond kid was at his side so fast he wondered if Blondie had misunderstood his instructions, thought he was going to fight them.

He thought wrong. "Mr. Moore," Beefy said, as Blondie grabbed his wrists and slapped on cuffs, "You are under arrest." The rest was like every TV show he had ever seen; Mirandas, a squad car, fingerprints and a booking photo. The only special part to Tyler was that it seemed like none of the cops gave a crap who he was, which he supposed was one of the drawbacks of moving Fight Club to a new city, and one where plastic surgeons were apparently very possessive of their dumpster contents. So they got him on theft, in the end, and possession of an unregistered handgun or five. He wasn't in jail for fighting or the bombs; he was arrested for the soap.

Project Mayhem, he was fairly sure, would survive.

It wasn't until Tyler saw the news the next morning that he realized he'd gotten arrested on his eighteenth birthday. He laughed so loud at that he woke up the drag queen sleeping on the cell bench.

Shaking it off, Tyler went to take a shower. Happy fucking birthday, at least you aren't in jail, he thought.