The Game

see this now. I’m a superstar, just like I’m tall. I’m simply a superstar who’s been holding himself back. And I’d like you to come be a star with me.”
    It was good to have Mystery back. Flawed though he was, he had a certain charm. Some would call it narcissism, and they wouldn’t be wrong, but at least he saw greatness reflected not just in the mirror but also in the potential of those around him. That’s what had made him such an influential teacher.
    “Dude, I’m already a star, at least in the community,” I told him. “While you were gone, I was voted number one pickup artist—above even you. It’s insane. A guy from England I’ve never even met before called the other day and said he pretends to be me when he’s fucking girls. It makes him feel more powerful. What do you think of that?”
    It was getting harder to live up to my name. One of our former students, Supastar, a ruggedly handsome teacher from South Carolina, had recently posted, “When I die and go to pickup heaven, Style will be there waiting for me because he is a pickup god.”
    Mystery laughed when he heard it. “That’s something you’re going to have to come to grips with,” he said. “You’ve created an alter ego that you are.”
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    7 Staling and blurring occur when a woman stops returning phone calls. See glossary.

Mystery wanted to book me for three months straight. He planned to schedule workshops in London, Amsterdam, Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, Austin, Los Angeles, Boston, San Diego, and Rio.
    But I couldn’t commit to the time. I needed to resuscitate my career. There was something I used to do before I was a full-time pickup artist—or, as the kids now called me, an mPUA (master pickup artist). It was called writing. Somewhere, in another life, I used to wake up in the morning, sit at a desk before even eating or showering, and stew in my own filth as I sat typing on a computer and not getting laid.
    Now that I was mastering this whole girl thing, I needed to put the other pieces of my life back in balance. All the sarging was starting to scramble my brain. I was becoming too dependent on female attention, allowing it to be my sole reason for leaving the house besides food. In the process of dehumanizing the opposite sex, I had also been dehumanizing myself.
    So I told Mystery that I was going to cut back on the whole sarging thing. I was currently seeing eight girls in L.A. My dance card was full. There was Nadia and Maya and Mika and Hea and Carrie and Hillary and Susanna and Jill. They had needs, and there were no strings attached. They knew I was seeing other women. And they were probably seeing other guys. I didn’t know, didn’t care, and didn’t ask. All that mattered was that when I called them, they came. And when they called me, I came. Everybody came.
    What I didn’t tell Mystery was that I didn’t trust him anymore. I wasn’t going to set aside time and buy plane tickets only to have him break down on me again. I wasn’t a babysitter. Trust, I always told women, is something you must earn. And he would have to earn my trust again.
    It didn’t take Mystery long to find two willing and enthusiastic wings to replace me: Tyler Durden and Papa. I wasn’t surprised. Since Mystery had gotten out of the hospital, the pair was constantly in Toronto, staying at his apartment and vacuuming every shred of pickup information from his brain.
    Mystery would call every day to fill me in on their progress.
    He’d say, “I’ve humbled Tyler Durden with my game. He was an asshole at first, but we’ve broken through that and he’s allowed himself to be taken under my wing as a proper student.”
    He’d say, “I’ve finally figured out the formula for getting rapport with a woman. Are you ready?” Big pause. “Rapport equals trust plus comfort!”
    He’d say, “When you meet Tyler Durden, don’t expect to like him. Only expect to tolerate him. He makes rationalizations constantly.”
    “Then why do you hang out with him?”
    “He’ll call and say he’s coming for the weekend, and I just let him. He’s like a thorn in my side that gets me out of the house.”
    “So should I let him stay at my place when he comes to town with Papa?”
    “He’s part of the PUA family. Just think of him as the annoying cousin who farts a lot.”
    One week later, Papa and Tyler Durden were on my doorstep.
    Papa actually looked somewhat cool. He wore a leather jacket, sunglasses pushed up on his