No Flesh Shall Be Spared

'For you?' Cleese asked, already knowing the answer.

Paul got a faraway look in his eyes. He seemed lost in thought for a moment and then, just as quickly, he returned.

'For my daughter.'

'Consider it done, Paul,' and he walked off toward the waiting plane, his thoughts already returning to the place that he was coming to think of as home.

The War of Art

Cleese moved around the mat like a shark circling a sinking ship; a predator looking for any hint of weakness or opportunity. His simple grey sweats and wife-beater were wet with a sopping layer of perspiration; moist patches of sweat darkened the cloth between his legs, under his arms and in vertical splashes across his chest and back. The exposed skin of his arms, face, and neck shimmered in the dull light of the Training Hall. His long dark hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, left his face exposed. The pinkish blush of exertion colored his skin and made his cheeks red and fiery.

His right foot came up off the rubberized mat and slid cautiously to the side. His bare feet left moist prints on the already glistening padded surface. As it touched down, he remained up on the balls of his feet, all the better to facilitate his next move when the time came. And the time would come. The time always came. For time and its subtleties were—as Musashi once said—everything.

His posture was all business: hands raised and loose, back slightly bent. The point of his chin was tucked tight to the top of his chest, making it a harder target should his opponent try to hit him there. The point of the chin was well known by seasoned fighters as being a sure spot for a knockout. It wasn’t called The Button for nothing. If a punch could be landed there solidly, the jaw got pushed back and slammed the jawbone against something called the temporal mandibular nerve causing a sensory overload, which effectively shut the brain off. It could also happen if a sharp blow made contact with either side of the jaw at the spot where the posterior condyle of the mandible fit together with the mandibular cavity of the temporal bone just under the zygomatic arch. At least that was what one of the anatomy books said. Both were a means to an end and that end was your lights getting shut off, but quick. Cleese was damned if he was going to serve that shit up on a silver platter.

Anyone worth his salt knew that keeping your chin protected was Job One.

Job Two was to know a thing or two about anatomy—hence the books. Cleese figured that to understand how to take something apart, it was important to know how it went together. In his opinion, the first book someone should get their hands on if they were going to learn how to fight was a book on anatomy and physiology. It just made sense.

Cleese moved around the mat bobbing and weaving, just to keep his opponent guessing, but it was mostly for show. It’d been a while since he faced a living adversary and he found that old habits really did die hard. With UDs, it was all pretty straightforward. 'Grab—Kill—Move,' as Monk had said. You tended to come at them like a freight train, a murderous force of nature.

Hit ’em hard. Hit ’em fast. Hit ’em with everything in the toolbox.

Living opponents were a different story. They were quick, agile, and some even had half a brain in their head. You just couldn’t wade in and start wailing. You had to show your opponent a little respect… especially when you were starting to harbor hopes of getting them into your bed.

~ * ~

Chikara crouched into a deep yet relaxed Horse Stance and followed Cleese with the eyes of a hawk as he danced around the mat, baiting him to rush her. He was skilled and one of most facile fighters she’d ever seen, but it was pretty obvious that he put a lot of faith in his size and physical strength. It was a common mistake a lot of men made. They thought of their fists in the same way they thought of their penises: big, meaty clubs that could beat whatever lay before them into submission. More often than not, they’d end up flat on their backs with an incredulous look on their faces when she showed them what a little leverage and some feminine ingenuity could do.

Since first arriving at the compound, she’d been through this dance time and time again. Sooner or later, every swinging dick that came through here lined up to show The Chick how rough and tumble this sport could be. She’d taken some awfully hard knocks in her time and some serious damage, but she’d decided a long time ago to never let anyone see her break. There were many late nights—far too many for her liking—when she’d hit the showers and cry silently as she cradled herself and quietly nursed her wounds.

As she continued to follow the movements of the man before her, tossing out half-assed jabs and crosses, she kept her eye on his centerline. Long ago, her mentor, Sebastian Creed, told her, 'Follow the body’s centerline and you will be able to better predict where your opponent will go and what he had planned. Learn to read the centerline and you’ll know what they’re up to even before they do.' Time and time again, he’d been right about that… as well as a number of other things. The lessons she’d learned from that man were still ingrained in her mind and carved into the meat of her flesh.

Cleese reminded her of Sebastian in many ways. Much like him, Cleese was strong, smart, and a very good fighter. He was also honest, compassionate, and trustworthy almost to a fault. And while it was true he was a hulking pile of muscle and had a somewhat coarse way about him, he’d also shown during their numerous talks a depth that all of the others—even Creed—had lacked.

Beneath all that sinew and testosterone, there was a good man buried in there somewhere.

As usual, it would take a good woman to bring it to the surface.

~ * ~

Cleese bounced lightly up onto the balls of his feet and kept moving, pushing Chikara to her right. He’d spent a lot of time reviewing her fight tapes and, by now, they’d been committed to his memory. He pretty much had her and her fighting style figured out; or so he thought. She was a gifted fighter and a helluva smart woman, but she was a slave to her training and relied way too much on the flow of the sticking to her already decided upon game plan. Budo bullshit or not… it was a dangerous thing to do and a habit he felt needed to be broken. That was not to say that she was a pushover, far from it. She was one of the best fighters he’d ever encountered, man or woman.

It just meant she wasn’t a perfect one.

As he batted away her half-hearted punches, he kept waiting for her to cut loose and really go for it. He kept waiting for her to hit him—really hit him. Maybe she was afraid of hurting him, like that was possible. Maybe she was just waiting for him to commit himself so she could level him with something a little more solid. Whatever the reason, this pitter-pat shit was getting old and pretty damn annoying.

He wanted fury and ferocity from her.

He wanted passion.

He wanted contact.

'Look, Darlin’…' he said between breaths, 'how much of this slap fighting you plan on doing here today? If I’d wanted a massage, I’d go get one.'

A smile spread across her face and her eyes seemed to brighten up.

'Oh, you want some of this?'

Cleese was just about to say just how much he wanted all of it, when he saw her back foot dig into the mat. Planting the rear foot like that usually meant your opponent was planning something; usually something big. He lifted his right foot and, just as he was starting to take a step back, two sharp, quick open-handed slaps lashed out and struck his cheek.

He had to admit it, she was fast.

'Tag, Darlin’,' he heard her say and then cock her head and laugh, 'you are It!'

Cleese touched the side of his face and the skin burned hot beneath his fingers. Two quick, shuffling steps forward and he was on her. A left hook, a right, then a quick uppercut later and he’d already let his mind move on to picking up the pieces of what was left of her. The problem was… the punches never landed. When his loosely clenched hands arrived at their intended destination, Chikara simply wasn’t there. The bad news was that his momentum and committal to the attack had over-extended him. He felt a gentle—almost loving—push at the small