Let’s assume that comic-book author and illustrator Charles Burns occasionally fantasizes about beating the shit out of author Chuck Palahniuk. Burns holds no personal grudge against Palahniuk; it’s just that Palahniuk wrote Fight Club, whereas he, Charles Burns, wears pleated pants and doodles for a living. What contemporary nerd hasn’t daydreamed about rumbling with the likes of Chuck Palahniuk? I certainly have masturbated to less. If Burns were victorious, he would never have to masturbate again. Coincidentally, the two will share a stage at the Bagley Wright Theatre.

I have never met either author, so it would be hard for me to predict if Burns has a healthy chance in the ring with Cap’n Fight Club. I contacted Bumbershoot literary-arts programming manager Bob Redmond, who booked the authors, to find out where his bets would lie in the event of a brawl.

“Um, is this on the record?”

Yes, Bob, it is.

“Oh. Uh, well, that’s difficult. I don’t know either author personally. I’ve only seen headshots of Palahniuk and illustrations of Burns.”

Then it’s a little reckless putting them alone in a room together, isn’t it?

“I’d bet they’d be pretty evenly matched,” he answers diplomatically.

Bullshit. Give me a name.

“Okay, I think I’m going to have to go with Burns, because everyone knows Philly is a tougher place to live in than Portland.”

Although Burns now resides in Philadelphia, he grew up in Seattle, which becomes the setting for his graphic masterpiece Black Hole, in which a sexual plague descends upon reckless teenagers who fuck without condoms. These teens develop grotesque physical mutations and must flee society. Burns’s illustrations are stark and macabre. Females shed their skin like snakes, and extra mouths bloom like zits on the necks of males: “[His wailing, gnashing trachea] was warm and salty… and further inside, a tiny tongue. I could feel it trembling, fluttering against mine.” If Palahniuk sprouted a tap-dancing penile wart that needed artistic rendering, Burns would undoubtedly be his man.

But can he bring on the beatdown? Palahniuk is also a Washington native, raised in the tiny town of Burbank. He is most widely known for his debut novel, Fight Club, but he has honed unpredictable storylines filled with violence, orchestrated chaos, and frothing antiheroes in subsequent works.

“For all those people in Room 234, working on their 12 steps in a sexaholics meeting is a valuable important tool for understanding and recovering from… well, you get the idea. For me, it’s a terrific how-to seminar,” quips Victor Mancini in Choke, a novel that tackles themes of filial piety, sex addiction, scam artists, choking, and obstructed colons. Eventually Mancini poos out a surprisingly heartwarming lesson about friendship and redemption.

But the damning fact remains: Palahniuk looks like a scrawny pussy in his headshots.

I contacted my friend Paul, a geek with fine taste who has met both authors. Paul might or might not run illegal cockfights out of his girlfriend’s basement on the weekends. (Probably not, but he can still smell a winner.)

“Chuckie P is a bodybuilder/weightlifter,” Paul tells me. “You can’t tell from his headshots, but he’s ripped. Also a health nut. Chuckie B is a standard comic-book nerd, although I remember him as being pretty tall. But balding and glasses and prone to wearing plaids and pants with pleats.”

So dukes up, where’s your money?

“It’s no goddamned contest: Cap’n Fight Club [takes it all], with a knuckle punch to Burns’s Adam’s apple. Although every funny book person has an untapped reservoir of rage that will come out when provoked, bodybuilders are usually kingpins of the untapped-reservoir-of-rage department.”

Well, damn. I had my money on Burns, but odds are he fights like a sassy little girl. Based on wild speculation, here’s how their clash would play out:

Palahniuk innocently bumps shoulders with Burns backstage after their reading.

Burns, who has been waiting for any excuse to strike, delivers a (sassy) slap to Palahniuk’s forehead with the palm of his hand.

Palahniuk staggers backward in surprise.

Burns snickers and as he whips out his camera phone to snap a victory photo, Palahniuk retaliates with a knuckle punch to the throat.

Burns goes down in a pile of pleats and angles. Game over.

But it’s never “game over” for a comic-book artist. A new character is already taking shape in Burns’s brain: Pastramiak—a beefy brute whose muscles rebel against him until all that’s left is a massive throbbing tricep run out of society by the pen that brought him to life.