Cleese stood equally still, desperately trying to put all of the pieces before him together for himself. He stared at his friend, allowing his eyes to carefully catalog the extent of what had happened to him. It broke his heart to see Monk like this.
None of it… None of it made sense.
Cleese looked over toward the cameras and knew that his horrified expression was being seen across a few billion television screens, but he just couldn’t help it. Seeing Monk coming out of one of the turnstiles was literally the
He narrowed his eyes and tried to focus beyond the glare that spread like mercury across the glass. What he saw was mostly shapes and shadows moving like ethereal ghosts, but after slightly moving his head from side to side, he was better able to make out more distinct shapes. He could see the cameramen hard at work, busily recording the event. They operated their cameras like pros and dutifully racked focus on his personal nightmare.
Then, off to the side of one of the cameras, his eye registered another bit of slight movement. He took another step to the side and focused his full attention on it, being careful to keep a watchful eye on Monk. He gazed deep into the blackness beyond the glass and made out two figures standing in the shadows. He raised his hand and shielded his eyes from the ever present glare. Squinting further, he was just able to get a better look. As his eyes strained to their limits, he saw Masterson standing with the same look of evaluation that he’d had when he first busted into Cleese’s apartment back so long ago. And there, standing just behind him and grinning like a retard was Monroe.
A small voice deep in his head told Cleese that getting mad now was not any kind of answer. There was plenty of time for that…. later. Now, there were too many people, too many witnesses, and besides, he wouldn’t be able to get to them anyway. The glass and the metal of The Pit saw to that.
No… There was time enough for what he had in mind in the future.
Now… He would wait… and he would plan… and the people responsible for this would come to know the full measure of his wrath. Necessity now dictated that he return his focus to the still-dangerous thing which stood in front of him.
He turned and redirected his attention back toward Monk.
He turned… and looked at his friend.
Monk stood on his feet a dozen or so feet away, rocking from side to side. He was still reaching toward the wound in his back confusedly as if he couldn’t quite figure out what had happened. There had been great pain moments ago, and now, there was none. His face contorted as he tried to think it all through. And his jaw… His jaw chewed continually in that way The Dead all had, as if he were literally chewing over the problem that had been set before him. Despite all of his best efforts, his mind just couldn’t make the necessary connections.
He looked drunk, swaying on his feet, his head lolling back and forth like a pendulum. It was almost as bad as it had been that night on the roof of Weaver’s place except that his clothes were disheveled now. His face and hands were smeared with dirt and caked with dried blood. He’d undoubtedly fought hard when he first awoke from the sleep of death. Cleese could tell his friend had pitched quite a bitch from the deep abrasions on his wrists and throat. It was clear that the collars and restraints the handlers had used on him had not been kind.
Monk stared straight ahead blankly. His gaze remained unfocused and imbecilic. Then, he raised his head and sniffed at the air. Once he caught a whiff of Cleese’s scent on the stagnant air, instinct abruptly took over and focused his thinking. The realization that food lay somewhere nearby struck his diminished intellect like an arrow hitting its target. He turned and it was almost as if Monk was seeing him for the first time; like he had no recollection of their painful reunion just moments before. He lunged forward, coming on fast, his hands a clawing dervish aimed at Cleese’s exposed throat.
Cleese took a couple of shuffling steps backward in order to give himself some room and to buy himself a little more time. Monk, however, was undeterred and continued coming on at break-neck speed. Cleese slapped Monk’s hands aside and grabbed at the front of Monk’s bloody shirt, quickly twisting at the waist. His old friend went sailing over his hip and on toward the sandy ground. Monk struck the sand flat on his back, dead air knocked from his now-still lungs with an audible
The crowd overhead reacted with an exultant cheer.
Cleese stumbled away in the hope that some more space might also spur a bit of insight. He knew he needed to figure this shit out and he needed to do so pretty damn quick.
As he circled Monk from a safer distance, he quickly ran through the things he knew for sure. This was no chance meeting—not with Masterson grinning like a gargoyle from behind the safety of the glass. Not with the way that cocksucker Monroe looked with that smug expression and self-satisfied grin on his prissy face. No, this was something that was all going according to their fucked up little plan.
Maybe it was payback for that stunt he’d pulled back at the Training Hall. Maybe this was their way of making things more exciting for the home audience. Maybe… it was just a display of power, of what they could do if they wanted to. It was hard to say… One thing was for certain, whatever had happened to Monk, it hadn’t been accidental. Sure, he could’ve gotten tagged while burning up his time in the UFL. His attention could have strayed, been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Shit, it had happened to Cartwright easily enough.
On the other hand, it was totally within Masterson’s and Monroe’s playbook to have arranged for Monk to be in that wrong place at that wrong time for no other reason than to pull off this little set-up here. There’d been far too many things like this happening of late to still be throwing the word 'accident' around. Not when these little fuckups were happening to specific people in specific situations. It all seemed a little too perfect, a little too pat.
The important thing was… Monk didn’t just wander in off the street. This had most definitely been arranged and someone—or maybe a pair of someones—needed to sack up and swallow a heapin’ helpin’ of responsibility. Even if that taking of responsibility meant being killed where they stood by Cleese’s bare fucking hands.
Cleese stood fully upright and drew in a deep cleansing breath to focus his thinking. He needed some emotional distance away from all of this. He needed some time to sort it all out. He needed to be able to mourn his friend, to come to terms with his dying first. He could come to terms with his rebirth after that.
But… since all of that was evidently impossible, he’d just have to deal with it and sort out his grief and sense of vengeance later.
He watched Monk slowly, awkwardly, climb back to his feet. He stared sadly as his friend teetered and regained his balance like a toddler. What had once been fluid motion was now replaced by spasmodic convulsions masquerading as motor skills. He felt a deep sense of melancholy wash over him. No one should have to end up this way, especially not Monk. No one should ever be denied their eternal rest. Cleese suddenly felt like an asshole for his part in all of this: the matches, the money, the notoriety, The League.
He closed his eyes and sighed forlornly.
'It’s time… Time for us to go home, Pal.'
As he opened his eyes, he saw that Monk had gotten back to his feet and was staring at him. Now that he’d decided his course of action and that both Masterson and Monroe were pieces of business that he would deal with later—especially Monroe—his mind was clear to deal with what now stood before him.
Right now, he had bigger problems.
Right now… he had Monk.
His friend had risen to his full stature and begun to lope across the pit toward Cleese. Unlike other UDs who came on like pissed-off drunks, Monk crouched down low, in that all-too familiar boxer’s stance. It was clumsy and old school, but it had obviously been hard-wired into the machine.
Cleese had seen that stance before—long ago—in Training.
If Cleese remembered his friend’s modus operandi correctly, Monk would go for his legs first in a bastardized Greco-Roman wrestling move. He would more than likely swoop in and try to pick him up and off his feet and then
