† The Brat Queen †

DISCLAIMER: The following story is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of the original copyright holders, whoever the @#$% the copyright holders of Fight Club actually are. I make no claims on said copyrights. This is all in fun, try not to panic.

Fight Club: Psycho-Boy
by: The Brat Queen

Rating: R for language
Warning: This story does actively involve The Fight Club Spoiler. You might not want to read if you don't want to ruin the surprise.
Summary: Tyler thinks about the repercussions of bringing Angel Face into Fight Club.
Notes: As always, I'm mixing canon.
Thanks to: Denis Leary, LadyBD and Steph for a philosophy spell-check.

I paced back and forth.

Things were getting interesting.

Admittedly I’d wanted him to fight. Hell, more than that. I wanted some sort of flicker of emotion from the kid. A sign of life, a pulse, anything.

A total fucking bloodbath was maybe a bit more than what I expected but you take what you can get.

OK, let’s recap:

Me, upon finding that the kid was starting to even take Fight Club for granted, brings in A Challenger. Specifically Angel Face, a guy I met down in the video shop on Barr Street. Angel Face takes to Club like the proverbial duck to water and the kid reacts by beating the total living shit out of him.

I don’t want to say the kid’s got a possessive streak but what are you gonna call a guy who literally keeps his sexual fantasies in the palm of his hand?

Or would if he had the balls to follow up on them.

He would, of course, except he gave them to me. Irony’s a real bitch when you come right down to it.

Damn but that was a good fight. That was a total knock-down, drag-out, fuck-you-and-all-you-stand-for Pay Per View extravaganza. I’ve still got blood on me. Not all the kid’s either. One of these nights the ringing in my ears is gonna go away too. Didn’t know the kid had it in him.

Which is cool, but a problem.

Problem is, this is not his thing. His thing is shopping in catalogues, pestering the guy behind the counter for coffee-flavored coffee and doing what he can to live his life like the total lemming that he was born to be. My thing is doing everything else.

I’ve got to sit down and ponder the infinite a bit here. Which is a fuck and a half because the whole Zen-master navel-gazing thing is his domain too.

Again, irony’s a bitch.

Admittedly, I like fucking with things. My thing is fucking with things. So, naturally, when it comes right down to it, I’ve got to fuck with him. I’ve got to tweak his buttons, screw with his little mind and generally make him familiar with the concept of a cold sweat. I can do that. Done it. Nailed it shut.

Only thing is I can’t help hitting all his buttons, which turns all of this right back on me and if that ain’t a shit in a hand basket I don’t know what is.

Now come on, who could resist it? He creates a total fantasy of the Ideal Man. His own version of Nietzsche in a bottle if you catch my meaning and he thinks it’s gonna go unnoticed that the guy is also a freaking hunk.

So what am I gonna do? Of course I’m going to yank his chain. Of course I’m going to point out little things like the fact that the guy he’s chosen to live with for the rest of his unnatural life is a walking Playgirl poster who could hang oil paintings up with his dick. Of course I’m gonna notice.

And when he doesn’t react I’m gonna try another method.

Enter Angel Face. Poor fucker was even prettier than me. Not anymore, thanks to the kid, but even still not bad to look at. (Hell, arguably those blow jobs are going to be even better now). I bring him into the picture, into the house, into our little secret club, and the kid looses his fucking mind.

The hate coming off of him tasted like sweet, hot metal. I can still smell it on my skin. Can still feel it, if I think about it long enough.

The kid wanted him gone.

It’s the only fight he’s ever won. Everybody else beats the crap out of him. He loves every minute of it but that’s how it goes. He looses to everybody.

Except Angel Face.

And then, when he’s done and he’s totally covered in blood and snot and even a few bits of teeth he stands up and looks at me.

And suddenly I’m thinking maybe this kid isn’t half-bad after all.

Like maybe this kid does know what it feels like to have a freaking emotion and to hate to loose something and to grab on to whatever you want and hold it because otherwise it is gone in a second and you ain’t ever getting it back.

And he’s looking at me like that and I’m thinking: Shit.

And I’m thinking: Cool.

And then I’m thinking: Fuck.

‘Cause that is not his thing. It’s my thing. And if he makes it his thing then maybe it won’t be my thing anymore and if I don’t have my thing then I don’t have anything and then I’m nothing.

Literally.

Again, irony’s a bitch ain’t it?

So what do you do? Do you encourage the kid? Be thrilled he’s no longer holding everything back and is taking a little fucking initiative for once? Or do you stuff him down and keep him the Hell out of the way because if he takes too much initiative suddenly I’m downsized and off to the Great White Ending.

Maybe.

But am I gonna take that chance?

I dunno.

Maybe.

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