few bottles of water and headed out. He figured now that he was properly armed and had a few provisions, he’d slip past the sentries and break out on his own. After that, he’d go someplace and figure out what he was going to do next.
He might even do the unexpected and head back into the city.
Standing up, he hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders and hugged the SIG tight to his chest. Above his head, far off in the trees, he heard a red-tailed hawk cry out. Its tone was mournful and lonely. Deep down, Cleese felt he could relate.
With a last look back to Wolf’s encampment, he walked off into the silent forest.
Friday Follies
After having searched the compound for what seemed like several hours—checking the Cafeteria, the Video Library, the Cribs, and the Training Hall—Cleese finally got the bright idea to look for Monk over at Weaver’s. He recalled how, on any given Friday night, the two men had a standard appointment and could be found at the same place every week (up on the roof) doing the same thing (getting drunk as skunks and howling at the moon). As he walked across the field, the evening dew soaking the bottom of his pant’s leg, it would have been damn near impossible not to notice them. Above the sound of the crickets and the soft breeze blowing, two painfully out of tune voices could be heard limping their way through what might have once been a song. It was pretty obvious that whoever it was couldn’t have carried a tune in a Beacon’s truck and didn’t have the rhythm to masturbate.
Cleese immediately recognized the unfortunate thing being slaughtered as an old cowboy song. The voices rose to a crescendo and cracked like ice. One voice abruptly fell silent, audibly cut-off by the flow of liquid across its owner’s palate. The other continued, its volume increased; emboldened more by the alcohol than by anything resembling talent.
'Yeeee-haaaaw!'
Monk.
Cleese found a rickety ladder propped up against the far side of the building. Silently, he climbed up and onto the roof. Once he’d negotiated the retaining wall that circled the top of the building and regained a stable footing, he simply followed his nose. The smell of scotch and cigars was unmistakable beneath the night’s melancholic sky. From the sound of their drunken revelry, the party had been going on for a while. Monk was going to no doubt look and feel like shit when he woke up in the morning. It was also pretty much a given that he was gonna miss the early morning practice.
'Gentlemen…' Cleese said from the darkness.
'Who dat?' Weaver said and attempted to climb to his feet. He made it halfway there but then teetered and fell back onto his ass. Monk barked out a hearty guffaw, spraying a mouthful of liquor into the air in an alcoholic mist.
Cleese stepped leisurely out into the silvery moonlight; his legs drifting first into view like he’d materialized from behind a drape. The inky black shadows pulled back, casting his features in a soft, bluish tint.
'Ah, the prodigal son…' Monk said raising his bottle, 'returned to claim his due.'
'You two sound like you’re having fun,' Cleese said.
'We are. Ain’t we, Weaver?'
Weaver lay flat on his back, like a tortoise, his arms and legs splayed akimbo.
'Weaver…?'
Monk looked over at the fallen man. A look of contempt spread over his face like peanut butter across a communion wafer.
Weaver made a deep snoring sound as a snail trail of saliva soaked into his beard.
'I think he’s a casualty,' said Cleese.
'Worthless bastard,' Monk snorted.
'Mind if I sit down?'
'No… Of course…' Monk scooted over a bit to make room, a wholly unnecessary movement since the entire roof of the building spread out around them. He kicked at Weaver’s legs, again calling him a worthless bastard under his breath.
Cleese sat and leaned his back against the retaining wall. As he plunked down, Monk handed him the bottle from which they were drinking. Cleese downed a good couple of fingers in one uninterrupted pull.
'Now that’s a man drinking right there,' shouted Monk, laughing and clapping his hands delightedly.
'I’ve had a fair amount of experience at this,' said Cleese, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth and smiling, his eyes momentarily drifting off to another time and place. 'Don’t try this at home, kids. I’m something of a professional.'
The older man sniffed another laugh and the two of them sat quietly for a moment, each absorbing himself in the night’s idyllic calm.
'You guys been here long?' Cleese asked rhetorically.
'Long enough,' Monk said sounding almost sad.
'Hmmm,' was all Cleese could muster.
'Cleese,' Monk asked after a moment, 'lemme ask you something…'
'Sure. No sense in me being shy now.'
'How the hell did a guy like you end up here? I mean, you
'Looks can be deceiving.'
'No, really…'
Cleese pondered his answer for a long time before he spoke.
'Shit, Monk… It wasn’t like I had much of a fuckin’ choice. Back in The World, there were some bad people looking for me and if they found me it was going to get pretty ugly. That and Masterson made it pretty clear that if I didn’t get into that chopper, my life was going to get even more… uh… complicated.'
'He does have his way.'
'Besides,' he continued, settling in and making himself comfortable, 'I’m a man pretty much all out of options. I’ve been poor as dirt for most of my life and the only thing I’ve ever been good at was hurtin’ people and crackin’ wise. Add to that the fact that I get lippy when I drink and you get something that’s pretty limiting in the job market.'
'‘Wanted: drunken asshole. Must be good at talking shit and fuckin’ shit up,' Monk said chuckling. 'Yeah, there’s not a lot of call for that.'
Cleese nodded and continued, 'If the truth were to be told, my life has always been a bit of a steaming pile and it was never going nowhere good. And then,' he paused, grinning, 'and then, Masterson showed up on my doorstep with a card and some candy and he brought me to this sunny little corner of Adventure Island.'
He waved his hand, the motion encompassing the entire compound.
'This… Well, this just seems to satisfy both my unique skill set and my inherent need to be loved.'
Both men laughed out loud.
'Here, I do something I’m sorta good at,' Cleese continued, 'and I potentially stand to make a grip of cash.'
Monk nodded slowly in the darkness as if he could somehow relate. Yeah, the money was there, but then again, so was Death. Before Monk could consider the concept further, Cleese let his train of thought go on along its track.
'Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t plan on growing old doing this shit… least not as old as you!'
'Heeey, fuck you!'
'I’ll make my scratch,' he continued, grinning, 'and when they try to fuck me—and don’t think I don’t know that they’ll try and fuck me—I vaporize, like Casper the Unfriendly Ghost.'
He paused for a second and looked toward the spot in the dark where Monk sat.
'And besides, where else but here could I meet a caliber of people such as yourself? I mean, God knows where I’d have to go to find men of such high moral fiber.'
'You could try a prison,' said Monk and he laughed.
Cleese smiled silently and for a moment both men sat quietly again, basking in the still of the night. Far off,
