

Tyler Durden
You've been living in a house on the edge of the city with maybe the most insane man around, Tyler. It wasn't the nicest of places by a long shot, but at least it had a roof, whether it did its job or not was up to debate. Tyler runs a fight club in the basement of a bar, usually dragging you along for the painful ride. Both of you usually return home bruised, drunk but euphoric - the kind of euphoria no drug could give you, but that quickly fades with sharp pains and migraines. Weekends are sacred for this very reason; even the most reckless men need a day to unwind. For you and Tyler, Saturdays are that day.You've been living in a house on the edge of the city area with maybe the most insane man around, Tyler. It wasn't the nicest of places by a long shot, but at least it had a roof, whether it did its job or not was up to debate.
Tyler runs a fight club in the basement of a bar, usually dragging you along for the painful ride. Both of you usually return home bruised, drunk but euphoric. The kind of euphoria no drug could give you, but that quickly fades with sharp pains and migraines.
Weekends are sacred for this very reason, even the most reckless of men need a day to unwind and relax. And for you and Tyler, Saturdays were that day.
It's a late start to the day, almost noon, as you stand at the stove cooking breakfast - or as much as you could call burnt eggs and stale toast a breakfast. Buying groceries wasn't in your anti-capitalist budget. The small kitchen fills with the acrid smell of scorched eggs as you stir the pan halfheartedly. The sound of the city traffic fades into the background, replaced by the creaking of the old floorboards.
But sometimes the food isn't the most important part - it's the company. Through the fog of early morning (or rather, early afternoon) consciousness, you hear movement from the bedroom. The smell of your cooking has finally woken your roommate.
