Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film

Fight Club

Hulu original film Fight Club was released November 11th, 1999.

Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film
Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film
Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film
Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film

#FightClub made $101.2M at the international box office.

rottentomatoes: 79%

metacritic: 66

imdb: 8.8

Narrator, Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film, Edward Norton


Tyler Durden creates an alter ego to change his life in Los Angeles, California.

Narrator, Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film, Edward Norton

“People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden. With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels. I can’t think of anything. For a second I totally forget about Tyler’s whole controlled demolition thing, and I wonder how clean that gun is. That old saying, how you always hurt the one you love? Well, it works both ways. We’ve front row seats for this theater of mass destruction. The demolitions committee of Project Mayhem… wrapped the foundation columns of a dozen buildings with blasting gelatin. In two minutes, primary charges will blow base charges, and a few square blocks will be reduced to smoldering rubble. I know this because Tyler knows this. And suddenly , I realize that all of this– the gun, the bombs, the revolution– has got something to do with a girl named Marla Singer.” — Narrator

“Bob. Bob had bitch-tits. This was a support group… for men with testicular cancer. The big moosey slobbering all over me– that was Bob. Yes, we’re men. Men is what we are. Eight months ago, Bob’s testicles were removed. Then hormone therapy. He developed bitch-tits because his testosterone was too high, and his body upped the estrogen. And that was where I fit. Between those huge, sweating tits… that hung enormous, the way you’d think of God’s as big.” — Narrator

“No, wait. Back up. Let me start earlier. For six months, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. With insomnia, nothing’s real. Everything’s far away. Everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy. When deep space exploration ramps up, it’ll be the corporations that name everything– the IBM Stellarsphere, the Microsoft Galaxy, planet Starbucks.” — Narrator

“It must’ve been Tuesday. He was wearing his cornflower-blue tie. You me to de-prioritize my current reports– until you advise of a status upgrade? He was full of pep. Must have had his grande latte enema. Like so many others, I had become a slave… to the Ikea nesting instinct. Uh, yes. I’d like to order the Erika Pekkari dust ruffles. If I saw something clever, like a little coffee table in the shape of a yin-yang, I had to have it. The Klipske personal office unit, the Hovetrekke home exer-bike, or the Johannshamn sofa with the Strinne green stripe pattern. Even the Rizlampa wire lamps… of environmentally friendly unbleached paper. I’d flip through catalogs and wonder: what kind of dining set defines me as a person? I had it all– even the glass dishes… with tiny bubbles and imperfections, proof that they were crafted by the honest, simple, hard-working indigenous peoples of– wherever. I was holding. We used to read pornography. Now it was the Horchow collection.” — Narrator

“What about narcolepsy? I nod off. I wake up in strange places. I have no idea how I got there. Can you please just get me something? Red and blue Tuenols, lipstick-red Secanols. Hey, come on. I’m in pain.” — Narrator

“And this is how I met the big moosey. His eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears. Knees together. Those awkward little steps. Bob– Bob had been a champion bodybuilder. You know that chest-expansion program you see on late-night TV? That was his idea. Strangers with this kind of honesty make me go a big rubbery one. And then, something happened. I let go. Lost in oblivion, dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom. Babies don’t sleep this well.” — Narrator

“I became addicted. If I didn’t say anything, people always assumed the worst. They cried harder. Then I cried harder. I wasn’t really dying. I wasn’t host to cancer or parasites. I was the warm little center that the life of this world crowded around.” — Narrator

“Every evening I died, and every evening I was born again. Resurrected. Bob loved me because he thought my testicles were removed too. Being there, pressed against his tits, ready to cry. This was my vacation. And she ruined everything.” — Narrator

“This chick, Marla Singer, did not have testicular cancer. She was a liar. She had no diseases at all. I had seen her at Free and Clear, my blood parasites group Thursdays. Then at Hope, my bimonthly sickle-cell circle. And again at Seize the Day, my tuberculosis Friday night. Marla, the big tourist. Her lie reflected my lie, and suddenly, I felt nothing. I couldn’t cry. So once again, I couldn’t sleep.” — Narrator

“Next group, after guided meditation, after we open our heart chakras, when it’s time to hug, I’m gonna grab that little bitch Marla Singer and scream– Marla, you liar! You big tourist! I need this! Now get out! I hadn’t slept in four days. When you have insomnia, you’re never really asleep, and you’re never really awake. Oh, yeah. Chloe. Chloe looked the way Meryl Streep’s skeleton would look… if you made it smile and walk around the party being extra nice to everybody.” — Narrator

“If I did have a tumor, I’d name it Marla. Marla– the little scratch on the roof of your mouth… that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can’t. Hey. We need to talk. I’m on to you. Yeah. You’re a faker. You’re not dying. In the Tibetan philosophy, Sylvia Plath sense of the word, I know we’re all00 we’re all dying, all right? But you’re not dying the way Chloe back there is dying. So you’re a tourist. Okay? I’ve seen you. I saw you– saw you at melanoma. Saw you at tuberculosis. I saw you at testicular cancer. Practicing what? I’ll expose you.” — Narrator

“Oh, God, why are you doing this? No, look. This is important, okay? These are my groups. I’ve been coming here for over a year. I don’t know. When people think you’re dying, man, they really really listen to you instead of just– yeah. Yeah. Look, you don’t want to get into this. It becomes an addiction. I’m not kidding. I can’t cry if there’s another faker present, and I need this. So you got to find somewhere else to go. Wait, wait– wait a second. Ho-hold on. I’ll tell you. We’re gonna split up the week, okay? You take lymphoma and tuberculosis– okay. Good. Fine. Testicular cancer should be no contest, I think. You’re kidding. No. No. What do you want? You can’t have both the parasites, but why don’t you take the blood parasites– I’ll take the blood parasites, but I’m gonna take the organic brain dementia, okay? You can’t have the whole brain. Okay. Take both the parasites. They’re yours. Now we both have three. Hey, you left half your clothes! What are you, selling those? The girl had done her homework. No. No. I want bowel cancer. We’re gonna split it, okay? Take the first and third Sunday of the month. Well, let’s not make a big thing out of it, okay? Hey, Marla! Marla! May-maybe we should exchange numbers. We might want to switch nights.” — Narrator

“This is how I met Marla Singer. Marla’s philosophy of life was that she might die at any moment. The tragedy, she said, was that she didn’t. You wake up at Sea-Tac, S.F.O., L.A.X. You wake up at O’Hare, Dallas-Fort Worth, B.W.I., pacific, mountain, central. Lose an hour. Gain an hour. This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time. You wake up at Air Harbor International. If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person? Everywhere I travel– tiny life. Single-serving sugar. Single-serving cream. Single pat of butter. The microwave Cordon Bleu hobby kit. Shampoo-conditioner combos. Sample package mouthwash. Tiny bars of soap.” — Narrator

“The people I meet on each flight, they’re single-serving friends. Between takeoff and landing, we have our time together, but that’s all we get. On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero. I was a recall coordinator. My job was to apply the formula. A new car built by my company leaves somewhere traveling at 60 miles per hour. The rear differential locks up. The car crashes and burns with everyone trapped inside. Now, should we initiate a recall?” — Narrator

“Take the number of vehicles in the field, ‘A,’ multiply it by the probable rate of failure, ‘B,’ then multiply the result by the average out-of-court settlement, ‘C.’ ‘A’ times ‘B’ times ‘C–‘ equals ‘X.’ If ‘X’ is less than the cost of a recall, we don’t do one. You wouldn’t believe. A major one. Every time the plane banked too sharply… on takeoff or landing, I prayed for a crash or a midair collision. Anything. Life insurance pays off triple if you die on a business trip.” — Narrator

“It’s a lot of responsibility. No. I’m not sure I’m the man for that particular job. Yeah. I guess so. So you can breathe. That’s, um– that’s an interesting theory. What do you do? What do you do for a living? Okay. We have the exact same briefcase. Sorry? And this is how I met– ‘Tyler Durden.’ No, I did not know that. Is that true? Really? Tyler, you are by far the most interested… ‘single-serving’ friend I’ve ever met. See, I have this thing– everything on a plane is single-serving, even– well, thank you. What? Great.” — Narrator

“How I came to live with Tyler is– airlines have this policy about vibrating luggage. Was-was it ticking? Sorry. ‘Throwers?’ My suitcase… was vibrating? I don’t own– I had everything in that suitcase– my CK shirts, my DKNY shoes, my AX ties. Never mind.” — Narrator

“Home was a condo on the 15th floor… of a filing cabinet for widows and young professionals. The walls were solid concrete. A foot of concrete’s important when your next-door neighbor lets her hearing aid go… and has to watch game shows at full volume. Or when a volcanic blast and debris… that used to be your furniture and personal effects… blows out of your floor-to-ceiling windows… and sails flaming into the night. I suppose these things happen.” — Narrator

“How embarrassing. A house full of condiments and no food. The police would later tell me that the pilot light might have gone out, letting out just a little bit of gas. That gas could have slowly filled the condo– 1,700 square feet with high ceilings for days and days. Then the refrigerator’s compressor could’ve clicked on. If you asked me now, I couldn’t tell you why I called him.” — Narrator

“Hello? Tyler? Um– we met– we met on the airplane. We had the same suitcase. Uh, the clever guy. I called a second ago. There was no answer. I’m at a pay phone. Uh, well– you’re not gonna believe this.” — Narrator

“There’s always that. I don’t know. It’s just– when you buy furniture, you tell yourself, ‘that’s it. That’s the last sofa I’m gonna need.’ Whatever else happens, I’ve got that sofa problem handled. I had it all. I had a stereo that was very decent, a wardrobe that was getting very respectable. I was close to being complete. All gone. Comforter. We’re, uh– I don’t know. Consumers. Martha Stewart. Nah. It’s just– it’s just stuff. It’s not a tragedy, but– fuck. You’re right. No. I don’t smoke. My– my insurance is probably gonna cover it, so– what?” — Narrator

“Oh, it’s late. Hey, thanks for the beer. I should find a hotel. What? Yeah. What are you talking about? What? Oh, hey, hey– no, no, no. I didn’t mean– would-would that be a problem? Can I stay at your place? Thanks. Yeah, sure. What?” — Narrator

“Let me tell you a little bit about Tyler Durden. Tyler was a night person. While the rest of us were sleeping, he worked. He had one part-time job as a projectionist. See, a movie doesn’t come all on one big reel. It comes on a few. So someone has to be there to switch the projectors… at the exact moment that one reel ends and the next one begins. If you look for it, you can see these little dots… come into the upper right-hand corner of the screen. That’s the cue for a changeover. He flips the projectors, movie keeps right on going, and nobody in the audience has any idea. Because it affords him other interesting opportunities. So when the snooty cat and the courageous dog with the celebrity voices… meet for the first time in reel three, that’s when you’ll catch a flash of Tyler’s contribution to the film. Nobody knows that they saw it, but they did. Even a hummingbird couldn’t catch Tyler at work.” — Narrator

“Tyler also works sometimes as a banquet waiter… at the luxurious Pressman Hotel. He was the guerilla terrorist in the food service industry. Apart from seasoning the lobster bisque, he farted on meringues, sneezed on braised endive. And as far as the cream of mushroom soup, well– you get the idea.” — Narrator

“What do you want me to do? You just want me to hit you? Why? No, but that’s a good thing. Oh, God. This is crazy. I– hey, I don’t know about this. Wait. This is crazy. You want me to hit you? What, like, in the face? This is so fucking stupid. Well, Jesus, I’m sorry. Aw, I fucked it up kinda. Nah, it’s all right. That really hurts. Hit me again. Come on.” — Narrator

“We should do this again sometime. Where’s your car? I don’t know how Tyler found that house, but he said he’d been there for a year. It looked like it was waiting to be torn down. Most of the windows were boarded up. There was no lock on the front door… from when the police or whoever kicked it in. The stairs were ready to collapse. I didn’t know if he owned it or he was squatting. Neither would have surprised me. Yeah. Thanks. What a shit-hole. Nothing worked. Turning on one light meant another light in the house went out. There were no neighbors, just some warehouses and a paper mill– that fart smell of steam, the hamster cage smell of wood chips.” — Narrator

“It’s cool. Every time it rained, we had to kill the power. By the end of the first month, I didn’t miss TV. Okay. I didn’t even mind the warm, stale refrigerator. Ooh! At night, Tyler and I… were alone for half a mile in every direction. Rain trickled down through the plaster and the light fixtures. Everything wooden swelled and shrank. Everywhere were rusted nails to snag your elbow on. The previous occupant had been a bit of a shut-in. Listen to this. It’s an article written by an organ in the first person. ‘I am Jack’s medulla oblongata. Without me, Jack could not regulate his heart rate, blood pressure or breathing.’ There’s a whole series of these. ‘I am Jill’s nipples.’ ‘I am Jack’s Colon.'” — Narrator

“After fighting, everything else in your life got the volume turned down. What? You could deal with anything. I’d fight my boss, probably. Yeah. Why? Who would you fight? I don’t know my dad. I mean, I know him, but he left when I was, like, six years old, married this other woman and had some other kids. He, like, did this every six years. He goes to a new city and starts a new family. Sounds familiar. Same here. I mean– I can’t get married. I’m a 30-year-old boy.” — Narrator

“Most of the week, we were Ozzie and Harriet. But every Saturday night, we were finding something out. We were finding out more and more we were not alone. It used to be that when I came home angry or depressed– I’d just clean my condo, polish my Scandinavian furniture. I should’ve been looking for a new condo. I should’ve been haggling with my insurance company. I should’ve been upset about my nice, neat flaming little shit. But I wasn’t.” — Narrator

“Monday mornings, all I could do was think about next week. You can swallow a pint of blood before you get sick. It was right in everyone’s face. Tyler and I just made it visible. It was on the top of everyone’s tongue. Tyler and I just gave it a name. Every week, Tyler gave the rules that he and I decided.” — Narrator

“This kid from work, Ricky, couldn’t remember whether you ordered pens with blue ink or black. But Ricky was a god for 10 minutes… when he trounced the maître d’ of a local food court. Sometimes, all you could hear were the flat, hard packing sounds over the yelling. Or the wet choke when someone caught their breath and sprayed– you weren’t alive anywhere like you were there. But Fight Club only exists in the hours… between when Fight Club starts and when Fight Club ends. Even if I could tell someone they had a good fight, I wouldn’t be talking to the same man. Who you were in Fight Club is not who you were in the rest of the world. The guy who came to Fight Club for the first time, his ass was a wad of cookie dough. After a few weeks, he was carved out of wood.” — Narrator

“If you could fight any celebrity, who would you fight? It doesn’t matter. Who’d be tough? Shatner. I’d fight William Shatner. We all started seeing things differently. I felt sorry for guys packed into gyms, trying to look like how Calvin Klein… or Tommy Hilfiger said they should. Is that what a man looks like?” — Narrator

“Fight club wasn’t about winning or losing. It wasn’t about words. The hysterical shouting was in tongues, like a Pentecostal church. Stop! Stop! When the fight was over, nothing was solved, but nothing mattered. Afterwards, we all felt saved. How about next month.” — Narrator

“Sometimes, Tyler spoke for me. I fell down some stairs. Fight Club became the reason to cut your hair short or trim your fingernails. I’d fight Gandhi. How about you? Lincoln? Fuck.” — Narrator

“Hello. Marla? How’d you find me? Yeah, we split them up. That was the idea, remember? How do you know? I found a new one. It’s for men only. Look, this is a bad time. I’m just on my way out. Just picture watching… Marla Singer throw herself around her crummy apartment. This could go on for hours. You’re staying in tonight then?” — Narrator

“Tyler’s door was closed. I’d been living there for two months, and Tyler’s door was never closed. You won’t believe this dream I had last night. What-what are you doing here? This is my house. What are you doing in my house? I already knew the story before he told it to me. Now, how could Tyler, of all people, think it was about thing that Marla Singer was about to die? He was obviously able to handle it. No, I didn’t. No. No! God, not at all. I am Jack’s raging bile duct. Believe me, I’m sure. Put a gun to my head… and paint the walls with my brains. How could Tyler not go for that? The night before last, he was splicing sex organs into Cinderella. Marla doesn’t need a lover. She needs a fucking caseworker. She invaded my support groups. Now she’d invaded my home. Why would I talk to her– okay. Yeah, I promise. I just said I promise. If only I had wasted a couple of minutes… and gone to watch Marla Singer die, none of this would’ve happened.” — Narrator

“I could’ve moved to another room– on the third floor, where I might not have heard them. But I didn’t. Just goin’ to bed. No. No, thank you. I became the calm little center of the world. I was the Zen master. I wrote little haiku poems. I e-mailed them to everyone. Some if it, yeah. I got right in everyone’s hostile little face. Yes, these are bruises from fighting. Yes, I’m comfortable with that. I… am enlightened. You give up the condo life, give up all your flaming worldly possessions, go live in a dilapidated house… in a toxic-waste part of town– and you have to come home to this. Hello? Yes? No, I wasn’t aware of that at all. I am Jack’s cold sweat. Uh, yes, sir. Strange. Very strange. Dynamite? No. What does it mean? I’m sorry. This is just coming as quite a shock to me, sir. Who would go and do such a thing? No, I am listening. It’s a little hard to know what to make of all this. Enemies? Yes, I know it’s serious. Yes, it’s very serious. Look, nobody takes this more seriously than me. That condo was my life. Okay? I loved every stick of furniture in that place. That was not just a bunch of stuff that got destroyed. It was me! I’d like to thank the Academy. Shh! Wait. Are you saying I’m a suspect? Okay.” — Narrator

“Except for their humping, Tyler and Marla were never in the same room. My parents pulled this exact same act for years. What? It was worth every penny. Well, then it suits you. Why can’t you get rid of her? I’m six years old again, passing messages between parents. I really think it’s time you got out of here. Not that we don’t love your little visits. Thanks. Bye.” — Narrator

“Wh-why do you still waste time with her? What, and I’m not? What are we doin’ tonight? Yeah. Really?” — Narrator

“Wait. What is this place? No– don’t pull it. No, don’t pull it. It’s hard to imagine you as a Boy Scout. Tyler was full of useful information. No. What is this? Uh– if guided mediation worked for cancer, it could work for this. No, no! Oh, God! I tried not to think of the words ‘sear or ‘flesh.’ I’m going to my cave. I’m going to my cave. I’m gonna find my power animal. I get the point! Okay! Please! I am not– no, no– it isn’t? We don’t! I agree! Please let me have it! Please! You don’t know how this feels! Okay.” — Narrator

“Tyler sold his soap to department stores at $20 a bar. God knows what they charged. It was beautiful. We were selling rich women their own fat asses back to them. He was wearing his yellow tie. I didn’t even wear a tie to work anymore. I’m half asleep again. I must’ve left the original in the copy machine. Huh? Well, I gotta tell ya, I’d be very, very careful who you talk to about that. Because the person who wrote that is dangerous. And this button-down, oxford cloth psycho might just snap… and then stalk from office to office… with an Armalite AR-10 carbine gas-powered semiautomatic weapon, pumping round after round into colleagues and coworkers. This might be someone you’ve known for years, someone very, very close to you.” — Narrator

Tyler Durden, Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film, Brad Pitt

Tyler Durden

“Three minutes, this is it. Ground zero. Would you like to say a few words to mark the occasion. It’s getting exciting now. Two and a half. Think of everything we’ve accomplished.”

“‘If you are seated in an emergency exit row–‘ yeah. ‘And you feel you would be unable or unwilling to perform… the duties listed on the safety card, please ask a flight attendant to reseat you.’ Wanna switch seats? An exit-door procedure at 30,000 feet. Mm-hmm. The illusion of safety. You know why they put oxygen masks on planes? Oxygen gets you high. In a catastrophic emergency, you’re taking giant, panicked breaths. Suddenly you become euphoric, docile. You accept your fate. It’s all right here. Emergency water landing– 600 miles an hour. Blank faces, calm as Hindu cows. What do you mean? Why? So you can pretend like you’re interested?”

“You have a kind of sick desperation in your laugh. Soap. I make and I sell soap. The yardstick of civilization. Did you know if you mixed equal parts of gasoline… and frozen orange juice concentrate, you can make napalm? That’s right. One can make all kinds of explosives using simple household items. If one were so inclined. Oh, I get it. It’s very clever. How’s that working out for you? Being clever. Keep it up then. Keep it right up. Now a question of etiquette. As I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?”

“Who’s this? Who is this? Oh. Oh, yeah. Right. Okay. Yeah. I star-69ed you. I never pick up my phone. So, what’s up, man?”

“You know, man, it could be worse. A woman could cut off your penis while you’re sleeping… and toss it out the window of a moving car. Shit, man. Now it’s all gone. Hmm. All gone. Do you know what a duvet is? It’s a blanket. Just a blanket. Why do you guys like you and I know what a duvet is? Is this essential to our survival in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word? No. What are we then? Right. We are consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty– these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, olestra. Fuck Martha Stewart. Martha’s polishing the brass on the Titanic. It’s all going down, man. So fuck off with your sofa units… and Strinne green stripe patterns. I say, never be complete. I say, stop being perfect. I say, let-let’s evolve. Let the chips fall where they may. But that’s me, and I could be wrong. Maybe it’s a terrible tragedy. Well, you did lose… a lot of versatile solutions for modern living. The things you own end up owning you. But do what you like, man.”

“Yeah, man. What? A hotel? Just ask, man. Oh, God. Three pitchers of beer, and you still can’t ask. You called me ’cause you needed a place to stay. Yes, you did. So just ask. Cut the foreplay, and just ask, man. Is it a problem for you to ask? Yeah. I want you to do me a favor. I want you to hit me as hard as you can. I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”

“In the industry, we call them ‘cigarette burns.’ Why would anyone want this shit job? Like splicing single frames of pornography into family films. A nice, big cock.”

“Do not watch I cannot go when you watch. Go ahead. Tell them.”

“Come on. Do me this one favor. Why? I don’t know why. I don’t know. I’ve never been in a fight. You? No, it is not. How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight? I don’t wanna die without any scars. So, come on. Hit me before I lose my nerve. So go crazy. Let ‘er rip. I don’t either, but who gives a shit? No one’s watching. What do you care? That’s right. Surprise me. Motherfucker! You hit me in the ear! Ow! Christ! Why the ear, man? No. That was perfect. You okay? Right. No. You hit me.”

“What car? Yep. That’s you. That’s me. That’s the toilet. Good?”

“Hold on. Hold on. Hey, guys. That’s it.. All right, man. Lose the tie. You got it. Hey, man, what are you reading? Yeah. ‘I get cancer. I kill Jack.’ Whoa– ohh!”

“If you could fight anyone, who would you fight? Really? I’d fight my dad. Fucker’s settin’ up franchises. My dad never went to college, so it was real important that I go. So I graduate. Call him up long distance. I say, ‘Dad, now what?’ He says, ‘get a job.’ Now I’m 25. I make my yearly call again. I say, ‘Dad, now what?’ He says, ‘I don’t know. Get married.’ We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.”

“Gentlemen, welcome to fight club. The first rule of Fight Club is… you do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is… you do not talk about Fight Club. Third rule of Fight Club– someone yells stop, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule– only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule– one fight at a time, fellas. Sixth rule– no shirts, no shoes. Seventh rule– fights will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule– if this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight.”

“Alive or dead? Hemingway. You? Everywhere we went, we were sizing things up. Ahh. Self-improvement is masturbation. Now, self-destruction– hey, cool. Irvin, you’re in the middle. New guy. You too.”

“Fell down some stairs. Okay. Any historical figure. Good answer. Lincoln. Mm. Big guy, big reach. Skinny guys fight till they’re burger. Hey. Even the Mona Lisa’s falling apart.”

“Ah! Oh, you got some fucked-up friends, I’m tellin’ you. Limber, though. Silly cooze. So I come in last night. Phone’s off the hook. Guess who’s on the other end. Un-fucking-believable. You know what I mean. You fucked her. Never? You’re not into her, are you? Are you sure? You can tell me. That’s good, ’cause she’s a predator posing as a house pet. Stay away from that one. And the shit that came out of this woman’s mouth, I ain’t never heard. She needs a wash. And she’s in love with sport fuckin’. Hey, hey. Sit down. Now, listen. Can’t have you talking to her about me. You say anything about me or what goes on in this house… to her or anybody, we’re done. Now promise me. You promise? Promise. That’s three times you promised.”

“What are you doin’? You want to finish her off? Shut up.”

“Tell him. Tell him the liberator who destroyed my property… has realigned my perception. Reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions. Just tell him you fuckin’ did it. Tell him you blew it all up. That’s what he wants to hear.”

“Get rid of her. Don’t mention me. You kids. I’ll say this about Marla– at least she’s tryin’ to hit bottom. Stickin’ feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken. Tonight? We make soap. To make soap, first we render fat.”

“The salt balance has to be just right, so the best fat for making soap comes from humans. A liposuction clinic. Aha! Pay dirt. The richest, creamiest fat in the world. Fat of the land. Oh, God! Oh! Get another one. As the fat renders, the tallows float to the surface. Like in Boy Scouts. Keep stirrin’. Once the tallow hardens, we skim off a layer of glycerin. If you were to add nitric acid, you got nitrogrlycerin. If you were then to add sodium nitrate and a dash of sawdust, you got dynamite. Yeah, with enough soap, one could blow up just about anything. Now, ancient peoples found that clothes got cleaner… when they washed them at a certain point in the river. You know why? ‘Cause human sacrifices were once made on the hills above this river. Bodies burned. Water seeped through the wood and ashes to create lye. This is lye, the crucial agreement. Once it melted with the melted fat of the bodies, a thick, white, soapy discharge crept into the river. May I see your hand, please? This is a chemical burn. It’ll hurt more than you’ve ever been burned, and you will have a scar. Stay with the pain. Don’t shove this out. Look at your hand. The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes, like the first monkey shot into space. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothin’. Stop it! This is your pain. This is your burning hand. It’s right here. No! Don’t deal with it the way those dead people do! Come on! No. What you’re feeling is premature enlightenment. This is the greatest moment of your life, man, and you’re off somewhere missing it. Shut up. Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers bailed, what does that tell you about God? Listen to me. You have to consider the possibility… that God does not like you, and he never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you. This is not the worth thing that can happen. We don’t need him. Fuck damnation, man. Fuck redemption. We are God’s unwanted children? So be it! Listen! You can run water over your hand to make it worse, or– look at me! Or you can use vinegar to neutralize the burn. First you have to give up. First you have to know– not fear– know that someday you’re gonna die. It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything. Congratulations. You’re one step closer to hitting bottom.”

“Why, thank you, Suzie.”

Marla Singer, Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film, Helena Bonham Carter
Marla Singer, Fight Club, Hulu, Fox 2000 Pictures, New Regency Productions, Linson Films, Atman Entertainment, Knickerbocker Films, Taurus Film, Helena Bonham Carter

Marla Singer

“This is cancer, right? Slide. Sure. What? Sorry? So? I saw you practicing this. Telling me off. Is it going as well as you hoped, ‘Rupert?’ Go ahead. I’ll expose you.”

“It’s cheaper than a movie, and there’s free coffee. Why do you do it? Instead of just waiting for their turn to speak? Really? Candy-stripe a caner ward. It’s not my problem. You take tuberculosis. My smoking doesn’t go over at all. Well, technically, I have more right to be there than you. You still have your balls. I don’t know. Am I? I’ll take the parasites. I want brain parasites. I want that. So far you have four. I only have two. Yes! I’m selling some clothes. So, we each have three. That’s six. What about the seventh day? I want ascending bowel cancer. Thank you. That’s your favorite too? Tried to slip it by me, eh? Deal. Looks like this is good-bye. How’s this for not making a big thing? Should we? Okay.”

“It doesn’t have your name. Who are you? Cornelius? Rupert? Travis? Any of the stupid names you give each night?”

“Yeah? I can hear you breathing, you–“

“Where have you been the last eight weeks? You left that forwarding number. I haven’t seen you in any support groups. Yeah, but you haven’t been going to yours. I cheated. Really? Like the testicle thing? I’ve been going to Debtors anonymous. You wanna see some really fucked-up people? Me too. I’ve got a stomach full of Xanax. I took what was left of the bottle. It might have been too much. But this isn’t a for-real suicide thing. This is probably one of those cry-for-help things. Do you wanna wait and hear me describe death? Do you wanna listen… and see if my spirit can use a phone? Have you ever heard a death rattle before?”

“Yeah, I can hardly believe anything about last night. What? Fuck you.”

“Have you ever heard of a death rattle before? Do you think it’ll live up to its name? Or will it just be a death hair ball? Prepare… to evacuate soul. Ten, nine, eight– five, four, three– oh, hang on.”

“You got here fast. Did I call you? Huh? Hey. The mattress is all sealed in slippery plastic. Oh, don’t worry. It’s not a threat to you. Oh, fuck. Somebody called the cops. Oh, end of the hall. You know, the girl who lives there used to be a charming, lovely girl. She’s lost faith in herself. She’s a monster. She’s infectious human waste! Good luck trying to save her!”

“If I fall asleep, I’m done for. You’re gonna have to keep me up… all night. My God. I haven’t been fucked like that since grade school.”

“Oh, my God! Yeah! Oh! Harder! Harder! Yes! Ooh! Aah! Aah! Ohh! Aah! Oh! I found the cigarettes. Who are you talking to?”

“The condom is the glass slipper of our generation. You slip one on when you meet a stranger. You dance all night. Then you throw it away. The condom, I mean. Not the stranger. I got this dress at a thrift store for one dollar. It’s a bridesmaid’s dress. Someone loved it intensely for one day, then tossed it. Like a Christmas tree. So special. Then, bam. It’s on the side of the road, tinsel still clinging to it… like a sex crime victim, underwear inside out, bound with electrical tape. You can borrow it sometime. Don’t worry. I’m leaving. You know, you are such a nutcase. I can’t even begin to keep up. ♪ Gotta get off ♪ Gotta get off this merry-go-round ♪ Gonna get, need to get ♪ Gotta get on where ♪♪”

Robert Paulson

“We’re still men. They’re gonna have to open up my pecs again… and drain the fluid. Okay. You cry now.”

“My name is Bob. I was a juicer. You know, using steroids. Diabanol and… Wistrol. Oh, they use that on racehorses, for Christ’s sakes. And now I’m bankrupt. I’m divorced. My two grown kids… won’t even return my phone calls. Go ahead, Cornelius. You can cry. That’s really good. It’s okay.”


“Please hold. Please hold. Your call is important to us.”

“Absolutely. We’ll just let that dry.”

Support Groups

“I always wanted three kids– two boys and a girl. Mindy wanted two girls and a boy. We never could agree on anything. Well, uh, you know, she– she had her first child last week, a– a girl. With-with her, uh– with her new husband. Fuck. And– and thank God, you know? I’m-I’m glad for her. Because she deserves it. Aw.”

“Everyone, let’s thank Thomas for sharing himself with us. Thank you, Thomas. I look around this room and I see a lot of courage, and that gives me strength. We give each other strength. It’s time for the one-on-ones. So let’s all of us here… follow Thomas’s good example and really open ourselves up. Would you find a partner, please? Come on. Let’s go over here.”

“Welcome, Travis. Welcome, Travis.”

“Now we’re going to open the green door– the heart chakra. Imagine your pain as a white ball of healing light. It moves over your body, healing you. Now, keep this going. Remember to breathe, and step forward through the back door of the room. Where does it lead? To your cave. Step forward into your cave. That’s right. You’re going deeper into your cave, and you’re going to find your power animal. Slide.”

“To begin tonight’s communion, Chloe would like to say a few words. Thank you, Chloe. Everyone, let’s thank Chloe. Thanks, Chloe. Thank you, Chloe. Now, let’s ready ourself for guided meditation. You’re standing at the entrance of your cave. You step inside your cave, and you walk. It’s a very quiet place. Step deeper into your cave as you walk. You feel the healing energy of this place all around you. Now find your power animal. Okay. Now let’s partner up. Pick someone special to you tonight.”

“All right, come together. Let yourselves cry. Share yourself… completely.”

“Good night, Marla.”


“Check-in for that flight doesn’t begin for another two hours, sir.”

“…the aircraft has come to a complete stop.”

“Are there a lot of these kinds of accidents? Which car company do you work for?”

“Actually, throwers don’t worry about ticking, ’cause modern bombs don’t tick. Baggage handlers. But when a suitcase vibrates, then the thrower’s gotta call the police. Nine times out of 10, it’s an electric razor, but every once in a while– it’s a dildo. Of course, it’s company policy never to imply ownership in the event of a dildo. We have to use the indefinite article— ‘a’ dildo. Never… ‘your’ dildo.”

“Hey! That’s my car!”


“Here’s where the infant went through the windshield. Three points. The teenager’s braces were wrapped around the backseat ashtray. Might make a good antismoking ad. The father must’ve been huge. You see where the fat’s burned to the seat? The polyester shirt? Very modern art.”

“The basic premise of cyber-netting any office is make things more efficient. Absolutely. Efficiency is priority number one, people. Because waste is a thief. I showed this already to my man here. You liked it, didn’t you?”

Los Angeles

“There’s nothing up there. You can’t go into the unit. Police orders. Do you have somebody you can call?”

“Excuse me.”

“Back there! 513– where’s 513? Miss Singer! You have every reason to live! Miss Singer!”

“This is the best soap.”


“Well, I’m still here, but I don’t know for how long. That’s as much certainty as anyone can give me. But I’ve got some good news. I no longer have any fear of death. But I am in a pretty lonely place. No one will have sex with me. I’m so close to the end and all I want is to get laid for the last time. I have pornographic movies in my apartment– and lubricants and amyl nitrate.”


“No, you can’t die from insomnia. You need to lighten up. No. You need healthy, natural sleep. Chew some valerian root and get more exercise. You wanna see pain? Swing by First Methodist Tuesday nights. See the guys with testicular cancer. That’s pain.”

Detective Stern

“Yes. This is Detective Stern with the arson unit. We have some new information about the incident… at your former condo. I don’t know if you’re aware but it seems that someone sprayed Freon… into your front door lock, then tapped it… with a chisel to shatter the cylinder. Does this sound strange to you? The dynamite– left a residue of ammonium oxalate potassium chloride. Do you know what that means? It means it was homemade. See, whoever set this homemade dynamite… could’ve blown out your pilot light days before the actual explosion. The gas was just the detonator. I’ll ask the questions. Excuse me. Are you there? Have you recently made enemies with anyone… who might have access to homemade dynamite? Son, this is serious. I mean that. Is this not a good time for you? Are you still there? No, no. I may need to talk to you a little further, so how about you just let me know if you’re gonna leave town? Okay?”

Fight Club

“After work tomorrow, we’ll be– hey. What have we here? Hey. Hey.”

“Can I be next? Who turned the lights off?”

“Come on, people, you gotta go home. Turn off the jukebox. Lock the back. Keep it down. Keep it down.”

“Come on, man! Stop!”

“Pound his ass! Hit him again, man! Come on! Hit him! Is that it? Hey, man how about next week? I hear you.”

Richard Chesler

“Gonna need you out of town a little more this week. We got some red flags to cover. Yeah. Make these your primary action items. Here’s your flight coupons. Call me from the road if there’s any snags.”

“Have you finished those reports?”

“Can I get the icon in cornflower blue?”

“Is that your blood? You can’t smoke in here. Take the rest of the day off. Come back Monday with some clean clothes. Get yourself together.”

“‘The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club?’ ‘The second rule of Fight Club–‘ is this yours? Pretend you’re me. Make a managerial decision. You find this. What would you do?”

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