No Flesh Shall Be Spared

by Carnell, Thom

  "Ohayo gozaimasu," he said and smiled. "I have a reservation that I need to pick up a Boarding Pass for."

  The now familiar look of recognition lit up her face and she smiled a wide and welcoming smile in return. "Do you have a confirmation number, Mr. Cleese?"

  Cleese handed her the slip he’d been given back at the hotel and she began busily typing into her computer.

  "Ok, well…" she said and smiled that smile again as she picked up a telephone handset. "It would seem that you are expected. I will page an escort to take you to your gate."

  Cleese nodded, bowing slightly. He thanked her and stepped to the side of the counter and waited patiently. This new treatment was definitely something he felt he could get used to. Normally, calls to security would have been made by now and, at the very least, undercover guards—most of who were about as unnoticeable as a cat at a dog show—would be lurking nearby. Instead, he was being called "mister" and "sir" and being thanked for his patronage. Celebrity did have its advantages after all.

  All of a sudden, he felt a slight tugging at the hem of his jacket. For some reason, he immediately thought of Chikara. He looked down and saw a small boy of maybe eight or nine years old looking up at him. The kid had a round face with a small button of a nose and wore a knit toque and BMX tee shirt. Puffs of blonde hair poked out at odd intervals around the rim of the cap. He gazed up with the bluest eyes Cleese had ever seen. A mental image of the girl from his match flashed before his eyes and then was gone.

  "Ex-excuse me," the boy said.

  Hey, at least the kid was polite; many weren’t these days.

  "Hey there!" Cleese said and smiled. "Can I help you with something?"

  "You’re Cleese from the WGL, aren’t you?" he asked and then looked down toward his shoes. The kid pointed upward toward one of the TVs and quietly said, "You sure look like him."

  Cleese set his bag down and squatted in order to be eye to eye with the kid.

  "If you promise not to tell anyone, I’ll tell you," he said and looked around as if nervous. "You promise?"

  The kid nodded his head vigorously, his cap shifting like a bowl on his head as he did.

  "Ok, then…" and he leaned in closer. "Yes, I am."

  The boy got excited immediately and clapped his hands. Words fell like lemmings from of his mouth.

  "Omigod, I saw you on TV at home too and you were so great! I totally thought you were going to choke during the first round when that girl snuck up on you, but… Man, it was so cool!! I told my best friend, Johnny Mischon from school, that you are my totally favorite fighter now."

  The boy’s voice had gotten loud and Cleese noticed more and more people were looking his way.

  "Listen, Pal, can you keep your voice down, ok?"

  "Oh," the kid said and clapped his hand over his mouth and then whispered, "Sorry," through his fingers.

  "Thanks, Buddy."

  "Cleese," the kid said leaning in, "will you sign something for me? Johnny Mischon ain’t never gonna believe I met you."

  Cleese looked at him for a moment was struck by how weird his life had become. A short time ago, a kid like this would have avoided him like the plague. He cut an imposing figure and many grownups were oftentimes leery of interacting with him. Kids treated him like Frankenstein. Now… Now, they looked up to him—idolized him.

  It was funny how quickly things change.

  Cleese fished a League promo card out of the front of his bag and found a Sharpie.

  "Ritchie!" a female voice cut in excitedly. "I told you to stay with me. You promised me you wouldn’t run off."

  Cleese looked up and stared straight into the eyes of a young woman, roughly early thirties, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the kid. She was pretty: blonde hair like his that tumbled across her shoulders, and eyes you could fall into, drown, and feel good about doing so. Her attire was sort of business casual with a large Prada bag slung over one shoulder. The whole look was a carefully constructed façade that was designed to get her noticed.

  "Cleese," the boy said, looking down as if he were almost waiting for his mom to steal his little thunder, "this is my mom. Mom, this is Cleese."

  For a moment, his previous excitement returned to his face.

  "Cleese is a WGL fighter, Mom."

  "Yes, Ritchie," she said, running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to straighten it up, "I know. The television has been playing highlights of his match virtually non-stop."

  Cleese stood up and bowed at the waist.

  "Nice to meet you," he said.

  The woman smiled and put one arm around the young boy’s shoulder.

  "You’re quite the media star," she said with a flirtatious pout. It was an obviously calculated move on her part and one that had undoubtedly worked on men before. "I hope Ritchie hasn’t been bothering you,"

  "No, he’s fine."

  "Well, we’re both big fans of yours. We’ve enjoyed all of your fights and the last fight was one of the best I’ve seen."

  An internal bullshit detector went off like a fire alarm in his head. He had, after all, only had one fight. The woman was obviously making an attempt to ingratiate herself. It might have helped if she’d done a bit of homework. He was merely a target of convenience. The whole thing made him feel a little played.

  Cleese looked down and saw a wave of embarrassment wash over Ritchie’s face. He felt sorry for the kid. He knew it was hard to grow up male in the shadow of a single mom. With no dad, he would have little he could call his own—male-wise. In order to survive, he’d have to be tough… and receive a little encouragement.

  "Thanks."

  Cleese started signing the card and then stopped.

  "Ritchie, was it?"

  The boy nodded and smiled.

  He quickly scribbled, "To Ritchie, I’m glad you’re in my corner. Your buddy, Cleese" and handed it to the boy. He was happy when he saw the kid’s eyes light up like a neon sign.

  The kid’s mother plucked the card away from him and looked it over.

  "Oh, isn’t that great, Ritchie?"

  She looked up and smiled again.

  "My name’s Judith."

  "Nice to meet you, Judith," he said and playfully plucked back the card from her and smiled. He handed it back to the kid and ruffled his cap and hair.

  "I could sign one of those for you as well, ya know."

  She laughed and lightly touched his arm; another calculated move. Cleese liked the kid right off. Mom, however, was quickly becoming a manipulative pain in his ass. He’d seen her type before… in bars. Brassy and sporting a lethal combination of a severely inflated sense of self and an egotistical sense of entitlement, she’d made presenting herself to men into an art form. Richie had undoubtedly come about as a result of some bad planning and a few missed periods.

  Now, he was little more than a fashion accessory.

  Looking down at the kid, he felt all the more sorry for him.

  Then, to Cleese’s relief, a man in an official looking white shirt walked up and saved him from further interaction with Judith Painintheass. The dude’s hair was cut high and tight and Cleese immediately figured him for ex-military. His posture was a little too straight and his tie was tied a little too perfectly to be anything else. Black epilates and official patches augmented his uniform. A clip-on TSA credential hung like a Christmas tree ornament from his pocket.

  "Sir," he said in an authoritative voice, "my name is Paul McDaniel and it’ll be my pleasure to escort you to your flight."

  Jesus, Cleese thought, what’s with everybody calling me ‘Sir?’

  Cleese excused himself, once again smiled at Judith, and then patted Ritchie on the head.

  "Be good, Ritchie," he said. "And tell that Johnny Mischon I said you were The Man."

  The boy’s face almost split in half from the smile that blossomed there.

  As Cleese turned and walked away, he could feel Judith’s disappointed gaze heat up his back. For some reason, he was sure he
r ego would live.

  Paul the Security Guy led the way past the metal detectors and x-ray machines and on toward the departure gates. About midway down the main corridor, he turned and, pulling at the keychain connected to his belt by a retractable cord, used a key to unlock a side door.

  "This hallway will get us to your gate faster and help avoid any unwanted attention, Sir," Paul said. He held the door as Cleese walked through. Cleese got a good vibe off the guy and relaxed a bit. The dude just seemed like someone you’d want to have some beers with; someone who’d done his service when things got tight and was now riding out his time keeping order in the civilian world. Cleese kind of respected that.

  "Sir, if I might say something?" Paul asked.

  "You can say anything you want there, Paul, as long as you stop calling me ‘Sir.’"

  "Fair enough," he said and smiled.

  "Before doing this security gig, I was in the Marines…"

  "I sort of figured that out for myself, Paul. You don’t strike me as someone who set out to be Airport Security. No offense."

  "None taken. It’s a paycheck, ya know?"

  Cleese laughed.

  "I do indeed, Paul."

  "Which brings me to my point."

  Paul looked over at Cleese as they walked with a genuinely questioning face.

  "I’ve seen some shit—Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Central America, hell, I even got caught in Newark when the shit with The Dead went down—but I gotta tell ya…"

  Cleese interrupted him having already heard this rap a time or two before.

  "You’d never do what I do, right?"

  "Correct, Sir."

  "Well, Paul, I’ll tell ya… I do what I do, quite frankly, because I was never much good at doing much else. Truth is… you’ve probably done some things I wouldn’t have. So, we’re probably even there. I guess what I’m saying is that we all play the cards we’re dealt because we don’t know no different or we’re too stupid to see a way out."

  Cleese looked over and shook his head.

  "For me, it was a little bit of both, actually."

  By now, they’d reached the other end of the hallway. Paul was working at unlocking the door so that they could go out onto the tarmac to where the League’s private plane undoubtedly waited.

  "Does that make any kinda sense, Paul?" Cleese asked.

  "It does indeed." Paul said and grinned. He pressed against the bar that released the lock and then once again held the door open. Sunlight spilled into the hallway, momentarily blinding them both. Cleese walked through the doorway and into the morning’s heat.

  "On your left," Paul said and pointed toward the Learjet 60 XR waiting on the airstrip. "It’s been a pleasure, Sir."

  "For both of us, Paul." Then, "I appreciate your help."

  Cleese took a few steps and then turned. He quickly snapped off a quick military salute. Reflexively, Paul returned the gesture. Cleese pointed at him with his index finger and the man raised his eyebrows in surprise and smiled.

  "Old habits die hard, Paul."

  "They do indeed, Sir," and he laughed. "Good luck at your next match, Sir."

  "From your mouth to God’s ear, Buddy."

  "A request, Sir."

  "Go ahead."

  "Nail one of the bastards for me, ok?"

  "For you?" Cleese asked, already knowing the answer.

  Paul got a faraway look in his eyes. He seemed lost in thought for a moment and then, just as quickly, he returned.

  "For my daughter."

  "Consider it done, Paul," and he walked off toward the waiting plane, his thoughts already returning to the place that he was coming to think of as home.

  The War of Art

  Cleese moved around the mat like a shark circling a sinking ship; a predator looking for any hint of weakness or opportunity. His simple grey sweats and wife-beater were wet with a sopping layer of perspiration; moist patches of sweat darkened the cloth between his legs, under his arms and in vertical splashes across his chest and back. The exposed skin of his arms, face, and neck shimmered in the dull light of the Training Hall. His long dark hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, left his face exposed. The pinkish blush of exertion colored his skin and made his cheeks red and fiery.

  His right foot came up off the rubberized mat and slid cautiously to the side. His bare feet left moist prints on the already glistening padded surface. As it touched down, he remained up on the balls of his feet, all the better to facilitate his next move when the time came. And the time would come. The time always came. For time and its subtleties were—as Musashi once said—everything.

  His posture was all business: hands raised and loose, back slightly bent. The point of his chin was tucked tight to the top of his chest, making it a harder target should his opponent try to hit him there. The point of the chin was well known by seasoned fighters as being a sure spot for a knockout. It wasn’t called The Button for nothing. If a punch could be landed there solidly, the jaw got pushed back and slammed the jawbone against something called the temporal mandibular nerve causing a sensory overload, which effectively shut the brain off. It could also happen if a sharp blow made contact with either side of the jaw at the spot where the posterior condyle of the mandible fit together with the mandibular cavity of the temporal bone just under the zygomatic arch. At least that was what one of the anatomy books said. Both were a means to an end and that end was your lights getting shut off, but quick. Cleese was damned if he was going to serve that shit up on a silver platter.

  Anyone worth his salt knew that keeping your chin protected was Job One.

  Job Two was to know a thing or two about anatomy—hence the books. Cleese figured that to understand how to take something apart, it was important to know how it went together. In his opinion, the first book someone should get their hands on if they were going to learn how to fight was a book on anatomy and physiology. It just made sense.

  Cleese moved around the mat bobbing and weaving, just to keep his opponent guessing, but it was mostly for show. It’d been a while since he faced a living adversary and he found that old habits really did die hard. With UDs, it was all pretty straightforward. "Grab—Kill—Move," as Monk had said. You tended to come at them like a freight train, a murderous force of nature.

  Hit ’em hard. Hit ’em fast. Hit ’em with everything in the toolbox.

  Living opponents were a different story. They were quick, agile, and some even had half a brain in their head. You just couldn’t wade in and start wailing. You had to show your opponent a little respect… especially when you were starting to harbor hopes of getting them into your bed.

  ~ * ~

  Chikara crouched into a deep yet relaxed Horse Stance and followed Cleese with the eyes of a hawk as he danced around the mat, baiting him to rush her. He was skilled and one of most facile fighters she’d ever seen, but it was pretty obvious that he put a lot of faith in his size and physical strength. It was a common mistake a lot of men made. They thought of their fists in the same way they thought of their penises: big, meaty clubs that could beat whatever lay before them into submission. More often than not, they’d end up flat on their backs with an incredulous look on their faces when she showed them what a little leverage and some feminine ingenuity could do.

  Since first arriving at the compound, she’d been through this dance time and time again. Sooner or later, every swinging dick that came through here lined up to show The Chick how rough and tumble this sport could be. She’d taken some awfully hard knocks in her time and some serious damage, but she’d decided a long time ago to never let anyone see her break. There were many late nights—far too many for her liking—when she’d hit the showers and cry silently as she cradled herself and quietly nursed her wounds.

  As she continued to follow the movements of the man before her, tossing out half-assed jabs and crosses, she kept her eye on his centerline. Long ago, her mentor, Sebastian Creed, told her, "Follow the body’s centerline and you will be able to better p
redict where your opponent will go and what he had planned. Learn to read the centerline and you’ll know what they’re up to even before they do." Time and time again, he’d been right about that… as well as a number of other things. The lessons she’d learned from that man were still ingrained in her mind and carved into the meat of her flesh.

  Cleese reminded her of Sebastian in many ways. Much like him, Cleese was strong, smart, and a very good fighter. He was also honest, compassionate, and trustworthy almost to a fault. And while it was true he was a hulking pile of muscle and had a somewhat coarse way about him, he’d also shown during their numerous talks a depth that all of the others—even Creed—had lacked.

  Beneath all that sinew and testosterone, there was a good man buried in there somewhere.

  As usual, it would take a good woman to bring it to the surface.

  ~ * ~

  Cleese bounced lightly up onto the balls of his feet and kept moving, pushing Chikara to her right. He’d spent a lot of time reviewing her fight tapes and, by now, they’d been committed to his memory. He pretty much had her and her fighting style figured out; or so he thought. She was a gifted fighter and a helluva smart woman, but she was a slave to her training and relied way too much on the flow of the sticking to her already decided upon game plan. Budo bullshit or not… it was a dangerous thing to do and a habit he felt needed to be broken. That was not to say that she was a pushover, far from it. She was one of the best fighters he’d ever encountered, man or woman.

  It just meant she wasn’t a perfect one.

  As he batted away her half-hearted punches, he kept waiting for her to cut loose and really go for it. He kept waiting for her to hit him—really hit him. Maybe she was afraid of hurting him, like that was possible. Maybe she was just waiting for him to commit himself so she could level him with something a little more solid. Whatever the reason, this pitter-pat shit was getting old and pretty damn annoying.