Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

Monroe suddenly looked more than a bit worried. The League had a lot invested in Cleese and they would remain happy just as long as things continued along the rosy path they’d all been traveling. If he’d somehow managed to push things a little too far and jeopardized all of that, it might cause an inconsolable rift to appear.

"I mean," Monroe continued, "Weber will be really fucking pissed if Cleese got clear before the League was done with him and his contract. If he were to be killed, that'd be one thing, but…"

Masterson pondered the situation silently for a moment. It was good that Monroe had gotten his head back in the game and was thinking clearly again. The man was an impetuous and manipulative jerk, but he was also pretty adept at climbing the corporate ladder and sensing the ebb and flow of the tides. Masterson wasn’t much interested in the upward mobility of his career.

He just wanted to keep his job.

Thinking it through though, Masterson decided that yes… Cleese was indeed pretty hurt and angry—and with good reason—but when push finally came to shove, he was alone in this. Chikara was gone. The League owned Weaver pretty much lock, stock and barrel. He wasn’t close with anyone else and had no one he could trust outside of this place.

"Ok," sighed Masterson, "so looking at it objectively, I don’t think Cleese can do shit. He’s pissed now, you’ve pretty much seen to that, but give him time. He’ll calm down and remember who pays the bills and when he does, he’ll either get back on the program or he won’t."

Monroe thought it over and decided Masterson was right. He nodded his agreement and then moved to tie his hair back into its ponytail.

Masterson smiled and then added, "Besides, where else does he have to go?"

"You really think so?"

"I do. And besides… something’s just been brought to my attention that, I think, should help settle the matter, one way or the other. Once and for all."

Monroe turned and limped painfully across the sand toward the Pit’s entryway.

"After that," Masterson said from overhead, again looking over his shoulder toward the Hall’s door, "he’ll either be on the team or he won’t be. Whichever… It’s all the same to us, right? And you know as well as I do… It’s not like there’s a shortage of fighters out there. They may not be as talented as he is, but they’re still more than willing to step out there onto that sand. It’s like you said, whether they end up living or dying… we win either way."

Monroe nodded and continued hobbling toward the door.

Masterson turned and leaned against the railing, saying, "And if Cleese thinks he can do anything like bailing on his contract, well we have a battery of lawyers just waiting to sue him for more money than he’s ever imagined.

Monroe had by now reached the hatch to the stairway. He stopped and waited for Masterson to finish his thought.

"If that doesn’t work…"

"There’s always the mercs…"

"Right. If he does as he’s told, we’ll utilize his talents until he’s no longer any good to us. After that…"

"I’ll just continue to stack the decks against him during his matches until he has a change of heart… or gets himself injured."

Reluctantly, Masterson agreed.

"But just so we’re clear… and let’s be agreed on this… The man is, as of now, utterly expendable."

Masterson nodded and looked away. For a moment, he thought he had an idea of how Judas Iscariot felt.

"One thing I doubt he ever read was the small print of his own contract," Masterson continued, "and you are quite right… We do own him—alive or dead—and we continue to own him until which time we decide that we’re through. Not the other way around. Even if a fighter ends up dying in the pit, The League still has a legal right to whatever is left of his body. Dead… or Undead ."

Monroe stood at the open Pit door and looked toward the gangway which led up to the grandstands. He’d always figured he could trust Masterson. Now, he was sure of it. He’d only had to take an ass-whipping to find it out for sure. He was convinced now the man would watch his back and, as a result of that, they would both come out of all of this being solid gold.

Masterson watched Monroe as he limped his way around the corner and up the ramp from where the gangway was. He watched him approach in the dim light of the hall and silently wondered how wise it was to be allied with a duplicitous man such as Monroe. He was proving himself to be a bit of a pain in the ass and Masterson was beginning to think it might be wise if he put as much distance as he could between himself and the man’s impulsive schemes as possible.

Because, if he wasn’t careful, Monroe was going to put both of their asses in a sling.

I Shall Be Released

"Well, Bob, we are nearing the end of yet another exciting match for our Fan Favorite Fighter, Cleese. This is the last round—last call—for him and, to be honest, that’s probably a good thing. He’s looking a little worse for wear out there and that’s never good. He’ll need to find some energy from someplace though. I mean, he’s not quite out of the woods yet."

"You’re right, John, we still have this final round to go and, as any regular WGF Fight Night viewer can tell ya, one round can make all the difference in the world."

"Ok, Bob, according to the clock, we’re just about ready for that buzzer and hopefully Cleese can bring this already exhilarating bout to an even more exciting conclusion!"

"So, let’s go back onto the floor and see how this all turns out!"

~ * ~

Cleese groaned aloud and drew a deep breath in to help clear his mind.

His arms and legs hung at his sides, exhausted. They ached now more than they’d ever had in his life. His tendons had been stretched beyond their endurance; muscle fibers having sprung with the sound of banjo strings. He felt like some hammered shit out here and by his count he still had one more round to go. His back, bent and twisted from his toil down on the floor of The Pit, felt like it was made of shattered glass and bound together by razor wire. He stood stooped and panting as he hovered over the pile of dead bodies at his feet. The omnipresent stench of spent blood, urine and chyme on the sand left a sour tang that clung to the back of his throat like oily smoke.

His eyes drifted over the faces of the corpses at his feet. Some of the UDs bore the countenance of people who had died in great pain. Given their present surroundings, that was about what he expected. Oddly, others bore expressions of a deep peace, as if finally dying—and dying in a way that guaranteed them to be dead for good—gave them an escape from the torment of being what they were. These looks crawled deep into Cleese’s psyche and touched a part of him that he was very uncomfortable with. He slowly raised his eyes toward the lights as a shiver tickled its way up his spine.

The crowd overhead continued to drone on into the night. They existed out there within the black folds of darkness, moaning like specters lost in a dwindling twilight. Their voices crescendoed and then crashed like the echo of violent waves breaking on a rocky shore. The sound had become a primal thing, something exultant and yet somehow darkly terrible. There was blood in the air now and that always drove the crowd into a malignant fervor. It was the emotional equivalent of throwing gasoline on a grease fire.

Cleese tried to not listen to them, tried to blot out what they were saying, but doing so was impossible. Their voices were a deluge of sound which rained down from above, a din falling on him from somewhere out there in the darkness; a murderous, blood-parched thing. It took everything he had in him not to scream back at them. To shout and to tell them that their bloodlust, so complete, so all encompassing, had burned inside of them for too long, that it had robbed them of whatever humanity they’d once had. Cleese knew though that it would do no good. He’d once thought he understood their hatred for the dead, but since Chikara’s death, he knew he didn’t understand shit. Like the Romans before them, these people only craved their spectacle. Deep down, he had come to realize that this was just another coliseum and he was just this day’s Champion.