No Flesh Shall Be Spared

toward the two other people in the office. 'This is Monica Johansson from Sales.'

Monica was pretty in a buttoned-down corporate kind of way with blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders in all the right ways. Her body showed the results of a regular regimen of that useless cardio-kickboxing shit through her trendy business suit. Cleese smiled slightly at the thought of her and forty or so other women all feeling empowered as they threw half-hearted punches at empty air. That all said, she was still pretty hot looking. As Cleese looked her face over one more time, he sadly noticed that her expression said that she knew it because she had a look which spelled 'shitty attitude' in any man’s language. Her face was perpetually pinched up in a continual sniff as if someone was holding a small turd just under her nose.

Cleese bowed in her direction in lieu of shaking hands. It was generally regarded among the fighters that being in the League had an odd, double-edged sword quality to it. Everyone learned soon enough that one of those edges was that regular people didn’t really like to touch you; the mark of the dead, and all of that. As it turned out, the other edge of the sword was that there were a lot of women who were very turned on by the thought of being touched by you; the mark of the dead, and all of that.

Whatever…

Cleese didn’t shake hands with people now because he didn’t want to embarrass them… one way or the other. It was sort of beside the point that he’d never particularly liked the feeling of people touching him.

'Yes,' and the woman actually preened. 'Mr. Cleese. Saw your fight… loved it.' She smiled and did a quick squint, pinching her eyes and betraying the corners she’d cut on her plastic surgeon. 'Loved it and loved you! Absolutely fantastic! And, there’s been quite a reception forthcoming from our audience, I might add. They absolutely loved your arm thingy. Hell, the Internet message boards are positively sizzling!'

And she actually winked at him.

'Uhhh… thanks.'

Cleese cautiously stepped just a little bit deeper into the room. It was funny… Here he was someone who’d just fought a pit full of the living dead, but this was a room he was anxious about entering and closing the door behind him. This whole situation was exactly the kind of interaction that always made him feel all wonky inside. He’d never been the kind of guy who liked the sensation of having smoke blown up his ass. His face said as much now, but from the look of things, these three chuckleheads weren’t the type to pick up on such subtleties of body language. Too self-absorbed. He silently hoped that it was not going to get too terribly smoky in here.

He didn’t think his ass could take it.

He took another step deeper into the room and quickly cataloged the minutiae of his surroundings as a force of habit. There was a large, mahogany conference table set in the middle of emerald green wall-to-wall carpet. Along the walls, dark wooden bookshelves held row after row of very legal-looking books. The whole decor struck Cleese as being very Christmas-y. Gathered around the table, sat Monroe… Monica… and another guy who was balding and had an expression on his face like someone had just shot his dog. Cleese decided straight away that the guy looked like a mortician.

'And this is Richard Murphy from the networks.'

Well, I was close.

Cleese smiled and bowed again slightly.

'Cleese…' Murphy said, standing and then adjusting posture just a little bit straighter, pulling his gut in just a little. 'May I call you Cleese?'

'Sure…' Cleese said dryly, 'after all, it is my name.'

'Of course… well—um, yes. Cleese, I think I can speak for everyone here at the League when I say that your performance at last night’s Fight Night was sens-sational. I mean, you really did us proud, Son. Top notch! Weber Industries is very pleased.'

Sniff! Sniff! Oh, great… Smoke.

'Well, thank you,' and Cleese smiled broadly, 'Dick.'

Murphy’s posture sort of deflated and he sat back down.

'Uh-ok…,' blushed Monica. 'Well, we here at Corporate just wanted to get a chance to meet with you today. You know, get a chance to talk, get an impression of you… and for you to get a feel for us.' She directed the emptiest of smiles in his direction. 'We wanted to make sure that everyone was happy in their situation and to check and see that we were all on the same page.'

She looked briefly to her colleagues as if she were getting a consensus.

'You see, Mr. Cleese, we’d like to offer you a more permanent and substantial spot on the roster.'

The men at the table nodded, smiling stupidly with all the sincerity of Cheshire Cats.

'How would you feel about that, Mr. Cleese?' Monica asked. Her drawn-in eyebrows rose expectantly.

There was something in the woman’s tone and manner that irked Cleese. Maybe it was the way she was banking on her good looks to seal an already assumptive sale. Like it was that easy. It might have been the fact that they’d hauled him all the way here as an obvious show of wealth and power. He couldn’t really put his finger on it, but the whole thing was like a burr under his saddle. A voice deep inside of him told Cleese that these were people who were not to be trusted. Monica had a way about her that struck him as oil- slick smooth and about as sincere as a gigolo’s promise.

It was the same with the old guy. Dick.

And Monroe—with that dorky ponytail and Euro-trash suit… Shit, that was one pretentious motherfucker if he’d ever seen one. What that guy needed was to do an honest day’s work… or maybe spend fifteen good minutes in Cleese’s world sometime. The experience might just wipe that smug look off of his Botox-deadened face.

Monica, Dick and Monroe.

Federation Weasels.

Corporate fucks.

Cleese looked around the room as he carefully considered his response. He had always hated this kind of bullshit: Corporate America. It was a culture based on stabbing your friends in the back; a community made up of snakes and sharks. At least on the street, if someone was going to fuck you, they’d at least take the time to look you in the eye as they slid the knife between your ribs. Here, the knife was usually delivered in conjunction with a pat on the back. You know, all friendly like.

Although… Cleese had to admit it, these were some very nice digs and what kind of loser was he, living in dorm rooms and sweating bullets, punchin’ holes in the heads of reanimated corpses and risking his ass day after day, night after night? Meanwhile, these people sat back in their plush corner offices and made bank on his blood, sweat and fears. The more Cleese thought about it, the more it all seemed unfair to him —promise of an ass-load of money or not.

After all, where was Monk’s payday? Hadn’t he worked diligently for these imbeciles for too goddamn long and, when all was said and done, all he was getting was that knife-filled pat on the back, a gold watch, and a one- way ticket to Palookaville. Cleese then considered what happened to Lenik. That fuck deserved everything he got, if for nothing else than his own damn hubris. But, where was Cartwright’s payday? Cleese saw the way that guy left the compound: in a pine box, wrapped in plastic, bound by twine, with a tag tied to his toe.

Toes up…

Silently, he decided that it was worth the risk and just about time to kick this thing in the ass.

'Well, Monica, both me and my arm thingy would really love to play a bigger part in the League. We really would. You give me a pen and I’ll sign on the dotted line right now. It is, I believe, why I was recruited in the first place, correct?'

He looked around the table for a bit of that down home consensus.

 'I mean, I imagine you guys didn’t bring me on board for my health. It was always the idea that one day I would be signed,' he leaned over the table menacingly, '‘officially.’

'However, as for my situation… My situation is that I kick the shit out of dead guys, old ladies, and children with their throats torn out for America’s amusement… and your League’s profit. Every one of us fighters risks our lives each and every day so you and the rest of these suits can pull down your comfortable paychecks and feel that you’re involved in something dangerous. It would probably be a good idea for both of us if we were all, in the future, to bear a little of that in mind, ok?'