Late at night, in the alley behind the back door of a bar somewhere on the South Side.
Although it was already close to dawn, a big crowd had gathered here. At a glance, their outfits were all over the place: some were elites in expensive suits, others were homeless guys in ragged, worn-out clothes.
But despite the different clothes and different backgrounds, they all had two things in common: they were men—and they were angry men who needed somewhere to vent.
"Fuck, what's taking the Irish brothers so long?"
"I remember the time being every Saturday at midnight. We've got three minutes to go. They should be here to open up any second."
"They'd better hurry. I can't wait to get into Fight Clu—"
"Hey! Did you forget the first rule?!"
The man who had just spoken snapped his mouth shut immediately and did not say another word. Clearly, that rule meant a great deal to him.
Just as the crowd was growing impatient, two long shadows stretched under the streetlight and walked into the alley.
The two of them wore the same old overcoats, had the same brown buzz cuts, and were wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night, cosplaying the Terminator.
They were the Irish brothers everyone had been waiting for: the elder, Connor, and the younger, Murphy.
There was a rumor that they were a pair of Irish gays, but only people who actually knew them understood how ridiculous that was.
Because to describe the bond between these two, you would have to invent a word even "gayer" than gay.
"Thanks for waiting, boys. The club is now open!"
Connor clapped his hands and called out in an exaggerated tone, then jerked his chin at his brother.
Seeing how eager everyone looked, Murphy stopped dawdling and pulled a key from his pocket.
The crowd parted, revealing the basement door that they had been blocking.
This was the "club" they were talking about—a basement under an abandoned bar.
Just as the key slid into the lock, the roar of an engine suddenly echoed down the alley.
A pickup truck came in with a not‑so‑clean drift, fishtailing and smashing over two trash cans before screeching to a stop in front of them.
The Irish brothers, who had tensed up at first, instantly broke into delighted grins. The driver had not even gotten out yet, but that sloppy driving could only belong to one man: Rorschach Butcher, the founder of the club.
Under everyone's expectant gaze, Rorschach jumped down from the truck. His eyes swept over the crowd, then he slowly spread his arms.
"Gentlemen, welcome to Fight Club!"
————————
Thud, thud, thud!
A series of dull impacts echoed through the basement, intertwined with men's hoarse, excited roars.
The men who had been in the alley a few minutes ago had already stripped off the shirts that marked their social status. They now stood in a circle, focused on the raw bare‑knuckle brawl in the center, shouting themselves hoarse.
At this moment, all boundaries of class and rank had vanished. All the fake manners and restraints had been thrown away.
All that was left here were punches thrown to vent their rage and screams against the unfairness of life.
Just as Rorschach had told them when they first joined Fight Club: your job does not define you, the money in your bank does not define you, the car you drive does not define you, and the skin you wear sure as hell does not define you.
And the man these members hailed as "Boss"—Rorschach—was now in the center of their gaze, trading punches with five big guys at once.
All five lunged in, fists aimed at Rorschach's face.
Rorschach slid his feet, easily slipped the blows, and whipped a hook straight into one guy's jaw.
Bang!
There was an audible crack as the man toppled onto his back, spitting a mouthful of bloody foam.
Without missing a beat, Rorschach dipped his knees to avoid a tackle from the side, then drove a short, vicious hook into the attacker's ribs.
A liver shot.
The man doubled over instantly, face turning ashen as he clutched his side and dropped to his knees, struggling even to breathe.
Next, as if he had eyes in the back of his head, Rorschach suddenly spun around. His elbow smashed square into the nose of the guy trying to jump him from behind.
Blood sprayed everywhere. The man staggered back, clutching his face, tears and blood mixing as he stumbled.
The last two, seeing Rorschach drop three big men in a handful of moves, did not show a hint of fear. With a low growl, they rushed him together.
Rorschach shifted his feet, slipped past one man's straight punch, and drove an uppercut into his chin. The final guy had not even reacted before Rorschach closed the distance and slammed a knee into his gut.
The two of them crumpled like puppets with their strings cut and went down in a heap.
In the blink of an eye, all five were on the floor. Rorschach shook the blood off his hands and quipped, "Instead of working on your muscles, you should work on your footwork. My grandma gets to the bathroom at night faster than you guys move."
"Hahaha!"
The line drew a burst of laughter from the crowd, and more than a few people looked at Rorschach's explosive physique with open awe.
He was one tough motherf*cker.
The fights went on, but the next bout was between two scrawnier guys. Their frames were skinny, but they still went at each other with all the "techniques" they had picked up who‑knows‑where—from bootleg DVDs or sidewalk stalls, maybe. It was nowhere near as slick as Rorschach's fight, but it still had the crowd screaming.
Rorschach walked over to the stairs and sat down. He flexed his wrists and caught the beer tossed to him from across the room.
"Boss, you don't look like you're in a great mood tonight."
Connor, the older Irish brother, finally could not help asking. Rorschach did not come to the club often, but when he did he was usually on fire, delivering long rants against consumerism and social injustice. Tonight, though, it felt like he had come purely to beat someone up.
Rorschach did not answer. He popped the tab, drained the beer in one go, then tilted his head back and let out a long breath.
Gus's threats, the shadows of his past, and the fate of those innocent kids pressed on his chest like stones, leaving him almost unable to breathe.
After a brief silence, he crushed the empty can in his hand and hurled it hard against the wall.
He could ignore the drug dealing. As far as he was concerned, anyone who used that poison deserved whatever they got.
But now Gus had moved into child trafficking. Everything Rorschach had been taught in his previous life and this one said that this crossed a line he could never allow anyone to cross.
Whether for those innocent children or for his own future, it was time to wipe that bastard Gus off the map.
"Connor, Murphy."
Rorschach looked at the brothers in front of him, and the gloom on his face suddenly gave way to a smile. "How've you boys been lately? Short on cash? Feeling tight?"
Connor shrugged and sighed. "So tight it makes a Mormon virgin look loose."
"Uh, it's not that bad. We still have over five hundred bucks in emergency savings," Murphy said honestly after thinking it over. "So I'd say we're tighter than a hooker, but not as tight as a virgin."
"What the fuck? We've got five hundred at home? Since when?" Connor stared at his brother in disbelief.
Murphy explained helplessly, "That's emergency money. It's in case one of us ends up in jail one day so we can make bail."
"…Fair enough. You've got a point."
Connor was momentarily speechless. With the trouble‑magnet personalities the two of them had, they really did need to keep some bail money around.
Seeing how broke the brothers looked, Rorschach coughed lightly, then pulled a stack of bills bound with a rubber band from his pocket and tossed it to them.
Connor looked down and his jaw dropped in delight. Every bill was a hundred. There had to be at least two grand there.
Murphy, the slightly more level‑headed of the two, could not help asking, "Boss Rorschach, we just come by once a week to unlock the door. You don't need to pay us this much."
"In your dreams. You think this is the Gold Club in Atlanta or something? I've got other work I need you for."
Rorschach slung an arm around each of their shoulders and pulled them close. The three of them bent their heads together and whispered for a while before the Irish brothers finally got the idea.
They both thumped Rorschach's chest at the same time, wearing matching "leave it to us" expressions.
With their mission accepted, the pair happily headed back into the crowd, cracking their knuckles as they went to pick two unlucky opponents to "share" their good mood with.
Watching the two of them swagger off like some over‑the‑top duo, Rorschach suddenly felt a twinge of regret at trusting them with the job.
Come to think of it, how had he even met these two?
Oh right—one night in a bar, they had gotten drunk and teamed up to beat the crap out of some snooty Brit putting on airs. The next day, they had somehow become friends.
Well, sometimes that's just how men's friendships start—strange as hell.
Time flew by in a blur of fists and sweat. They had not even gotten through that many fights before it was already closing time.
Out in the same dark, damp alley, two stray cats were battling over scraps that had spilled from an overturned trash can.
Just then, a booming shout from the basement behind the iron door sent them scattering.
"The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club!"
"The second rule of Fight Club is…"
"You still do not!"
"Talk!"
"About Fight Club!!!"