No Flesh Shall Be Spared

their air-conditioned embrace. Like being wrapped with a cool, wet towel, the air swirled around him and he felt the perspiration that soaked his skin begin to dry. He felt worlds better already; so much so that the awkward meeting with the Three Stooges was becoming a distant, albeit unpleasant, memory.

Well, almost…

At first, he’d been amused by how easy the negotiations had been. Sure, he popped off a little, but for him, that was a given. His mouth had a way of getting him in Dutch, but this time things were different. This time, he had something they wanted. This time, he’d proven himself. This time, he’d made good on the promise of being the commodity they’d thought he was in the beginning.

Then, a thought started itching at the back of his brain. It was slight in the beginning, but as the hours wore on, he realized that they’d been almost too compliant, hadn’t they? It was almost as if they’d been willing to agree to just about anything he wanted. He probably could have asked for the moon as well as a blowjob from ol’ Monica Johansson herself and they would have gone for it. She probably would’ve even worked his balls without complaint.

The question was, why?

Maybe they believed in him.

Maybe they saw his potential.

And maybe they knew he’d probably not live long enough to collect on any of it.

It was an intriguing thought, but one he decided to put out of his head for now. He made a mental note to spend some time considering everything that had occurred some other time; a time when there were no distractions and he could reflect on things more fully. Right now, all he wanted to do was just get back to the compound and spend a night in a familiar bed.

The airport lobby before him was a wide, open space with a tile floor set in colored squares radiating outward. The ceiling was a cavernous metal framework with banners that welcomed travelers to the airport in several different languages. Hanging like sleeping bats beneath the metal struts, set every fifteen feet or so, were dozens of large televisions. Their placement around the airport was strategic and literally everywhere. High-def images ran the same scenario again and again like plasma-screened deja vu.

As Cleese walked across the foyer, he glanced up and saw multiple images of One, the little girl from his match, splashed across the screens. In ultra slow motion, the Beretta slid into view like a hungry black mamba and the barrel butted up against her little upturned nose. Her eyes crossed in confusion as they focused on the pistol being shoved in her face. Cleese turned away in shame as an abrupt explosion of dark maroon filled the screen.

It was harder than he thought it would be to see himself shoot a child in the face.

Continuing on his way, he saw the smiling face of a newscaster on the screen out of the corner of his eye. The pretty blonde clapped her hands and laughed in delight. Then, to his disgust, the image cut back to a replay of the bullet slamming its way up the kid’s nostril and the whites of her eyes blossoming a sudden red. He lowered his head and made a note to avoid looking up until he was out of the airport.

An information booth sat in the middle of the room like a squatter in a tenement. Behind its counter, a middle aged woman in Fifties cat-eye glasses sat looking tired; the caterpillar from Wonderland come to life. All she needed was a hookah and a mushroom to sit on.

The lobby wasn’t too crowded this early in the morning, but as the day wore on, it was sure to become a nightmare. Travelers would come and go, the ebb and flow of their passing as sure as the tides. As he moved through the lobby, more heads turned and gawked at him. Word certainly did get around. He considered himself lucky when he saw the ticket counter he needed and found no line there.

A plain-faced Asian girl was working the desk and she looked up as he stepped up to be helped. Small of frame and wide of smile, her hair was pulled back into a tight bun which left her face looking open and inviting. Her blue uniform looked almost military with the exception of the brightly colored scarf that circled her throat like a floral python. Her nametag read, 'Akiko Yamashita.'

'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 facade 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.'