No Flesh Shall Be Spared (55 page)

Monroe finally managed to wriggle his way free and stumbled over toward the railing on the side of the pit where Masterson had been standing.

"You keep away from me," shrieked Monroe. And then to Masterson, "Keep him the fuck away from me!"

Cleese moved again and his speed was something Masterson simply couldn’t believe. Masterson was a big man—a life-long soldier—and Cleese brushed him off like an old coat. One second he was standing three feet in front of him, the next he’d moved past him and had his hands once again on Monroe.

To Monroe’s credit, he finally screwed his testicles to their sticking point and threw a weak and undisciplined punch at Cleese. Cleese snatched the weaker man’s fist out of the air as it flew by. He circled it in his grasp and twisted the wrist. With the bones of his arm torqued in such a manner, Monroe had little choice but to go where he was being pointed. Cleese tugged on his arm, pulled it upward then quickly downward, and Monroe dropped to his knees.

Cleese pushed his knee into the center of Monroe’s chest and leaned him against the railing, backward over the Pit’s edge. Then, he shook him violently.

"I ought to feed
you
to one of these fucking things!"

In the pit, the fight above had not gone unnoticed and the training UD had begun to get agitated by the raised voices and the palpable sense of aggression. The thing immediately went into a frenzy the moment it saw Monroe’s hair dangling a foot or so above it, just out of its reach. Having had little success with the live fighter standing in front of it, the thing immediately made frantic leaps and grabs for Monroe. Its frustration level rose markedly as it felt the tips of its fingers brush through Monroe’s dangling lock of hair. The trainer who held the reins pulled the UD backward and it came away with only a few strands of hair caught under its cyanotic fingernails.

Cleese wasn’t entirely sure, but he could have sworn he smelled Monroe shit his tailored silk pants.

The fighter and his training partner quickly pulled the agitated UD away from the side of the pit nearest to where Monroe hung. Off in the distance, a raucous chorus of cheers, shouts and applause were heard coming from the other fighters in the Hall. It seemed that there were more than a few people who didn’t like Monroe or his methods and watching him get bitch-slapped was riotous sport.

It sure as hell beat standing around and sweating like a pig.

Finally, Masterson was able to pull Cleese from on top of Monroe, but not without a good deal of exertion. Cleese let go reluctantly and brushed Masterson off.

"Cleese, what the hell do you think you’re doing?" Masterson asked excitedly, pushing him back. "You can’t strike a League official. Do you want to get released from your goddamn contract?"

Now secure that Masterson had Cleese under control, Monroe renewed his shouting and impotent threats as he rose to his feet.

"How dare you! How fucking
dare
you!!" Monroe shouted as he stood up and brushed at his shirt in a vain effort to wipe away the wrinkles. "Don’t you get it, you stupid mother fucker? We
own
you, you stupid fuck!"

"What did you just say?" Cleese growled.

"I said, we own you. Lock, stock, and white trash barrel."

Monroe, feeling a bit of his old self now that Cleese was away from him, threw his hands up into the air.

"Let me break this down for you," Monroe pointed an accusing finger at the man who just seconds ago was trying to throttle him. "You fighters…" and he raised his voice loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear, "You are nothing more than commodities. Property.
We
call the shots here."

 "Shut up, Monroe," Masterson warned.

"No… No, Masterson… he needs to hear this."

"Shut. Up. Monroe."

"You really don’t get it, do you? We… Us… The League… We make the decisions here.
We
decide who gets signed.
We
decide who gets fighting slots.
We
decide who gets play. You’ve never been anything other than a circus act, you fuck."

"Shut. Up. Monroe. Walk away…"

Monroe stared at Masterson then shot a menacing glare at Cleese.

"You know what… Fuck you!
We
decide who lives, Cleese.
We
decide who lives and who fucking
dies!
"

Cleese grinned malevolently and tried to decide which body part he was going to shove up Monroe’s ass.

"Walk. Away!" Masterson warned. "NOW!"

Cleese looked around and decided he couldn’t just kill this asshole in front of God and all these witnesses. Better to step back, get some perspective, and decide what to do. He figured it’d be best to decide just how cold his dish of revenge should be before serving it. Slowly turning away, he took a step back the way he’d come.

Then, Monroe went and ruined it all by opening his mouth and letting the other inconceivable shoe drop. Monroe glared at Cleese and smiled.

"After all… if you hadn’t noticed, you fucking chimp, shit has a way of happening around here."

Cleese stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned at the hip and stared menacingly at Monroe.

Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to…

"Shut up, Monroe," interrupted Masterson angrily. "Shut the fuck up!"

Cleese glared in Masterson’s direction and then back at Monroe.

"Just ask your girlfriend," Monroe said smugly and looked away.

Almost immediately, he regretted making the statement and glanced over at Masterson. From the look that passed over his face, it was plain to see he knew that he’d fucked up. Silently, he wished he could take that last bit back the instant after he’d said it, but Cleese had laid his meaty hands on him, struck him and made him look like a fool. If anyone needed to be taken down a rung or two, it was Cleese.

Far off, he heard the sound of Masterson sighing in frustration.

As he gazed sidelong at Cleese, his mind almost didn’t register the fighter’s movement.

Cleese spun at the waist and threw a reverse side kick which hit Monroe square in the center of his chest. The air was kicked out of the man’s lungs and Cleese took no small amount of satisfaction out of the sound it made. The only thing better than hearing it was watching Monroe go sailing back into the railing, pitching over the edge and falling headfirst into the Pit. His shocked face disappeared over the edge milliseconds before his shoes did. He went over with the most sublime expression.

"Fuck you," said Cleese as regained his footing. His hands went up into the air in frustration. "Fuck you and fuck your little fuckin’ game! Fuck your League! Fuck this…" and he waved a hand in the direction of the Hall.

He brushed past Masterson and, as he walked away, he shouted, "And fuck you too!"

Another shout of rousing consensus from the fighters across the Hall rose and fell in the room like a wave. Cleese sensed a few rounds of free beer in the offing.

Masterson reached out to Cleese, as if to try and stop him, but Cleese was beyond hearing any more of his or anyone else’s bullshit. As he walked away, he looked back at him with a look of complete contempt.

"You fuckin’ Assclowns," he spat as he continued on back across the Training Hall and toward the door. "You fuckin’ deserve each other."

Cleese made his way toward the main door and his form disappeared into the blackness of The Hall’s shadowy corners. The applause from the assembled fighters continued unabated until he’d kicked the door open and walked out. Once again, the heavy sound of the door closing echoed through the hall.

~ * ~

Masterson walked to the edge of the Pit and looked over at Monroe who’d by now managed to pull himself up into a panting, seated position down on the sand. His fall had been far, but the sand softened his landing considerably and the only thing injured was his ego.

The two training fighters were not amused as they made their way quietly out of the Pit. When Monroe fell over the railing, they’d had to yank their UD around
hard
to keep it clear of him as he hit the sand. From the look of things, they’d broken the damn thing’s neck doing so.

"Ass-
hole!
" Monroe shouted as he stood and set to brushing the sand from his pants. He stood silently fuming for a moment and then glanced up to Masterson with the look of an errant child.

It was immediately obvious to the fighters still in the Pit that they’d been pulled into something of which neither of them wanted any part. Leaving the corpse with the broken neck lying in the sand, they both headed out the hatch.

Sometimes discretion really
was
the better part of valor.

Masterson peered over the top of the railing, his expression not a happy one. Once he was sure Monroe was for the most part unhurt, he stood fully erect and slowly crossed his arms across his chest.

"Nice job… You just
had
to say something, didn’t you? Had to open your goddamn mouth, eh Monroe?"

Masterson looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. He had no doubt that the fighters out on the mats heard what Monroe had said. It’s not like he didn’t fucking shout that shit at the top of his lungs. As he looked out over the Hall, he saw most of the fighters looking away. If they’d heard anything, they were not showing it. Satisfied that things were more or less ok, he stared down at Monroe balefully.

 "You might as well have just signed your name to a goddamn confession, you stupid fuck! There will be no controlling him now. Not now… not ever!"

"Oh, bullshit…!" Monroe said with disdain, still trying to pull himself together. "Oh, and thanks a lot for helping me out there. You know you could have done
something
to stop him! He could’ve gotten me killed!"

"No, can it, Phillip. You’ve habitually pushed this whole thing in a direction it never needed to go. Things were progressing as they should have: revenue was up, attrition was manageable and everything was fine. We really didn’t need you lending a helping hand…" Masterson uncrossed his arms and grabbed the rail before him forcefully. "God knows, there is enough drama and trauma in these damned spectacles to keep people tuning in. You didn’t have to fuck with things."

Masterson ran a hand across the back of his neck.

"Now… Cleese has gotten wise to your bullshit and he knows… he
knows
… you’re the fucking man behind the curtain. Jesus… Weber is going to be furious over this." Masterson looked down and concentrated his gaze toward the tips of his highly polished shoes before whispering more to himself than anyone else, "We’re going to need to be extra careful… now more than ever."

"What?" Monroe said emphatically from the pit.

Monroe paused and looked back in the direction Cleese had left.

"Perhaps there is more to our friend than we’d first believed."

 Monroe stared up at Masterson and looked deep into the old soldier’s eyes as he went back to pulling himself together and rubbing his cherry-red cheek.

"Whatever… That fucking idiot’s becoming a liability and a menace despite the money he’s pulling in," he whined as he continued brushing sand from his pant’s seat. "And don’t tell me you haven’t thought the same."

The two men each stared into space for a long time, thinking. After a moment, Monroe looked around at the pit in which he stood.

"Jesus… look at this place. It’s disgusting!"

Then, he looked up and caught Masterson’s eye.

"Do you think…" he asked and looked around for any unwanted ears, "Do you really think he’ll be a problem now?"

Monroe suddenly looked more than a bit worried. The League had a lot invested in Cleese and they would remain happy just as long as things continued along the rosy path they’d all been traveling. If he’d somehow managed to push things a little too far and jeopardized all of that, it might cause an inconsolable rift to appear.

"I mean," Monroe continued, "Weber will be really fucking pissed if Cleese got clear before the League was done with him and his contract. If he were to be killed, that'd be one thing, but…"

Masterson pondered the situation silently for a moment. It was good that Monroe had gotten his head back in the game and was thinking clearly again. The man was an impetuous and manipulative jerk, but he was also pretty adept at climbing the corporate ladder and sensing the ebb and flow of the tides. Masterson wasn’t much interested in the upward mobility of his career.

He just wanted to keep his job.

Thinking it through though, Masterson decided that yes… Cleese was indeed pretty hurt and angry—and with good reason—but when push finally came to shove, he was alone in this. Chikara was gone. The League owned Weaver pretty much lock, stock and barrel. He wasn’t close with anyone else and had no one he could trust outside of this place.

"Ok," sighed Masterson, "so looking at it objectively, I don’t think Cleese can do shit. He’s pissed now, you’ve pretty much seen to that, but give him time. He’ll calm down and remember who pays the bills and when he does, he’ll either get back on the program or he won’t."

Monroe thought it over and decided Masterson was right. He nodded his agreement and then moved to tie his hair back into its ponytail.

Masterson smiled and then added, "Besides, where else does he have to go?"

"You really think so?"

"I do. And besides… something’s just been brought to my attention that, I think, should help settle the matter, one way or the other. Once and for all."

Monroe turned and limped painfully across the sand toward the Pit’s entryway.

"After that," Masterson said from overhead, again looking over his shoulder toward the Hall’s door, "he’ll either be on the team or he won’t be. Whichever… It’s all the same to us, right? And you know as well as I do… It’s not like there’s a shortage of fighters out there. They may not be as talented as he is, but they’re still more than willing to step out there onto that sand. It’s like you said, whether they end up living or dying… we win either way."

Monroe nodded and continued hobbling toward the door.