No Flesh Shall Be Spared (38 page)

Well, I was close.

Cleese smiled and bowed again slightly.

"Cleese…" Murphy said, standing and then adjusting posture just a little bit straighter, pulling his gut in just a little. "May I call you Cleese?"

"Sure…" Cleese said dryly, "after all, it
is
my name."

"Of course… well—um, yes. Cleese, I think I can speak for everyone here at the League when I say that your performance at last night’s
Fight Night
was sens-sational. I mean, you really did us proud, Son. Top notch! Weber Industries is
very
pleased."

Sniff! Sniff! Oh, great… Smoke.

"Well, thank you," and Cleese smiled broadly, "Dick."

Murphy’s posture sort of deflated and he sat back down.

"Uh-ok…," blushed Monica. "Well, we here at Corporate just wanted to get a chance to meet with you today. You know, get a chance to talk, get an impression of you… and for you to get a feel for us." She directed the emptiest of smiles in his direction. "We wanted to make sure that everyone was happy in their situation and to check and see that we were all on the same page."

She looked briefly to her colleagues as if she were getting a consensus.

"You see, Mr. Cleese, we’d like to offer you a more permanent and substantial spot on the roster."

The men at the table nodded, smiling stupidly with all the sincerity of Cheshire Cats.

"How would you feel about that, Mr. Cleese?" Monica asked. Her drawn-in eyebrows rose expectantly.

There was something in the woman’s tone and manner that irked Cleese. Maybe it was the way she was banking on her good looks to seal an already assumptive sale. Like it was
that
easy. It might have been the fact that they’d hauled him all the way here as an obvious show of wealth and power. He couldn’t really put his finger on it, but the whole thing was like a burr under his saddle. A voice deep inside of him told Cleese that these were people who were not to be trusted. Monica had a way about her that struck him as oil-slick smooth and about as sincere as a gigolo’s promise.

It was the same with the old guy. Dick.

And Monroe—with that dorky ponytail and Euro-trash suit… Shit, that was one pretentious motherfucker if he’d ever seen one. What that guy needed was to do an honest day’s work… or maybe spend fifteen good minutes in Cleese’s world sometime. The experience might just wipe that smug look off of his Botox-deadened face.

Monica, Dick and Monroe.

Federation Weasels.

Corporate fucks.

Cleese looked around the room as he carefully considered his response. He had always hated this kind of bullshit: Corporate America. It was a culture based on stabbing your friends in the back; a community made up of snakes and sharks. At least on the street, if someone was going to fuck you, they’d at least take the time to look you in the eye as they slid the knife between your ribs. Here, the knife was usually delivered in conjunction with a pat on the back. You know, all friendly like.

Although… Cleese had to admit it, these
were
some very nice digs and what kind of loser was he, living in dorm rooms and sweating bullets, punchin’ holes in the heads of reanimated corpses and risking his ass day after day, night after night? Meanwhile, these people sat back in their plush corner offices and made bank on his blood, sweat and fears. The more Cleese thought about it, the more it all seemed unfair to him—promise of an ass-load of money or not.

After all, where was Monk’s payday? Hadn’t he worked diligently for these imbeciles for too goddamn long and, when all was said and done, all he was getting was that knife-filled pat on the back, a gold watch, and a one-way ticket to Palookaville. Cleese then considered what happened to Lenik. That fuck deserved everything he got, if for nothing else than his own damn hubris. But, where was Cartwright’s payday? Cleese saw the way that guy left the compound: in a pine box, wrapped in plastic, bound by twine, with a tag tied to his toe.

Toes up…

Silently, he decided that it was worth the risk and just about time to kick this thing in the ass.

"Well, Monica, both me and my arm thingy would really love to play a bigger part in the League. We really would. You give me a pen and I’ll sign on the dotted line right now. It is, I believe, why I was recruited in the first place, correct?"

He looked around the table for a bit of that down home consensus.

 "I mean, I imagine you guys didn’t bring me on board for my health. It was always the idea that one day I would be signed," he leaned over the table menacingly, "‘officially.’

"However, as for my
situation
… My situation is that I kick the shit out of dead guys, old ladies, and children with their throats torn out for America’s amusement… and
your
League’s profit. Every one of us fighters risks our lives each and every day so you and the rest of these suits can pull down your comfortable paychecks and feel that you’re involved in something dangerous. It would probably be a good idea for both of us if we were all, in the future, to bear a little of that in mind, ok?"

Three very unhappy faces met his gaze.

"You know…" he shook his head and let out a hiss of air, "there are days, Mon, when it takes real soap-and-water-scrubbin’ to take the stain of the coagulated blood out of my skin. Do
you
ever have days like that?"

He paused for another moment to again gauge their reactions.

"I thought not. So, bearing all that in mind, you tell
me
, Monica… are you all good in
your
situation?"

The three of them continued to sit at the table and silently stare at him for a long time, their expressions still polite, but decidedly unhappy. Cleese saw the quick and furtive look that was exchanged between them. It told him all he needed to know about their opinion of him. He’d seen it too many times before to not know what it meant now.

The look told him two things: "Fuck" and "You."

In a way, that suited Cleese just fine. He’d decided before coming here that he would probably need to develop an exit strategy for this little side-of-the-road freak show and get it in place right quick. Now, after meeting them face-to-face, his gut told him that these people would do exactly as he has suspected: they would fuck him the first chance they got. So, pillaging the situation for every red cent he could get his hands on was now paramount. He’d rat-hole every dime he got his hands on in a place so remote that none of them could ever find it, much less get their hands on. He also knew that he would need to keep his mouth shut about it. He figured he could probably trust Weaver or even Chikara, but if he were to be completely honest about it, even that would only go so far. He’d learned a long time ago that in this life you could only really ever trust yourself.

After that, the Three Corporate Stooges pulled a complete Mount Rushmore. They shut down and didn’t say much more unless they absolutely had to. When the subject of money and amenities came up, Cleese threw out numbers and conditions that he knew were exorbitant. Monroe didn’t bat an eye. He said that the company’s lawyers would draw up the necessary contracts and he’d contact him if there were any questions regarding specific details.

And that was it.

Meeting over.

In and out in under an hour… like this was some kind of Lenscrafters.

Cleese had walked in here just another poor schlub possessing more gnads than I.Q. points and now he was walking out of here a
very
rich man. It was all that simple. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but then again, at these prices, it didn’t much matter, did it? He had known that he needed to get a look at the lay of this land and, now that he had, he knew he’d need to watch his back and keep his head clear. He couldn’t really be sure, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d burned a couple of bridges here today.

Did he care?

Fuck no…

He’d been burning bridges for so long that he’d grown rather fond of the smell.

He nodded once more to Moe, Larry and Ponytail and turned to leave.

Hell, if the corporation was going to give him a big, fat pay day, then who was he to argue. He knew that, sooner or later, they’d try to bone him—either financially or the way they’d done with Monk when they didn’t let him walk away on his own terms—and that knowledge incited in him a distinctly libertine way of looking at things. Cleese just hoped that he’d live long enough to enjoy the pay-off.

As Cleese was leaving, that smarmy git, Monroe, made it a point to catch Cleese’s eye. He smiled a slow, peeling smile at Cleese. It was a smile full of venom and self-satisfaction. It was a grin that would have been utterly at home on the face of Iago as he whispered his conspiracies into Othello’s ear.

"Good luck on your next
Fight Night
," and he winked and pointed.

The fuck.

~ * ~

After Cleese left the room, Monroe sat back in his chair, tossed his pen onto the table, and sighed heavily. He looked around the room with eyebrows raised as he blew another breath out of his nose in a whoosh. From the looks on Monica’s and Richard’s faces, things could have probably gone better.

"Well,
he’s
a bit of an asshole," Monroe muttered under his breath but just loud enough for the others to hear.

"About what I thought he’d be really," said Monica unhappily. "What was it that Weber called these guys— ‘Jimbos?’ That sounds about right."

"I don’t know what they expect us to do with the damn thugs they keep sending," Richard sighed. "I can’t make League stars out of common criminals."

Monica leaned forward in her chair and gathered together the papers before her. From the way she stuffed them together, Monroe could tell she was more than a little pissed off.

"Look, I don’t much care about these thugs—these Jimbos—in general and that one in particular. We brought Cleese here to see if he was the type to play ball with us long-term. The League wanted to get an assessment of him and how we thought we could utilize him. I have my answer. How about you, Richard?"

Richard rubbed his fingers across his brow as if he was trying to erase a major headache.

"Yeah, I saw what I needed to see," he said. "I had hoped for better."

"Monroe?" Monica asked now standing with her leather folder tucked neatly under her arm.

"Yeah, just another dumb pug who has yet to learn which side his bread is buttered on."

"Then it’s settled?" Monica asked. "Monroe, he’s your and Masterson’s property now. Get him back into the Pit and keep him there for as long as he continues to make us money. He’s yours to do with what you will. All The League wants is for him to generate the two Rs—ratings and revenue. We’ll need you to accomplish that…"

She paused and looked at him. Her gaze spoke volumes.

"… one way or the other. Everyone agreed?"

Richard nodded his head and stood up.

"I’m good," he said.

Monroe began gathering up his things as well. As he did so, he quickly considered the pros and cons of what had transpired here today. Cleese was a complete and utter asshole—that was now a given—but he was also a talented fighter. Monroe silently thought through how he might turn all of this to his advantage. With the newly given blessing of Monica and Richard, he knew he could do just about anything with the man and not have any real blowback. Since no one cared if Cleese ever made it out of the Pit, Monroe thought that he just might keep continually upping the danger level until Cleese was either turned into a celebrity or a corpse. And, on the off chance that he continued to make it out alive, the only thing that could happen as a result was that ratings would increase. The higher the ratings, the more clout Monroe felt he would have. If Monica and Richard were washing their hands of Cleese on an official level, the only one to benefit from any spike in ratings would be Monroe. And that could only be seen as a good thing. Should Cleese be killed his next time out, then so much the better. They’d just throw what was left of his carcass to Adamson over at the Holding Pen to be used as he saw fit.

Either way, Monroe couldn’t see any outcome from this other than his coming out of it smelling like a rose.

Besides, it wasn’t like this was the sort of thing that could ever blow up in his lap. He was way too smart—and way too careful—for that to ever happen.

"Sure, I’ll regard him as my own little special project. If he makes it through his next match, his ranking will increase and so will our ratings. If he gets tagged by the UDs, then he’s out of our hair and the League needn’t pay off his contract."

"Ok, it’s decided then. I’ll let Mr. Weber know the results of this and assure him that there will be no further problems," Monica said, effectively ending the discussion. "He’s your Jimbo now, Monroe."

Monroe smiled and walked toward the door.

"Not a problem. I’ve got this whole thing well in hand. I can personally guarantee that everyone will benefit from how this all plays out."

With that, he pulled the door open and held it as Monica and Richard walked out. He shut the lights off and, closing the door behind him, took one last glance back into the room. He wanted to commit the image to memory as it being the place where his success first manifested itself.

An Ill Wind at The Grab-Ur-Grub

Before…

There was a strong wind which blew through the trees huddled around the outside of the Grab-Ur-Grub convenience store out on the Old Semiyamoo Highway. The gusts shook the boughs and stripped the branches of their dead and dying foliage. An undulating hissing sound, like that of waves cascading onto the shore, punctuated the relative silence. The store’s pink-painted, brick structure stood straight and firm indulgently bearing the brunt of the onslaught. The structure withstood the gentle assault as it had for many years. Leaves blew about on the roof, collecting in large, wet piles at the corners and choking the rain gutters.

The front façade of the store was made up of three large floor-to-ceiling panes of glass in stout metal frames with a double door set in the middle. The huge windows were designed so that passersby could see that the store was open all the time and to show a bit of the merchandise sold inside. Across the glass storefront, banners announcing the availability of Lottery tickets, "2 Dogs for a Buck," and ice cold drinks hung from hooks and whipped back and forth in the breeze.