No Flesh Shall Be Spared

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But then again, Masterson really didn’t really give that much of a fuck about the bastard or his childhood, if he were to be completely honest. No one was more aware than he of the fact that Cleese was simply this week’s feted warrior. He was fuckin’ Pokemon and not a damn thing more. His time would come and go with a minimum of fanfare. Masterson knew from his tenure with The League that the UDs—given enough time and opportunity— claimed every fighter. No one was exempt. Not even the pretty ladies. Fighter’s faces came and fighter’s faces went—sometimes literally. Cleese had been a doomed man since he first stepped off of the Black Hawk.

He just didn’t know it yet.

'Cleese!' Masterson called and waved. He smiled that oily smile of his and extended his hand toward the approaching fighter.

'Masterson,' said Cleese in a monotone and nodded in lieu of shaking hands. His pace, however, never slowed.

'You remember Philip Monroe, don’t you, Clee…?'

'Of course, he does,' interrupted Monroe as he got to his feet and brushed at the seam of his pants. Casually, he stepped forward. 'I got a message you wanted to talk to me, Buddy?'

Cleese had gotten close to the two men and, as he stepped to within arm’s reach of them, he brushed past Masterson with the same ease that he’d exhibited time after time in the pit. As he did so, he took an additional step forward, raising his right hand up toward his chest as if scratching an itch; a classic misdirection. Without warning, he suddenly snapped his hand out in an open-handed back slap, its speed more like that of a viper than any human appendage. The hall reverberated with a sharp, clapping sound as he cracked Monroe soundly across the jaw.

Far off across the Training Hall, the other fighters all stopped what they were doing and turned and stared.

Monroe stumbled backward, almost skidding like a cartoon character on the back of his heels. His knees went soft and he fell, flat back onto the bleacher’s seat. A dark red imprint resembling the back of Cleese’s hand burned hotly across his cheek.

At first, Cleese was kind of amazed. The blow was meant only to get the fuck’s attention. He hadn’t even hit him that hard, but Monroe went down with surprising ease.

Whatta bitch!

Monroe scrambled across the bench, trying his damnedest to get himself as far away from Cleese as possible.

'How dare you!' he shouted through rapidly puffing lips. An incoherent stream of threats of suspensions and legal action followed as he nursed his rapidly swelling face. His ponytail had come undone, leaving oiled hair hanging loosely across his eyes.

Cleese wasn’t sure, but it looked as if he was crying just a little.

Cleese crossed the distance between them with frightening speed. He deftly reached out, grabbed up a handful of Monroe’s tie and shirt collar and dragged him toward the side of the pit. It was a move he’d performed a thousand times as a bouncer in bars. It surprised the drunk by throwing his balance off and it hinted at the raw power that was at his assaulter’s disposal. It also got him up on his feet, out of the bar and into an alley where the real punishment could take place. It was—as they say—a 'win-win.'

Monroe began, this time as expected, to scream and screech like a little girl.

'You fucking cunt!' Cleese spit out, his voice dripping with hatred. 'Did you really think I wouldn’t figure out your fuckin’ hare-brained shit, huh?!?' Cleese shook Monroe like a rag doll and pulled his face within inches of his own. 'Who do you think you fuckin’ are with this Blofeld bullshit?'

Monroe screamed out, his voice cracking like ice. 'Wha…? Let me go! What are… What are you fucking talking about?'

'You know damn well what I’m talking about, Knucklefuck! You set it all up, you limp dick motherfucker! Everything! You fucking did it all!! And…' he hesitated for a heartbeat, then, 'I know you had a hand in what happened to Chik…'

An unexpected knot as big as a fist clogged his throat and choked off his voice.

Masterson rushed up behind Cleese and wrapped his arms around him. He did his best to pull him backward, but to his complete surprise, Cleese’s position never wavered. The man barely moved. In fact, he was so intent on getting his hands on Monroe and doing what he wanted to do with him that he didn’t notice Masterson was even there, much less any of his fervent attempts at containment.

'‘Good luck on Fight Night next week,’' Cleese said, his voice mimicking Monroe’s arrogant demeanor. 'Fuck you!!'

Monroe finally managed to wriggle his way free and stumbled over toward the railing on the side of the pit where Masterson had been standing.

'You keep away from me,' shrieked Monroe. And then to Masterson, 'Keep him the fuck away from me!'

Cleese moved again and his speed was something Masterson simply couldn’t believe. Masterson was a big man—a life-long soldier—and Cleese brushed him off like an old coat. One second he was standing three feet in front of him, the next he’d moved past him and had his hands once again on Monroe.

To Monroe’s credit, he finally screwed his testicles to their sticking point and threw a weak and undisciplined punch at Cleese. Cleese snatched the weaker man’s fist out of the air as it flew by. He circled it in his grasp and twisted the wrist. With the bones of his arm torqued in such a manner, Monroe had little choice but to go where he was being pointed. Cleese tugged on his arm, pulled it upward then quickly downward, and Monroe dropped to his knees.

Cleese pushed his knee into the center of Monroe’s chest and leaned him against the railing, backward over the Pit’s edge. Then, he shook him violently.

'I ought to feed you to one of these fucking things!'

In the pit, the fight above had not gone unnoticed and the training UD had begun to get agitated by the raised voices and the palpable sense of aggression. The thing immediately went into a frenzy the moment it saw Monroe’s hair dangling a foot or so above it, just out of its reach. Having had little success with the live fighter standing in front of it, the thing immediately made frantic leaps and grabs for Monroe. Its frustration level rose markedly as it felt the tips of its fingers brush through Monroe’s dangling lock of hair. The trainer who held the reins pulled the UD backward and it came away with only a few strands of hair caught under its cyanotic fingernails.

Cleese wasn’t entirely sure, but he could have sworn he smelled Monroe shit his tailored silk pants.

The fighter and his training partner quickly pulled the agitated UD away from the side of the pit nearest to where Monroe hung. Off in the distance, a raucous chorus of cheers, shouts and applause were heard coming from the other fighters in the Hall. It seemed that there were more than a few people who didn’t like Monroe or his methods and watching him get bitch-slapped was riotous sport.

It sure as hell beat standing around and sweating like a pig.

Finally, Masterson was able to pull Cleese from on top of Monroe, but not without a good deal of exertion. Cleese let go reluctantly and brushed Masterson off.

'Cleese, what the hell do you think you’re doing?' Masterson asked excitedly, pushing him back. 'You can’t strike a League official. Do you want to get released from your goddamn contract?'

Now secure that Masterson had Cleese under control, Monroe renewed his shouting and impotent threats as he rose to his feet.

'How dare you! How fucking dare you!!' Monroe shouted as he stood up and brushed at his shirt in a vain effort to wipe away the wrinkles. 'Don’t you get it, you stupid mother fucker? We own you, you stupid fuck!'

'What did you just say?' Cleese growled.

'I said, we own you. Lock, stock, and white trash barrel.'

Monroe, feeling a bit of his old self now that Cleese was away from him, threw his hands up into the air.

'Let me break this down for you,' Monroe pointed an accusing finger at the man who just seconds ago was trying to throttle him. 'You fighters…' and he raised his voice loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear, 'You are nothing more than commodities. Property. We call the shots here.'

 'Shut up, Monroe,' Masterson warned.

'No… No, Masterson… he needs to hear this.'

'Shut. Up. Monroe.'