Three very unhappy faces met his gaze.
"You know…" he shook his head and let out a hiss of air, "there are days, Mon, when it takes real soap-and-water-scrubbin’ to take the stain of the coagulated blood out of my skin. Do you ever have days like that?"
He paused for another moment to again gauge their reactions.
"I thought not. So, bearing all that in mind, you tell me, Monica… are you all good in your situation?"
The three of them continued to sit at the table and silently stare at him for a long time, their expressions still polite, but decidedly unhappy. Cleese saw the quick and furtive look that was exchanged between them. It told him all he needed to know about their opinion of him. He’d seen it too many times before to not know what it meant now.
The look told him two things: "Fuck" and "You."
In a way, that suited Cleese just fine. He’d decided before coming here that he would probably need to develop an exit strategy for this little side-of-the-road freak show and get it in place right quick. Now, after meeting them face-to-face, his gut told him that these people would do exactly as he has suspected: they would fuck him the first chance they got. So, pillaging the situation for every red cent he could get his hands on was now paramount. He’d rat-hole every dime he got his hands on in a place so remote that none of them could ever find it, much less get their hands on. He also knew that he would need to keep his mouth shut about it. He figured he could probably trust Weaver or even Chikara, but if he were to be completely honest about it, even that would only go so far. He’d learned a long time ago that in this life you could only really ever trust yourself.
After that, the Three Corporate Stooges pulled a complete Mount Rushmore. They shut down and didn’t say much more unless they absolutely had to. When the subject of money and amenities came up, Cleese threw out numbers and conditions that he knew were exorbitant. Monroe didn’t bat an eye. He said that the company’s lawyers would draw up the necessary contracts and he’d contact him if there were any questions regarding specific details.
And that was it.
Meeting over.
In and out in under an hour… like this was some kind of Lenscrafters.
Cleese had walked in here just another poor schlub possessing more gnads than I.Q. points and now he was walking out of here a very rich man. It was all that simple. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but then again, at these prices, it didn’t much matter, did it? He had known that he needed to get a look at the lay of this land and, now that he had, he knew he’d need to watch his back and keep his head clear. He couldn’t really be sure, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d burned a couple of bridges here today.
Did he care?
Fuck no…
He’d been burning bridges for so long that he’d grown rather fond of the smell.
He nodded once more to Moe, Larry and Ponytail and turned to leave.
Hell, if the corporation was going to give him a big, fat pay day, then who was he to argue. He knew that, sooner or later, they’d try to bone him—either financially or the way they’d done with Monk when they didn’t let him walk away on his own terms—and that knowledge incited in him a distinctly libertine way of looking at things. Cleese just hoped that he’d live long enough to enjoy the pay-off.
As Cleese was leaving, that smarmy git, Monroe, made it a point to catch Cleese’s eye. He smiled a slow, peeling smile at Cleese. It was a smile full of venom and self-satisfaction. It was a grin that would have been utterly at home on the face of Iago as he whispered his conspiracies into Othello’s ear.
"Good luck on your next Fight Night," and he winked and pointed.
The fuck.
~ * ~
After Cleese left the room, Monroe sat back in his chair, tossed his pen onto the table, and sighed heavily. He looked around the room with eyebrows raised as he blew another breath out of his nose in a whoosh. From the looks on Monica’s and Richard’s faces, things could have probably gone better.
"Well, he’s a bit of an asshole," Monroe muttered under his breath but just loud enough for the others to hear.
"About what I thought he’d be really," said Monica unhappily. "What was it that Weber called these guys— ‘Jimbos?’ That sounds about right."
"I don’t know what they expect us to do with the damn thugs they keep sending," Richard sighed. "I can’t make League stars out of common criminals."
Monica leaned forward in her chair and gathered together the papers before her. From the way she stuffed them together, Monroe could tell she was more than a little pissed off.
"Look, I don’t much care about these thugs—these Jimbos—in general and that one in particular. We brought Cleese here to see if he was the type to play ball with us long-term. The League wanted to get an assessment of him and how we thought we could utilize him. I have my answer. How about you, Richard?"
Richard rubbed his fingers across his brow as if he was trying to erase a major headache.
"Yeah, I saw what I needed to see," he said. "I had hoped for better."
"Monroe?" Monica asked now standing with her leather folder tucked neatly under her arm.
"Yeah, just another dumb pug who has yet to learn which side his bread is buttered on."
"Then it’s settled?" Monica asked. "Monroe, he’s your and Masterson’s property now. Get him back into the Pit and keep him there for as long as he continues to make us money. He’s yours to do with what you will. All The League wants is for him to generate the two Rs—ratings and revenue. We’ll need you to accomplish that…"
She paused and looked at him. Her gaze spoke volumes.
"… one way or the other. Everyone agreed?"
Richard nodded his head and stood up.
"I’m good," he said.
Monroe began gathering up his things as well. As he did so, he quickly considered the pros and cons of what had transpired here today. Cleese was a complete and utter asshole—that was now a given—but he was also a talented fighter. Monroe silently thought through how he might turn all of this to his advantage. With the newly given blessing of Monica and Richard, he knew he could do just about anything with the man and not have any real blowback. Since no one cared if Cleese ever made it out of the Pit, Monroe thought that he just might keep continually upping the danger level until Cleese was either turned into a celebrity or a corpse. And, on the off chance that he continued to make it out alive, the only thing that could happen as a result was that ratings would increase. The higher the ratings, the more clout Monroe felt he would have. If Monica and Richard were washing their hands of Cleese on an official level, the only one to benefit from any spike in ratings would be Monroe. And that could only be seen as a good thing. Should Cleese be killed his next time out, then so much the better. They’d just throw what was left of his carcass to Adamson over at the Holding Pen to be used as he saw fit.
Either way, Monroe couldn’t see any outcome from this other than his coming out of it smelling like a rose.
Besides, it wasn’t like this was the sort of thing that could ever blow up in his lap. He was way too smart—and way too careful—for that to ever happen.
"Sure, I’ll regard him as my own little special project. If he makes it through his next match, his ranking will increase and so will our ratings. If he gets tagged by the UDs, then he’s out of our hair and the League needn’t pay off his contract."
"Ok, it’s decided then. I’ll let Mr. Weber know the results of this and assure him that there will be no further problems," Monica said, effectively ending the discussion. "He’s your Jimbo now, Monroe."
Monroe smiled and walked toward the door.
"Not a problem. I’ve got this whole thing well in hand. I can personally guarantee that everyone will benefit from how this all plays out."
With that, he pulled the door open and held it as Monica and Richard walked out. He shut the lights off and, closing the door behind him, took one last glance back into the room. He wanted to commit the image
to memory as it being the place where his success first manifested itself.
An Ill Wind at The Grab-Ur-Grub
Before…
There was a strong wind which blew through the trees huddled around the outside of the Grab-Ur-Grub convenience store out on the Old Semiyamoo Highway. The gusts shook the boughs and stripped the branches of their dead and dying foliage. An undulating hissing sound, like that of waves cascading onto the shore, punctuated the relative silence. The store’s pink-painted, brick structure stood straight and firm indulgently bearing the brunt of the onslaught. The structure withstood the gentle assault as it had for many years. Leaves blew about on the roof, collecting in large, wet piles at the corners and choking the rain gutters.
The front façade of the store was made up of three large floor-to-ceiling panes of glass in stout metal frames with a double door set in the middle. The huge windows were designed so that passersby could see that the store was open all the time and to show a bit of the merchandise sold inside. Across the glass storefront, banners announcing the availability of Lottery tickets, "2 Dogs for a Buck," and ice cold drinks hung from hooks and whipped back and forth in the breeze.
The sale of gasoline was what drew most patrons off the Interstate and it had kept the little store alive when the rest of the town dried up and blew away years ago. It had been rough going there for a while, but between the few remaining locals and the steady stream of travelers seeking road supplies, they were still able to keep the lights on. Unfortunately, every day had become a dance with insolvency.
Out front, three gas pumps squatted like sleeping Indians. Small signs on springs which read "Get Your Gas On" swayed back and forth in the wind. A blue Ford Taurus sat next to the pumps; its driver’s side door left hanging open. A lone shoe laid abandoned just under the car’s chassis. At the far end of the row of parking stalls, a beat-up red Hyundai Accent was parked; its bright paint obscured by a thin layer of road dust and bird shit. At the other end, a Mercedes E-class coupe sat looking regal and out of place.
Inside the store, a dozen rows of fluorescent lights lit up the place and gave the stock an all-too-white appearance both day and night. Along the wall on the left, an open cold case sat humming, brimming with an array of sodas, juices and energy drinks. At the back were the Beer, Dairy and Bulk Soda refrigerators with several glass doors set in a rubber-gasketed metal framework. A thin layer of frost coated the metal racks inside.
To the right, the L- shaped checkout counter was set up, its surface littered with impulse items like candy, lighters, and snacks. To one side of the cash register was a Quik Pik Lottery machine. Behind the counter, small pints of alcohol lined up like soldiers on long shelving with racks of cigarettes, cigars, pipe tobacco and prophylactics to one side. Below that, a small rack of men’s magazines stood, their covers obscured by black cards which read "For Adults Only." At the far end of the counter, the coffee station and fountain drink machines were surrounded by racks of condiments, creamers, cup lids and assorted straws.
The leftover floor space in the center was monopolized by six aisles which offered everything from candy, cookies and chips to bags of charcoal briquettes and loaves of bread. For the most part, if it could conceivably be needed in a car or in the middle of the night, the Grab-Ur-Grub stocked it in abundance.
An air of "inconvenience" hung over the little convenience store now as several people nervously milled about the place. Most were either looking disgruntled or complaining loudly. Up until a short time ago, these people had been simple customers, who—for one reason or another—had stopped in for some necessity or to cure a craving for something sweet. Now, they were besieged—having become little more than hostages. As they paced up and down the aisles, the mood in the place was becoming more and more agitated and, in some cases, downright angry. They’d been stuck behind the store’s locked doors for about a half an hour now and, from the looks of things, no one was leaving any time soon.
Every now and then, one of them would cast a wary look outside and shake his head in disbelief. Each in his own way questioned what in hell was going on: some silently, some quite vocally. Oddly enough, "what in hell" was, given the present situation, exactly the correct terminology.
Betty Gillespie stood anxiously behind the counter in her green and red striped uniform and tried her best to settle everyone down. She was the afternoon clerk at the Grab-Ur-Grub and while she had precious little experience telling people what to do, she was working on being able to assert herself. Betty was a plain woman with a heavy smoker’s voice and a look about her that showed she’d had her share of hard knocks. Married young, divorced early, and having raised two kids who’d both ended up doing some time, the job at the Grab-Ur-Grub was the best thing ol’ Betty could manage this far out from civilization. A good worker, she’d hoped to land a shot at a management position should one ever open up. From the look of things outside, those dreams were rapidly going up in smoke.
"Ok, folks," her voice wavered nervously, "I’m not sure what’s going on out there, but I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it all. So, if we can all just remain calm, things should be ok."
Across the counter, five people looked at her with unabashed exasperation. A couple of them were regulars, but the others were unknown to her. Just some folks who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had become stuck here like the rest of them.
Stanley Dillard was one of her regulars and had been coming here for as long as she could remember. His usual order of beer, smokes and an occasional girly book were as constant and dependable as the hands that wiped away the afternoons from the clock’s face. Stanley was an older, widowed man with skin like a worn saddle who always came dressed in a pair of bib overalls and a plaid shirt. His bright blue eyes which could be seen beneath his cowboy hat looked—even at this distance—confused.
Another local, Cody Chenault, was a kid whose parents owned the flower ranch out on the frontage road. His was a lonely life out here with few other kids his age to hang out with. Betty did what she could to take the time to talk to him, but the vast age difference between them always made their conversations consist of the smallest of small talk. He was a bright kid with a wide smile and an almost puckish nose who rode that bike of his all over the valley. His favorite topic of conversation was where he was going to go once he was old enough to drive. His plan pretty much started and stopped with him getting the hell out of Dodge.
"Look, Cody," Stanley was saying, "are you sure you saw what you think you saw? You have to admit it all sounds pretty far-fetched."
"Honest to God, Mr. Dillard," the boy said, his arms outstretched and his face pleading to be believed. "I was sittin’ over by the newspaper machine eatin’ that Abba-Zabba I just bought," he quickly shot Betty a glance for corroboration, "and I saw Boyd Chambers come walkin’ down the highway there."
He pointed off down the road and continued talking at a feverish pitch. "At first, I thought he didn’t look right, y’ know? I mean, he was all pale and his face looked like he was sick, really sick, ya know? Or about to be sick. Anyway, he was walkin’ down the side of the road like he was drunk, stumbling over his own feet and moving like his balance was all off… like that time he got all plastered at the County Fair and started pissin’ near the kiddie rides."
Cody looked around to make sure everyone, even the people who weren’t from around there, understood what he was saying. He knew coming in here that his story was going to be pretty hard to believe, so he figured he needed to make sure he got each and every detail exactly right in order to stall any questions before they got asked. Even then… with what he’d seen, he wasn’t so sure he believed the facts of the matter himself.
"Anyway, the guy that was drivin’ that blue Taurus there was fillin’ up on Pump #3 and he had his back to the street. He’d just about finished fillin’ up when Boyd came stumblin’ up behind him. I swear to God, Boyd looked like he was going to get sick all over the hood of the Taurus w
hen he got close enough for me to get a good look at his face."
Cody looked around again for more of that confirmation he was now so interested in. He took an abrupt pull off of the soda can he held tightly clenched in his fist. The bump in his throat bobbed up and down as he drank. His tongue no longer dry, he went back to the telling of his story.
"So, Boyd comes up behind that fella and for no reason whatsoever he grabs him see. Grabs him from behind and…" He shook his head in disbelief. "I know how crazy it sounds, but… he bit him; bit him hard, he did."
The group all looked at one another and shook their heads as if the boy was just talking crazy. The stranger in the back of the store tisked incredulously.
"I swear!" Cody’s face was pulled tight in its anguish. "The guy he bit started screaming and trying to bat him off, but Boyd was like a dog on a bone. He just kept huggin’ him and tearin’ into the side of his neck with his teeth."
Cody took another swig off his can.
"It was about that time I noticed Jocelyn McNabb coming up from the opposite direction. She was near the pumps and she went over to Boyd and sort of grabbed the man he’d bitten by the arms. Then, she took a bite out of him as well. I mean she bit his arm right through his shirt!"
"Jesus…" Dillard sighed and shook his head. "Are you sure…"
"Look, if you don’t believe me, just ask them!" Cody said and pointed toward the front glass.
Outside, the aforementioned Boyd Chambers and Jocelyn McNabb stood staring wall-eyed into the store. Both of their faces looked jaundiced and a dark maroon—almost black—substance coated their faces from the cheeks down. Their eyes were empty and their mouths hung open. Drool dribbled from their chins and mixed with whatever it was that soaked the fabric of their clothing. Both kept touching the glass and, as if trying to reach through it, extended their arms toward those inside. Behind them, looking confused, was the guy from the Taurus. More of the dark fluid coated the front of his shirt. The meat of his neck looked like it had been hacked into by a garden cultivator.
No Flesh Shall Be Spared Page 30
