The day had begun like any other Monday in Libertyville. Residents of the rural Illinois town greeted the sunny morning by walking or cycling to work or school, some stopping for the newspaper or a cup of coffee at George's Diner. Few noticed the small biplane overhead, and those that did were unaware of the struggle that was occurring on board.

"No."

Cameron Collins saw the punch coming but was unable to avoid it. He was strapped into the small cabin of the aircraft and could do nothing but absorb the brunt of the impact to his stomach. He groaned.

"Really, don't."

Collins brought his knees to his chest and delivered a kick to his assailant that sent him backwards toward the cockpit. The plane dipped slightly and the man connected with the in-flight jukebox, causing the July Garland to sing "where troubles melt" repeatedly. The pilot made a quick maneuver and the plane righted.

The pilot was visibly worried about the action taking place aboard his plane. When the flight departed from Milwaukee, the man surely couldn't have known that two of his passengers were engaged in business of a somewhat irreputable nature, though the entourage of suits surrounding the Irishman should have been a sign.

To their dismay, those fifty men were given the option of piling into the small cargo area or clinging onto the plane's wings for dear life. Most chose the cargo area and had since created a solid, amorphous block of bodies.

Pressing off from the jukebox, Collins' attacker approached again, his body crouched from the low ceiling, his arms outstretched to either side for balance.

"You should've taken my offer, Mister Collins," the man said. His voice was barely audible over the sound of the propeller and Judy Garland's golden voice.

"Three-thousand is too much, Benson."

Collins unbuckled his restraint just as Benson reached him. He slid out of his seat and Benson toppled forward unexpectedly, unable to stop his momentum once his target--this time, Collins' face--had been removed.

Several of Collins' bodyguards untangled themselves from the stack in the cargo area and crept forward to help their boss, setting the plane off-balance again. Collins dismissed them with a wave.

"I've got this, fellows."

Collins withdrew a pistol from his waistband and leveled it at Benson's chest. The man stopped in his tracks and raised his hands defensively.

"Come on, Cam," said the man, smiling nervously. "You don't want to do this."

Collins laughed.

"I really do."

With that, he fired. The round struck Benson in the chest and he lost his footing. Collins took aim again and fired a second round. This went wide, tearing through the door of the cabin. There was a scream outside and the plane lurched suddenly to the right. The force sent Collins and Benson to the floor. Collins struggled to his feet just as the plane lurched again--this time to the left. He grabbed hold of the rigging that lined the interior walls and pulled himself upward. He peered through the small window on the cabin's door and saw several of his bodyguards falling away from the craft--presumably the cause of the plane's imbalance.

"Oh, goddamnit."

Benson was grabbing onto Collins' leg and looked quite ill. Blood spilled from the wound in his chest, and he was making wheezing noises. Collins kicked him hard in the temple and the grip on his leg relaxed enough for Collins to move away from him. 

The plane was rocking back and forth as more and more of Collins' entourage lost hold of the wings of the plane, and the pilot was losing the fight to keep the plane stable. When the man began praying aloud, Collins decided he very badly needed not to be on the plane anymore. It was going to crash, and Collins had better things to do than die in some fucking field along with Tim-fucking-Benson.

Collins threw open the cabin door, grabbed his duffel bag, and stepped gingerly onto the wing of the biplane. He crossed himself. Then, he jumped.

The world raced toward Collins. He wrapped the strap of the duffel bag around his torso and reached back, pulling the ripcord that released the parachute he had conveniently packed. It unfurled slowly. He looked again at the ground as it got closer and closer. He reached into his duffel bag and withdrew his emergency umbrella. With his umbrella held over his head to create additional drag, the parachute finally caught. He jerked upward slightly just as the biplane crashed below in a plume of smoke and flame. Collins drifted safely away from the explosion, and landed on a rocky slope below.

The rocks below his feet didn't hold, and Collins fought to stay upright. He began to slide, and then he began to fall. The impact sent the glass-like shards of rock into his shin. He had no time to react to the pain or the blood, because as he stood again, his attention was drawn to a loud rumbling noise. He looked upward to the direction of the sound and grimaced at the wisp of smoke escaping from the top of the mountain.

"Seriously?"

Collins took off at a sprint, half-running, half-falling down the side of the volcano. The situation immediately became worse.

The eruption sent chunks of rock airborne. The high level of silica in the lava that spewed over the lip of the volcano increased its viscosity, allowing Collins enough time to fashion a sled out of a large rock that had crashed near him. He laid across the boulder and it began its descent as he gripped its edges. He quickly rode toward the base of the volcano in an avalanche of fire and ash. He was almost to safety, only there was no safety ahead.

In fact, there was nothing ahead. The ground stopped abruptly and Collins was airborne for the second time that day, having lost hold of the rock. He clung to his duffel bag, and dug through its contents for his emergency umbrella. Then, he looked down. He could have cried with relief. Only, he didn't, because he was Cameron Collins, damn it.

He dropped into Lake Michigan with a splash. The water was unseasonably warm, and he rose to the surface quickly. Collins stole a look at the cliff behind him--a wall of steam rose where the lava met the water, obscuring the volcano from sight.

Collins swam away from the inferno and until his limbs could swim no more. The cut from his fall was now heavily bleeding, and his right leg had all but gone numb. A crimson trail of blood marked Collins' path. To the man's horror, where the blood stopped was a dorsal fin.

The fin was gaining on him, and Collins knew from his extensive background in marine biology that it belonged to a bull shark. It was nearly on him now, and Collins knew that he had no choice but to stand his ground (as it were) and fight.

Collins held his emergency umbrella at arm's length and wielded it as a weapon. He lunged it at the shark's gills until he was able to locate his emergency plastic explosives. He continued to search through his duffel until he was able to locate his preferred weapon for the encounter: plastic explosives. With all of his strength, Collins jabbed the shark in its eye with the umbrella. In response, the shark chomped blindly in his direction. Instead of biting down on Collins' leg, the shark got a mouthful of C4. It didn't have time to react before Collins detonated the bomb and the charge went off.

The explosion was enormous. Collins rode the wave of energy all the way to Chicago's Navy Pier. As he crawled ashore, pieces of shark rained down around him. He took several steps and collapsed from exhaustion. He withdrew his medical kit from his duffel bag and found his bag of intravenous fluids, which he quickly administered to himself. He then created a tourniquet around his right knee to prevent any additional loss of blood. He consulted his pocket watch for the time, and scrawled 11:45 on his forehead to aid medics in the proper removal of the tourniquet should he lose consciousness.

Collins sat with his back against a fence, glad to finally be home in Chicago. His rest was interrupted by the appearance of a shadow on the ground before it. Collins looked up to find the most despised man in criminal history at his feet. The man was cloaked in a trench coat and was accompanied by 120 of the world's toughest and most despicable men.

"What do you want, Tyler?"

Collins spat at the man's feet.

"Delaware City shit you out finally?"

With some effort, Collins got to his feet to face his nemesis. There was no man in the world Cameron Collins hated more than Tyler Durden, and the crime boss knew it. They had met on other occasions, but Collins knew deep-down that this would be their greatest battle.

"You know what I want, Mister Collins," said Durden. "I want Chicago."

Collins laughed. He may have been delirious from the blood loss, but the thought of the godfathers of Chicago surrendering the city to scum like Durden was ludicrous.

"You won't get it without a fight."

Durden smiled slowly.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," he said. Then, he snapped his fingers, and the 120 men drew handguns.

Collins had just enough time to dive for cover behind a french fry stand. He searched his duffel bag for his flash-bang grenades. He was successful, and immediately lobbed them toward the gang of mobsters as they opened fire. The grenades went off, and the sudden light and percussion dazed Durden's crew long enough for Collins to make a mad dash for the end of the boardwalk. If he could only make it there, Collins would be able to access his secret arsenal of weapons.

Gunfire tore through the air around him as he ran for his life. Bystanders watched in amazement as Collins was chased down the pier by the men. He had a good lead, but he feared he wasn't fast enough. The blur of green in the distance became more defined as he neared, until Collins could clearly see the shrubbery that was his destination.

The hedge maze was Collins' greatest botanical accomplishment. It was the size of several city blocks and was comprised of plants and flowers from all over the world. A statue of a giant grasshopper loomed over the maze. It was the size of a school bus and was equally terrifying. The grasshopper marked the maze's exit, but that wasn't where Collins was headed as he ran inside, pushing aside children and pregnant women.

Collins' weapon stash was located in an adjacent office building. Entry could only be gained from the hidden entrance in a corner of the labyrinth.

"Right, left, left..."

Collins chanted to himself as he raced down the leafy walls of his maze. He knew this maze like no other, and hoped that its intricate twists and turns would slow his adversaries.

"Right, right..."

Suddenly, gunfire erupted from behind him. Bystanders stood idly by to watch the action, and one was struck and killed.

Collins ran at a dead heat, leaving behind shouts of "Oh my God!" and "Not Cedric!" He didn't have time to help, though his experience in the IRA provided him with extensive medical knowledge that surely could have saved the man.

"Left, right..."

Finally, Collins ran at full speed down a dead end of the maze. He didn't stop when he got to the end, hitting the wall of shrubbery on the left where it met the adjoining wall. It spun on a pivot, and Collins forced it around. Once he did, he was alone in a room comprised entirely of hedges. At his feet was a door.

Collins quickly descended from the maze into a secret tunnel. He closed and secured the door behind him, and continued to run--now beneath the maze--in the direction of the office building and his arsenal. It was very dark, but Collins knew the way; he had used this path many times.

At the end of the tunnel, a staircase was lit from a torch that was in a mount on the wall. Collins removed it when he reached the bottom, and began to climb the stairs. He ascended two flights. Then, he climbed a ladder, holding the torch to the side to avoid setting his duffel bag ablaze.

The ladder let out into a small chamber of no distinction: there was just the hole in the floor for the ladder and a door. Collins unlocked the door with a key from around his neck. Then, he unlocked a second door. Then, he unlocked a third door.

Collins chuckled to himself, as he had at last entered his arsenal. The walls were lined with weapons of every era imaginable--and some not imaginable! He tossed his duffel bag to the ground and filled it.

"Let's see how you handle this, Durden!"

Collins made a brief telephone call to his boss, Anomaly, to update him on his situation

"Hey, boss. I just want to let you know that I was ambushed by that filth Tyler Durden and his gang at the pier. Nah, man, I'm okay. I'll see you later."

Collins opened the room's window and rappelled down to the streets below. He stood on the eastern side of Lake Shore Drive. Tyler Durden and his army stood on the west.

Without warning, Collins drew two automatic rifles and opened fire. Durden's gang fired back, but Collins rolled behind a parked car. He put fresh magazines into the weapons and indexed off of the vehicle, starting to shoot again. Unable to meet Collins' level of fire power, Durden's men began to flee. Eighty or ninety had already been killed and there was no hope for the rest. One of the men stepped carelessly into the street and was immediately plowed down by a taxi cab.

"Damn it, Larry Lance!" cried Tyler Durden, who had climbed the giant grasshopper and could only watch as his men were slaughtered.

"This could all be over, Durden!" shouted Collins. "Leave Chicago! Leave Chicago and never come back!"

"I'll get you one day, Cameron Collins!" With that, Tyler Durden stood and turned. His trench coat flowed like a cape behind him as he leapt from the insect and onto a passing double-decker bus. He was gone.

Collins stood angrily. Again, Durden had escaped his fate. Collins unloaded the remaining fifty-seven magazines of ammunition into the bodies of the already-dead men that lined the street. He found a two-gallon container of gasoline in his duffel bag, and he poured it over the deceased. He stopped when he was halfway done at the sight of a familiar face.

There, among the dead, was T-Dawg. Collins was overcome with emotion. He fell to the ground at the sight of the bloody mess that was his dearest friend.

"Damn you, Durden."

Collins wiped the tears from his eyes and stood, lighting one of Chicago's finest cigars. Then, without further ceremony, he chucked it over his shoulder, setting the bodies on fire. Collins could do nothing more but walk away.