Chapter 4: Fight Club!

Late at night, in a narrow alley behind a bar somewhere in the South Side.

Though it was nearly midnight, a crowd had already gathered. A strange mix of people—some in sleek business suits, others in worn-out rags—stood shoulder to shoulder.

Different clothes. Different lives. But they shared two things: they were all men—and they were all angry.

"Where the hell are the Irish brothers?"

"It's always Saturdays at midnight. We've got three minutes. They'll be here."

"They better be. I'm ready to smash faces at Figh—"

"Hey! You forgot the first rule!"

The speaker fell silent immediately. That rule wasn't a joke.

Just then, two long shadows appeared under the streetlight, striding into the alley.

Matching coats. Matching brown buzz cuts. Sunglasses at night like they were doing a Terminator cosplay.

The Irish Brothers. Connor and Murphy.

There were rumors they were lovers. Anyone who knew them knew better. You'd need a word more intense than lovers to describe their bond.

"Sorry to keep you savages waiting. The club is now open."

Connor clapped his hands, then nodded to Murphy.

Murphy pulled out a key and headed toward the trapdoor.

Everyone stepped aside, revealing the door to a basement below the old, abandoned bar.

The Club.

Just as the key turned, the loud roar of an engine echoed down the alley.

A beat-up pickup skidded around the corner, crashing into trash cans, then slammed to a stop.

Connor and Murphy grinned.

Only one guy drove like that.

The founder. The boss.

Rorschach Butcher.

He leapt out of the truck, scanned the crowd, and spread his arms wide.

"Gentlemen, welcome to Fight Club."

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Fists smashed into flesh. Men roared. Blood hit concrete.

The suits, the rags, the masks of class were gone.

Everyone was shirtless, sweat-drenched, howling around the circle where fists replaced therapy.

There was no money, no status, no rules but one: hit harder than life ever hit you.

As Rorschach once said: Your job doesn't define you. Your bank account doesn't define you. Your car doesn't define you. Your skin doesn't define you.

Only your fists do.

And right now, five of those fists were flying straight at Rorschach.

Five men charged at once. All muscle. All rage.

Rorschach sidestepped with ease. One punch—uppercut to the jaw. CRACK. Blood sprayed. One down.

He ducked, liver punched another. WHUMP. The man dropped, gasping.

A third tried a sneak attack from behind. Rorschach twisted, slammed an elbow into his nose. SPLAT.

The last two didn't hesitate. They roared, charging together.

Rorschach weaved. Left hook. Right knee. Both men collapsed.

Five bodies down.

Rorschach shook off the blood and smirked.

"Your footwork's garbage. My grandma moves faster when she gets up to pee."

Laughter erupted. Even in pain, the crowd admired the savage grace of their boss.

A true beast. A One Tough Motherf*cker.

More fights followed. Two scrawny guys next—awkward punches, laughable stances—but the crowd still cheered. Everyone had demons. Everyone needed to bleed.

Rorschach sat on the stairs, wiped sweat from his brow, caught a flying beer can.

Connor, older Irish brother, asked, "Boss, you good? You look off."

Usually, Rorschach gave speeches about consumerism, capitalism, the fake American dream.

Tonight? He just wanted to hit something.

He said nothing. Drained the beer. Crushed the can. Threw it at the wall.

The faces of missing kids. Gus's threats. His own sins.

It all weighed him down.

He had reached his limit.

"Connor. Murphy."

The brothers turned. Rorschach smiled.

"You boys tight on cash?"

"Tighter than a Mormon virgin," Connor quipped.

Murphy added, "We got 500 emergency dollars. Tighter than a hooker, looser than a nun."

"What?! We have money?!"

"Bail fund, in case one of us gets arrested."

"...Fair."

Rorschach tossed a wad of cash at them. Two grand, easy.

They stared.

"We don't do much, Boss. Just open the place. This is too much."

"This ain't a tip. I've got a job."

He leaned in, wrapped an arm around each.

Whispers followed.

The brothers nodded, eyes burning.

"You got it, Boss. Consider it done."

They grinned, cracked their knuckles, and dove into the crowd to celebrate.

Rorschach watched them, suddenly unsure.

How did he even meet those two?

...Oh yeah. They'd once teamed up in a bar fight against some snooty British guy.

Weird how men become friends.

Time flew. Fights raged. Sweat poured. The night slipped by.

Outside, two alley cats hissed over trash.

Then—

From behind the steel door:

"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!!!"