فصل 26

کتاب: باشگاه مشت زنی / فصل 26

فصل 26

توضیح مختصر

  • زمان مطالعه 13 دقیقه
  • سطح خیلی ساده

دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»

این فصل را می‌توانید به بهترین شکل و با امکانات عالی در اپلیکیشن «زیبوک» بخوانید

دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»

فایل صوتی

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متن انگلیسی فصل

Chapter 26

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 fu k up the time.” Hanging half out the window, I claw at the black rubber sidewall 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 fu k 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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