The way he and Jimbo had it all figured, the dead were dangerous and could be a real handful if you found yourself surrounded by a group of them, but… one on one, they were a manageable threat if you were smart (which Weber was) or built like a Caterpillar track loader (which Jimbo was). Together, they made a formidable pair. As the public’s interest in what they were doing grew, Weber was smart enough to see the potential in their little enterprise and had already figured a clear cut way to make some big cash in it. With a business model based more in professional wrestling than in anything out of Forbes, he was patiently waiting when the television boys came snooping around with their Brooks Brothers suits and fancy watches.
Now, years later, he’d parlayed it all into a bonafide empire.
Yeah… Jimbo was gone (he’d gotten himself bitten by one of those things when he’d one day gotten a little too lazy and lot too complacent) as were the four other Jimbos after him.
But, Weber had prevailed, and in the end wasn’t that the most important thing?
It was the way
Jimbos came and Jimbos went, but the business…
The business continued.
Forever and ever… Amen.
Weber sipped at his glass and then casually glanced at his Rolex. His Acquisition Team would be here any minute, so he downed the rest of his drink and went and put the glass away. Closing the cabinet, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the small bottle of breath spray he kept there. Two quick spritzes and any trace of the alcohol was gone.
A soft, tinkling chime came from the intercom on the desk and his secretary’s throaty—and downright sexy— voice came pouring out of the small speaker.
'Sir, Monica Johansson, Richard Murphy, and Phil Monroe are here to review the contracts on the new fighter.'
Weber walked behind the desk and pressed the small red button on the console.
'Ok, Alicia. Give me a moment and then send them in.'
He took his seat and got himself settled. He’d worked very hard with the building’s designer to make it so that the first image people got when they walked in the door was one that exuded power and influence. He always judged how successful they’d been by the awed look that bloomed in people’s expressions when they first walked in. It was a testament to their efforts that it happened no matter how many times the guest had been here. Every time he saw that look, it filled him with a sense of pride.
It was, after all, important to enjoy the little things in life.
As he waited, he took a second and went over what he knew about the Jimbo his team was here to discuss. From the video he’d seen, this one was impressive. Although not exceptionally big, he was strong and seemed to be a dyed-in-the-wool natural when it came to doling out The Pain. The three people waiting outside had come from a meeting with him earlier in the day and would have more information on where this Jimbo’s head was.
Not that it much mattered.
The Jimbos all came to The League with stardust in their eyes and dreams of being rich in their hearts. Such simple-mindedness was almost endearing. The truth was, however, that Weber was not about to give any of them a glimpse at the true reality. He was far too smart a man for that. He and his people would promise them that they’d soon have more money than God and see more pussy than a goddamn litter box. It wasn’t his fault these dopes never had the sense to read the fine print of their contracts before signing on. The writing there was small and concealed by legalese, but it was there.
In fact, it was Weber’s favorite part of the whole friggin’ contract.
In a nutshell, it meant that when—not if, but when—the Jimbo got himself tagged or injured, all of their assets—the money, property, stocks, hell, even the Jimbo’s body itself—was to be returned to the League to do with as they saw fit. One small sentence hidden away in the mouse print at the bottom of the contract made sure that what had once been The League’s stayed The League’s. It was a flimsy codicil which– if the person was smart enough or if he had a lawyer savvy enough—could be broken, but… Jimbos were known for their brawn. Brains were something they didn’t exactly have in abundance.
Abruptly, a knock sounded on the heavy wooden door at the far end of the room.
With a grin like that of a cat with an unending supply of canaries, Weber looked up to greet his employees.
Living Forever
Learning to Fly
The door to the limousine, which brought Cleese from the hotel to the airport, slowly swung open. With his body still feeling tired, he hauled himself out of the dark, luxurious interior. As his boots hit the sidewalk with a thud, he sighed heavily—feeling the weight of his body more than usual. The air outside the car was hot and humid. The atmosphere felt suffocating and inhospitable. Heat vapor could be seen shimmering off of the pavement a short distance away. He reached back into the limo and hurriedly grabbed his bag so that he could get inside the air- conditioned airport as quickly as possible.
'It’s been a pleasure driving you, Sir,' his driver, Charles, said as he held the door open and smiled. The man was older, black, and had salt and pepper hair cut close to his head. Cleese felt glad that he’d been hired to drive him. The guy was sharp and had made an already difficult trip a
Since his match, he’d lost the ability to move around in public with any sort of anonymity. In the past, he’d always had a way of making people nervous. It was as if the sheep suddenly sensed a wolf somewhere in their midst, but were unable to identify exactly where. It was something intangible, but it was enough to garner him his share of their attention. But this… this was different. His face was recognizable now by everyone from children to their grandmothers to the family dog. Lately, it seemed as if crowds followed him wherever he went, which was fine except that they’d sometimes swarm him in a way that was a little like how the UDs behaved in The Pit. Things could get tight and, even though they meant well, his defenses would go up. The last thing he needed was to react poorly to an overzealous fan. It wouldn’t do for him to deck someone out of instinct and then come to find out all they wanted was for him to sign something.
This driver had seen to it that incidents like that were kept to a minimum.
As he pulled the strap of his Alice bag over his shoulder, Cleese palmed a hundred dollar bill and shook the driver’s hand.
'You sure you don’t want me to see you to the gate, Sir?' Charles asked.
'No, man… I think I’ve got this handled.'
'Well, you be careful… both in there,' and he nodded his head toward the metal and glass of the airport terminal, 'and out
Cleese chuckled and looked Charles in the eye. 'Will do, my friend. Will do.'
He let go of Charles’ his hand and hitched his bag up over his shoulder. Without any further goodbyes, he headed off toward the terminal door. Already he was catching glimpses out of the corner of his eye of people turning to notice him. It’d all started to follow a familiar pattern. First there was the opening wide of the eyes. Then, there was the dropping of the jaw and the subsequent smile. Finally, the person would turn to whomever they were with and begin whispering excitedly. If he was lucky, it stopped there. If he wasn’t, they’d make the walk over and the autograph and photograph requests soon followed. He tried to be understanding and as cooperative as possible, but even after such a short amount of time it had already gotten tiresome and annoying.
He purposefully strode across the sidewalk and the electric doors slid open invitingly, welcoming him into
