Weber patted Jimbo on the back and directed him back the way they’d come through the crowd. As they walked along, the mass of people before them once again parted and made way. Once they’d moved by, the crowd closed again, swallowing them up.
Back by the side of the corral, Cecil looked around at the awed faces of his friends and neighbors. Then, he turned and stared at the severed head laying in the dirt and moving its eyes near Bubba’s feet. Still trying to piece it all together, he ran his hand through his hair, scratching his head in thought.
"Well, son of a bitch…" he muttered softly and then wandered off to get himself another beer.
Valedictions
The crowd within the Allied Sports Center coiled in upon itself like a viper preparing to strike. Its combined weight squashed down into the seats of the stadium and made the foundation of the building growl like a hungry animal. 19,939 paying customers had packed themselves into the building for tonight’s televised broadcast of The World Gladiatorial Federation’s Fight Night. The event was being broadcast to an estimated 19.4 million Pay Per View subscribers in the US and another 240 million worldwide via the Internet.
Teams of baton-wielding security guards were out in full force patrolling the coliseum both inside and out; making sure that no one in the crowd got carried away by the night’s festivities. People could often get unruly at these events, especially when the matches had been exciting and there was plenty of blood on the sand. When there was more than the usual amount of carnage, the people responded to it and could get caught up in the moment. If unchecked, there were usually a lot of fights and more than a fair share of stabbings. The presence of a heavily armed security force ensured that people behaved themselves.
It was shortly before the night’s opening match and Cleese found himself sitting out behind the arena, immersing himself in night’s cool air. He’d already gotten into most of his gear and wanted just a few minutes to himself before his first match was scheduled to begin. He still needed to hook up with Weaver and get the finished gauntlet, but he thought he deserved some time alone. He glanced at a clock mounted above one of the loading ramps.
It was still early.
He figured that he had a little time to kill before it was time to kill.
He leaned up against one of the League’s large Mack trucks parked regimentally in the loading bays behind the stadium. The metal of the truck felt cool against his back as he rested against it. He’d only been sitting there for a few moments when he heard footsteps come up softly behind him.
"This a private moment?" he heard Monk ask, half-kidding, but also not. No one knew better than Monk how nerve-wracking the time just before a match could be. He was sensitive to it and didn’t want to cloud his protégé’s mind with unnecessary blather.
"No… Of course not, Buddy." Cleese made room on the fender for his mentor and friend.
"Lemme guess…" Monk said paternally, "you’re out here keeping yourself busy chewing over the hows, whys, and wherefores…"
"Of what?"
"…of how exactly it is that you ended up in this predicament."
Cleese stared at him silently for a second and then said softly, "Yeah, something like that."
"I wouldn’t beat myself up too much over it, Cochise. Look at it this way: you’re just a guy to whom God—or The Big Stuffed Panda—has given the wrong set of skills," he said with a grin. "Put that into a blender along with poverty, debauchery, and you being a bit of a sociopath and—voilà!—welcome to The League."
"Well, that certainly is helpful. I don’t know what I was thinking."
Monk shrugged and continued, "Fuck it, Slugger. Why ask why? All you gotta do is go out there and play the hand you were dealt." He leaned back and settled in against the truck.
"Life just made you one badass motherfucker and now…" another shrug, "now it’s time for you to show Life a little appreciation."
Monk gently nudged Cleese in the ribs with his elbow.
"Shit, I know nothing ever comes at a cheap price, Son. But, listen… This is your time. These people ain’t ever seen the likes of you. You were born for this shit. Hell, I’ve seen lots of guys who thought they were, too," he shook his head, "They weren’t shit. I watched as they scraped every one of them dumb motherfuckers out of the sand with a kitty litter scoop."
Cleese looked over at his friend across the darkness. Monk had become, over the last few short months, a closely-held and valued person in his life. There were far too few of those growing up.
After his Dad left, the only men he felt he could trust were the ones he’d found in books. He’d read once—and growing up he was someone who haunted the public library like a ghost—that Nature abhorred a vacuum and, like it or not, something always rushed in to fill a void. Without a male role model in his life, he was drawn to the heroes that lived in fiction. The men he found there were men of strength and courage. They were men of ideals—of honor—who possessed a deep-seated sense of loyalty. They had all of the qualities that the men he’d met in real life lacked. To him, the heroes he’d found in books were like gods and, as a result, he dreamed of one day being like them. And so, names like Conan of Cimmeria, Solomon Kane, Bran Mak Morn, John Carter and Miyamoto Musashi were hallowed and inscribed upon his heart and into his soul. They were the personalities who’d made him into the man he was and remained ideals for the kind of man he wanted to be. Now, he thought to himself, Monk’s name would be written there as well.
Deep down though, he knew that after tonight both of their lives were going to change… and change for good. Monk was off to do his time in the UFL and then to live out his days with his daughter and her family—to tend cattle or sheep or some shit like that.
Cleese… Cleese would continue on to whatever fate The Pit had in store for him.
One man stood at the end of his road and the other stood at the beginning.
Cleese knew without a doubt that after tonight nothing would ever be the same.
"You ain’t gonna try to kiss me, are ya?" Cleese asked, coming apart with laughter on the last word. He leaned back and chuckled to the emptiness of the night’s sky.
"Like fuck…" Monk guffawed, shaking his head. "You’re one stupid motherfucker. Do you know that? I ought to just go back in there and get a bird’s eye view of you getting your dumb ass torn limb from fucking limb."
"I love it when you talk dirty."
Monk stepped away from the truck and started to walk away. He looked back, almost forlornly, and smiled at Cleese.
"Welp… I guess I’m a ghost. My ride leaves in a few and I’m off to my greater glory. It’s time for me to share my immense body of knowledge elsewheres. It’s been a real pleasure, Fucknut," Monk said and waved his hand casually into the air. "Try not to get killed out there."
Cleese smiled.
"Well… Considering that I was trained by you… I oughtta be dead in just about a minute or two."
Monk put on a stern face and silently pointed his index finger at his friend. Then he turned and walked away. He was never a man for soppy farewells. Monk figured that in a game as close knit as this, sooner or later, they’d see each other again. If not in the near future, then someday.
"When this is all over for you, come visit me," Monk said over his shoulder. "I’ll show you how to milk a sheep."
"You don’t milk sheep, you ignorant sop," Cleese said smiling. "You milk cows."
"Sheep… cows… same fuckin’ difference."
Cleese watched his friend’s back recede until his form disappeared back into the shadows.
"I’ll be seeing you, old man," Cleese said under his breath. He looked towards the door of the arena and smirked, "…hopefully in a better place than this. Although, with the kind of luck we both have, it’ll probably be in one a whole helluva lot worse."
Cleese walked off grinning toward the back entrance of the arena.
~ * ~
Weaver caught up with Cleese as he waited at the entry to the walkwa
y which led down to the Pit. He walked hurriedly, toting a small canvas bag under his arm. The large man waddled as he walked and when he got up next to Cleese, he was short of breath.
"Cleese," Weaver panted, "Admit it, you didn’t think I’d make it."
"I was getting a little nervous there, Buddy. I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up and I’d have to go out there with nothing but my dick in my hand. Is that my shit?"
"I just wanted to put a few finishing touches on it," he said as he handed the parcel over.
Cleese pulled the bag open and reached inside. Weaver had been running prototype after prototype of his gauntlet design by him for weeks. After each time he’d taken the thing back mumbling about some new aspect he wanted to change. Cleese was happy with each revision, but Weaver, it seemed, was a perfectionist.
"I was able to install pressure sensitive pads on the inside of the back panel. With these, you’ll be able to flex your wrist and unlock the spike. It shouldn’t just pop open like it was doing in practice. You’ll still have to slap the release on the back to get it to withdraw though, but I figured that, with this new design, you’ll be able to draw it out without having to use two hands."
Cleese pulled the heavy object from the bag. Its metal shimmered brightly in the dim light. The gauntlet was a large sleeve-like thing which covered most of his forearm. At the furthest end, there was a place into which his gloved hand could slide; a small strap fitted snugly between his thumb and index finger. He slid his arm into it, pulling the straps that ran around it tight.
"I’ve tried to minimize the weight in order for it not to be too heavy. I’ve tested it out and it seems to work pretty well," Weaver continued.
Cleese raised his arm and felt the thing’s mass. He did some shadow boxing and, feeling quite satisfied, he smiled.
"I’ll be damned if I can even feel it," Cleese said astonished.
Weaver just stood back and grinned like a parent watching his kid open a Christmas present. Behind the scenes, he’d put a lot of work into the piece, but Cleese was a good guy and a friend of Monk’s and that meant a lot.
Cleese threw another couple of quick punch combinations—a right, a left, a couple of quick uppercuts—and barely noticed that he had something strapped to his arm much less this metal monstrosity. He was amazed.
"Squeeze the band between your thumb and index finger and flex your wrist," Weaver advised. "Careful though… the fucker’s sharp."
Shinkt!
The spike sprang out with a slight jerk and locked into place.
"Well, fuuuuck me runnin’…" Cleese said, clearly happy. "This is some diabolical shit you got here, Weaver. Who’d you work for back in The World again, S.P.E.C.T.R.E.?"
Weaver bowed and executed an elaborate flourish with his right hand.
"I aim to please. Now, slap the release on the back…"
Cleese did as he was told and the spike slid back into the sheath that was hidden in the gauntlet. The withdraw of the spike was more noticeable than the draw, but given the complexity of the mechanism, no complaints were forthcoming.
"Niiiiice…" Cleese said quietly.
"You like?"
"I do indeed, Pal. I owe you a couple bottles of Scotch for this one."
"You got that right. I’ve already cleared this little slice of Heaven with the Rules Committee so all’s kosher."
"Cool. Thanks!"
"By the way, they thought the same thing I did."
"What was that?"
"That you needed some professional fuckin’ help."
"I’ll make a note of it and schedule an appointment… if I live through this, that is."
The two men laughed and Weaver clapped Cleese on the back.
"You’ll do fine…"
"Thanks, man. I appreciate all of your hard work," Cleese said.
"No problem, Kid," Weaver said. He took the canvas bag back, tucked it under his arm, and turned to leave. "I’ll see you after all of this is over with. We’ll go get a drink and celebrate."
Cleese nodded and watched as the big man walked away from him.
"Listen… don’t get stupid out there," Weaver called back over his shoulder as he left. "I ran into Monk on the way here and he’s right, you know. This sport’s never seen anything like you or that greeting card you got strapped to your arm. That crowd out there is going to love you… Just keep your head and don’t pop off. You’ll be fine."
The old man’s voice echoed hollowly as he got further away.
"You’ll do us proud, Son!"
Cleese turned and looked down the long, dark hallway which stretched out before him like a tomb. Fleetingly, he wondered if he was really ready for this. After a second of consideration, he realized that he probably wasn’t, but it was too late to turn back now.
"Fuck it," he said—neither for the first nor the last time.
Waiting in the Wings
"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen and welcome back… to WGF Fight Night! Tonight… here at the renowned Microsoft Sports Center, we’ve assembled another night of combat featuring fighters so talented that you will be glad you stayed up for all of this one. I’m Bob Wester…"
"And I’m John Davis and so far tonight, we’ve had five fully unharnessed fights and things are looking stellar for our next match. By far, one of the more interesting bouts we have seen scheduled is our next one—a fan favorite—our Cherry Match. The untested fighter is a new-comer hailing from the city of Old San Francisco. He’s a big one all right and someone who, if you will recall, first made a name for himself by being one of the few who were able to fight their way out of the city by the bay. Word is that he did it with nothing more than a baseball bat!"
"Yeah, John, The League has put a lot into him, so he’s sure to be something else. I’ve seen some of his training tapes and I can assure you that we are in for a real treat with this one. And then, following that match-up, we’ll be bringing you our Main Event, but more on that later…"
"Yes, indeed. Another roster of first class altercations all brought to you by the good folks at Weber Industries. Ok, Bob… I’m being signaled now that it looks as if we’re ready to begin our next bout. So, put down the popcorn, Ladies and Gentlemen… and get out the plastic sheets, this one could get wet."
"Why don’t we get things rolling and go down to pit-side and Al Sanchez…"
~ * ~
Cleese stood within the confines of the cramped hallway which ran under the stands and led to the underbelly of The Octagon. The place smelled like a bus station and looked a whole lot worse. Encased in cement, it was really nothing more than a long passage which tunneled under the stands above and on into the side of The Pit. From where Cleese was, it was like standing at the throat to Hell.
I feel like I want to puke.
He was a far sight beyond nervous now and he felt adrenaline scream through his bloodstream like a freight train fueled by a bellyful of crystal meth. He paced back and forth, constantly adjusting and readjusting his hardware. He patted the pistol tucked securely under his arm. He pulled on the straps. Absentmindedly, he ran his hands over his exposed stomach and felt the clammy skin under his fingertips. He reached down further and cupped his testicles, silently hoping they’d still be there when this shit was over and done with.
He flexed his right hand, hit the release, and the spike Weaver made for him sprang out and locked into place. Cleese pushed against a lever on the back of the mechanism and the spike of metal slid back into place with a barely audible "sh-tik." He looked at it and repeatedly flicked it open and then closed. Open. Closed. Open. Closed.
Weaver’s a goddamn genius with the way he built this thing.
The old bastard had taken Cleese’s idea and run like hell with it. The gauntlet was (as he’d expected) a formidable piece of hardware which danced merrily along the edge of what The Rules would allow. Given its potential for drawing blood and the cool way it looked, Cleese was sure it would make him very popular with the blood-thir
sty crowd. It would also no doubt turn him into a bankable commodity within The League.
He thought of Monk then and felt instantly disheartened. Cleese was going to miss his partner. He’d been a good friend to Cleese at a time when he most needed one. Monk could have easily declined the opportunity to train him, but he hadn’t and that counted for something.
At least it did where Cleese was concerned.
As he checked his equipment one more time, he wondered whether Monk would really be happy spending the rest of his days kickin’ it at his daughter’s ranch. Would he really be able to come to terms with Life now that Death had left its unmistakable mark all over him? Cleese wished that they could have talked a little bit longer, but in the end he knew it was better this way. Short and sweet.
Somehow, it all fit Monk’s way.
Cleese’s stomach twisted in his gut, greasy bubbles percolating through his colon. He touched the exposed skin of his stomach, just below his tunic one more time and waited for the doors to the Pit to open.
Gawd, I want to puke…
~ * ~
"Thank you, guys. What we have on tap for you tonight is sure to be an amazing fight. A Cherry bout with the combatant having been rushed into service after an unfortunate training accident resulting in the deaths of two fighters: Victor Lenik and Franklin Cartwright, both of who will be sorely missed. The tale of the tape on this new man is pretty impressive. He stands at a whopping six foot two inches and weighs in at a hardened two hundred and fifteen pounds. He’s a street fighter… with a record of 0 wins—0 losses. So, this oughtta be good. Ok, the pit door is just now opening and we can see him stepping out onto the sand. Yeah, holy mackerel… he’s a big boy, ain’t he?"
"Al, sorry to interrupt, but this is Bob back in the studio."
"Yeah, Bob?"
"Al, I don’t see a blade on this fighter."
"You’re right about that, Bob. There isn’t one in the conventional sense, but take a look at the end of his arm. Cleese has reportedly brought along with him a weapon of his own design. I’ve not been able to get a look at it, but I’m sure it has something to do with that metallic sleeve he’s wearing over his arm. Rest assured though, folks, that the WGF Rules Committee has looked the weapon over and given it their official approval."
No Flesh Shall Be Spared Page 27
