No Flesh Shall Be Spared

gramma of all things, about sixty, flowered running suit, the skin on the lower half of her face missing) shuffling across the sand toward him. Her neck was cocked at an odd angle and she squinted malevolently as she tried to focus her eyes on him.

Cleese hastily glanced down and inspected the mechanism of the gauntlet. It was coated in a sticky veneer of blood, but it all seemed to be okay. Nothing looked like it had been damaged. It was just that the metal had somehow gotten itself caught in a crack of bone or something deep within her skull. With the spike stuck where it was and the gauntlet strapped to his hand, his right arm was essentially useless to him. The woman’s dead weight not only deprived him of the use of the limb, but it gave him an additional hundred pounds or so to lug around. The trapped arm would continue to be a hindrance to him until he could figure out a way to dislodge it.

Four lurched into him from the side, screaming and clawing, and almost pushed him off his feet. The old woman’s arms wind-milled crazily as her hands tried to claw Cleese’s face off. It was as if she was trying to make it match her own. He backhanded her firmly with his free hand and sent her reeling.

He quickly bent his knees and dragged One’s body over to the side of the pit by the spike. A streak of deep crimson painted the sand in her wake. He hoped that he could somehow pin her body against the wall and, by see- sawing the metal spike back and forth, force the damn thing loose. All he had to do was keep this old bitch away from him long enough and he just might be all right.

Well, it sounded easy…

By now, Four had managed to get up onto her hands and knees. She crawled arthritically over to where he stood. She clawed hungrily at his boots and tried to drag herself up his legs with her arms. Cleese irreverently kneed her twice in the face. Her nose made a small 'cricking' sound and her jaw shut with a snap. When she opened her mouth again, the tip of her severed tongue fell unnoticed to the sand.

For the life of him, Cleese wasn’t exactly sure how what happened next occurred, but somehow, in the midst of the commotion, his legs became entangled amidst Four’s frantic arms and One’s inert form. Between the wriggling motion of Four and the dead weight of One, he felt his center of balance pitch sickeningly forward and the three of them fell to the ground in a heap.

'He’s down! Ladies and gentlemen, Cleese is down!'

The crowd, of course, went hysterical. Their excited cries rose into the air like signal flares. It almost sounded as if they were happy to see him fall.

Ungrateful bastards.

From the ground, he threw a couple of quick Savate kicks at Four’s geriatric bridgework, sending pieces of it out of her mouth. Her head whipped around and her body collapsed back onto the sand. The move appeared to have bought him some time in which to deal with One and the still-wedged spike. With no small amount of effort, he pulled himself across the sand on his back, dragging One’s inert body along with him.

Abruptly, he felt his shoulder press up against one of the pit’s cold, Plexiglas sides. He looked around to get his bearings and found himself right where he wanted to be—next to one of the walls, near a turnstile. The glass felt cool, almost refreshing, against the back of his neck. As he pulled One the rest of the way to the wall, he kept a vigilant eye on Four, who was still drunkenly trying to regain her footing.

Once he’d managed to prop the dead girl’s body against the wall, he pressed the arch of his foot unceremoniously against the side of her face. Her features contorted into a Picasso painting against the glass. With a grunt, he used his leg muscles to help push her off of the metal. He felt the spike come loose and slide from her skull with the sound of a creaking door. Her head finally came free and it fell back to the sand with a wet sh-lup.

Casting a quick glance backward, he looked through the glass and saw a cameraman on the other side giving him a thumbs-up motion, as if the images he was capturing in his lens were good ones. If the situation had not been so dire, he might have laughed, but all things considered, there was still too much for him to do for any of that.

With his arm now free, he retracted the spike and spun himself up into a fighting crouch. Almost immediately, Four, having now pulled herself more or less upright, pounced on him. She pushed her snarling face toward him. Somehow, he managed to get his hands around the soft tissue of her throat without getting his fingers bitten.

The old woman let loose a strangled scream and pressed her gnashing mouth down in an attempt to get at the pliant skin at Cleese’s wrist. Pushing her away with the strength of his upper body, he twisted at the waist, dragging her with him. She pitched over his hip and landed on her ass in the sand. Her momentum carried her backward and, in a vain attempt to save herself, she twisted as if she were trying to roll up onto all fours. Instead, her face slammed against the clear wall leaving an oily Shroud of Turin-like smear across the glass.

Cleese immediately saw this situation for what it was: a major league fuck-up. He was on the ground, his pistol was empty, a snarling UD was all over him, and the beginning of the next round was surely not that far away.

He wasn’t exactly sure how he would get out of this, but he knew however he managed it, it was going to require some good, old-fashioned dumb luck.

Using some Greco-Roman wrestling moves he remembered from a lifetime ago in high school, Cleese gradually managed to gain control over the old bitch. He straddled her doggy-style and, chicken-winged both of her arms behind her back. Using his hips, he drove her—hard—face first into the seam where the wall and the turnstile met. He shoved her again and again, slamming her face against the wall, repeatedly ramming her mug into the glass. For a moment, he imagined the television audience being treated to a sight not unlike him bangin’ this old broad from behind. This time, he couldn’t help himself but to chuckle at the image it must’ve presented. He even went so far as to make a couple of quick 'fuck me' faces before he rammed her face even harder against the glass.

Take this, Gramma!

Cleese’s run of bad luck abruptly changed for the better with the unlikeliest of sounds.

The buzzer went off, signaling the next round.

The turnstile spun and as the two metal surfaces came together he pushed one more time. The spindle caught the top of Four’s head between its metal edge and the wall’s framework and pinched it off. A wash of blood and brains splashed Cleese across the chest as her head collapsed like an over-ripe watermelon.

Not a pretty kill, but Four was now officially out of the running.

Now though, with the spinning of the turnstiles, a whole new set of problems hit the table—a new round was beginning. His problems were mounting and they were painting a rather dismal picture. His gun was empty. He was physically tired and mentally exhausted and hadn’t had any time to rest.

He was pretty fucked from the looks of things.

Cleese frantically crawled away from the woman’s decapitated corpse and scrambled to his feet. He quickly assessed his newly released opposition: Positions Two, Five, Seven and Eight held UDs.

Not exactly what I needed to see…

As his momma used to say though, 'every dark cloud has its silver lining' and this one was no exception. For sitting there, in the turnstile of Position Three, not more than a half dozen feet away and purring like a contented kitten, sat an idling McCullough chainsaw.

 Groovy!!!

Cleese ran over and scooped up the weapon. He grinned broadly as he hefted the chainsaw’s weight and turned back toward the center of the pit. He looked at the oncoming UDs, revved the McCullough’s motor, and then revved it again. As he strode toward the group of oncoming UDs, he continued his list of all the things he was going to do the next time he found himself in the same room as Monroe. And as the mental images mounted, he grinned malevolently and raised the McCullough over his head for the first strike.

The Blood of Eden

The light of the moon shone down silvery and bright as it poured like mercury through the blinds covering the window of Cleese’s crib. The air outside the window was cool, but not cold, the heat of the day having not yet fully dissipated over the open fields which surrounded the compound. Striated clouds hung like lace across the perpetually surprised lunar face. Only the mournful call of a Red Throated Loon broke the silence of the night.