No Flesh Shall Be Spared

'I know,' Cleese whispered.

'Where will you go?' asked Weaver finally.

Cleese stared at him blankly. He cocked an eyebrow and softly said, 'Somewhere… Somewhere over the rainbow, I guess.'

'Ok…ok.' Weaver said chuckling, 'Don’t need to tell me. I understand, but I’ll have to say something about all of this, you know. You may have your exit strategy all mapped out, but I still have a job to do. However, before I go running off, I plan to finish this fine cigar here and enjoy the night air. If you really plan on heading out of here, as much as I’ll hate to see you go, you should be gone before I’m done.'

'You plan on staying on after all of this?'

'Let’s be honest, kid…' Weaver drew another puff off his cigar. 'What else is an old man like me going to do?'

'What if they have the same plan for you as they did for Monk?'

'Shit… Dying’s easy… it’s living that’s hard.'

Cleese smiled and scratched at the back of his neck.

'I thought it was comedy that was hard.'

'Son… Life is comedy. I thought you knew that.'

Cleese stared into the eyes of his friend for some time. While he didn’t condone him sticking around, he sort of understood it. Weaver wasn’t exactly a young man and The League was all he’d known since losing his wife. And despite even the noblest of intentions, it was as they say, 'Better the Devil you know than the Devil you don’t.' He extended his hand and clasped his friend’s. Cleese broadly smiled at the big man and held tight.

'You’re a good man, my friend. I’ll miss Friday Follies.'

'As will I, Son. As will I.'

Cleese turned and slid his hand into the duffle bag which lay like a dog at his feet.

Weaver looked at him and cocked a furry eyebrow over the rim of his big glasses.

From within the folds of the duffel bag, Cleese brought out the gauntlet Weaver constructed for him wrapped in a soft cloth.

The spike.

Cleese handed the bundle to Weaver with a sort of reverence.

'This little contraption of yours saved my ass more times than I could ever count, Man. I want you to have it back.'

For the countless time that night, a lump quivered deep within Weaver’s throat. It was with this act of returning the gauntlet that he knew it all to be real; an end of an era, a chapter closed, another road mark passed on the way toward the end of his life.

He grinned broadly at Cleese, heartily shook his hand again, and slid the gauntlet into the folds of his jacket. Its weight was heavy and full of bitter-sweet memories as he held it, much the same way he did his grief, tightly against his chest.

'Any loose ends?' Weaver asked.

'A few… Nothing for you to worry about though,' Cleese said with a chilling finality, 'Now, turn around and go back to suckin’ on that stogie. I want to keep you out of the shit storm I know will be coming. You’ve been a good friend to me, Weaver. I’d like to keep it that way.'

The two men looked at one another for a moment and then Cleese set to closing the duffel bag. When he was done, Weaver was waiting with a second Macanudo in his hand. With a smile, he handed it to Cleese.

'For the road…'

Cleese smile and raised the cigar as if in toast.

'To Monk.'

'Requiescat in pace,' Weaver said and turned his back. He drew in another mouthful of acrid smoke and reminded himself to always remember this moment. He blew the soft plumes into the air with a sigh and silently watched the smoke drift off and into the blackness of the night.

'By the way,' Weaver said to the silence, 'Monk was damn proud of you, Son. He told me so many times.'

The silence didn’t respond, but instead spread itself across the loading dock; cold and lonely and all too final.

'Cleese?'

Weaver turned around again, but Cleese was gone.

Requital

Philip Monroe walked into the parking garage and the sound of the elevator doors hissing shut behind him went unnoticed. The low ceilings and close walls of the place gave it a tight claustrophobic feel, like a large concrete mortuary vault. Pillars of rough grey stone were set in organized rows, their upright beams solidly supporting the floors above. The flat of the cement flooring laid cold and gaudily painted with lines and arrows; its slick surface adding to the echo-inducing vastness.

He made his way across the large expanse of pavement with a noticeable sense of determination, the silk of his Dolce & Gabbana suit swishing softly within the thrumming silence of the concrete structure. As he walked down the center aisle, he switched his briefcase from one hand to the other. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby BMW’s tinted window. He was pleased with what saw. Despite the shitty day he’d just experienced, he was still managing to look pretty good.

And why shouldn’t he?

It was his business to look good. His image was an integral part of what he considered to be his unique skill set; a distinctive collection of talents which helped him time and time again to sway a client over to his way of thinking. He was a man who made it his business to use everything at his disposal to convince other people to see things his way. If he couldn’t convince someone by logic and reason, a flash of some gold cufflinks or the glimmer of the pearly whites could usually save the day.

As he made his way through the lot, weaving his way between cars and over curb-stops, he felt a sudden, slightly nauseating wave of fatigue cascade over his body. All he could think about was how much he wanted to get home, and the faster he got there, the better. All day, he’d been dealing with the fall-out from Cleese’s rather unsatisfying end to his last match and then his abrupt disappearance afterward. The whole thing left him feeling exhausted and a little sick to his stomach.

Cleese.

That son of a bitch.

Monroe had been hesitant to sign him to The League in the beginning, but he went ahead and did it anyway. Fighters were always a troublesome lot and Cleese had proven no different. They were base, unruly and always dumber than a bag of hammers. Still… he’d sure as hell made them a fuckload of money. The still-accumulating revenue was the only silver lining in an otherwise shit-laden cloud.

For quite some time now, Monroe had thought of Cleese as a revenue stream to be plundered, a work horse. Nothing more than chattel. As everyone knows, before you can put a horse to work, you have to break his spirit. Cleese’s spirit had been more resilient than he’d thought it would be. The incident in the Training Hall was nothing more than a sign that he wasn’t getting the 'who’s really in charge here' message.

And there was no way—no fucking way—Monroe was going to let that incident slide. The thought of that day and the way things went down still filled him with rage. How dare that crass bastard put his meaty hands on him! How dare he expose him to that kind of danger… in that place. Monroe still bristled when he thought of how close Cleese had put him to one of those… those things.

Ok, sure… Cleese had been pissed as hell over how things had turned out. The magazine of blanks ploy had been risky, but well worth it. Monroe suspected that an audience seeing a fighter empty a clip and do no damage would bring in big ratings. And he was right. The numbers on the broadcast had been astronomical. In fact, the surge carried over to the next week’s show as well. Who cared if shit like that put one of those reprobate fighters in danger?

After all, it was what those idiots were being paid for.