Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

Both to him and to the ones he loved.

And besides, now he had a bankroll—and a sizeable one, at that. He’d been very cautious and had surreptitiously stashed away as much of the money as he could get his grubby little hands on. He’d been careful to continually move it around, never letting his wealth rest in any one place for too long. It had all been stashed in enough different places and in enough different countries that no one—not even those knuckle-fucks Masterson or Monroe—could find it.

And speaking of Masterson and Monroe…

There were two scabs Cleese didn’t mind poking at now that this was all said and done. Those two fucktards needed to know a bit of the pain he now felt. They needed to feel a bit of the same loss. Cleese was sure that he’d only need to think on it a bit and some version of a fair and sensible adjudication would occur to him. Soon, it would be payback time for them… and payback was a righteous and vengeful bitch.

But first…

Cleese returned his gaze to the back of his friend’s head and closed his eyes.

"You know what, Monk?" he said in a hushed tone.

He slowly opened his eyes and took a long, slow look around the pit for what he was sure was to be the last time. He saw the bodies piled about him, the blood spattered sand, and the cameras behind the glass. He smelled the copper-tainted scent of spilled blood and ichor. And as the sound of rhubarb rained down on him from overhead, he smiled.

"Let’s go home, Pal," he said with a sigh. "Let’s you and I go home."

Cleese closed his eyes and ran his hand through his friend’s salt-and-pepper hair. He gripped it and gently pushed his head just a little further forward. For a moment, the world seemed to go silent, and in the soundless void, the memory of his dead friend’s voice echoed:

E-I-E-I-O.

"Abso-fuckin’-lutely…"

And Cleese drove the spike home.

Hegira

Weaver stood alone outside of the stadium, alternately breathing in the cool night air and sucking hot smoke from a Macanudo. Both helped, in some small way, to suppress his sense of grief and indignation. The air helped clear his head. The cigar was symbolically being offered up to the memory of his friend; in memory of Monk. How many of these damn, cancerous things did the two of them smoke together? he thought. He ran his tongue across his lips, tasting the fine tobacco, coughed softly, and came to the decision that it had been too many.

He glanced around the loading docks, watching the flurry of activity as the groups of thick-necked Teamsters worked at breaking down the pit and all that came along with it. Large, muscular men heaved beams of metal as if they were balsa wood while others—the ones with clipboards and small, bookish demeanors—ran after them like kittens craving affection. They scurried around busily jotting down identification numbers on invoices like accountants with an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Weaver pulled another mouthful of smoke from the cigar and rolled the heavy tobacco taste over his tongue. His exhalation was like plumes of cotton set adrift on the night’s still air.

They’ve killed my friend.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he forced himself to choke down the lump that grew like a goiter in his throat. Monk had been his buddy longer than he could even remember, longer than he wanted to remember anyway. Since his Dora had died, he’d been the only real friend Weaver had. The person who’d cared about him and vice versa.

And now…

Now, he was dead… and, thanks to Cleese, dead again. Weaver had felt a little bit of himself die tonight when he saw that spindle turn to reveal what had once been his friend. Over the years, Weaver had come to love this sport, but at that moment, that love withered within him and died.

Still, though…

He was thankful that Cleese had been there to do the right thing. Weaver didn’t lay blame for any of this at Cleese’s feet. He’d sent Monk back into the Land of The Dead with some small sense of honor. He’d also denied those bastards in the expensive box seats their Big Finish. He’d taken from them the one thing they'd wanted more than anything, the thing that would sell more of their precious tickets, get them their fucking ratings. Instead, Cleese had provided something that meant more—more to Weaver at least.

Weaver drew in another mouthful of silky smoke.

The sound of a side door suddenly opening startled him and the big man looked around the front of the truck against which he was leaning. Deep in the shadows, a figure carrying something big and heavy over his shoulder moved like a wraith in the darkness. Whoever it was, he was a large guy and he moved with dexterity of a thief on the prowl. From the way he continued to scan the area with his eyes, it was obvious he didn’t want to be seen. For a second, Weaver caught his silhouette against the reflected light from the trucks and suddenly recognized the form as one he’d seen before.

"Cleese?" Weaver questioned of the inky blackness.

For a second, nothing; then, a barely audible voice hissed at him from the shadows.

"Weaver?"

Weaver cast a suspicious glance around to see whether or not they could be noticed by any of the Teamsters or pencil-pushers and then walked quietly—almost nonchalantly—over to where Cleese stood lurking in the darkness.

"You…uh… going somewhere?" Weaver asked.

"Ay-yup," came his answer from the gloom.

"Care to share?"

"Not really. I don’t want anyone asking you if you know where I’d gone. If you don’t know, then you can’t tell anybody."

"Fair enough," he said and drew another puff from the Macanudo. The expelled smoke drifted off and dissipated in the cool air. "Can I ask why?"

Cleese set the heavy duffel bag he carried over his shoulder down and stepped deeper into the blackness. If he was going to take a minute to say goodbye to Weaver, he was damn sure going to keep himself hidden from inquisitive eyes.

"Do you really need to?"

"No. I guess not."

"You know as well as I do the kind of shit that’s been going down."

Weaver nodded and drew another lungful of smoke.

"You saw what they did to Monk."

Cleese looked down at his hands as if there was a stain there that no amount of washing could remove. Lady Macbeth had nothing on him.

"I did, indeed."

"And you approve?"

Weaver glared at Cleese for a moment before realizing that the question came more out of grief than anger.

"With all due respect, Son… Fuck you."

"You’re right. I’m sorry… That was out of line."

"I approve not one fucking bit," Weaver bumped his cigar’s ash against the bumper of the truck. The smoldering, grey cylinder fell to the ground and shattered into a fine dust. "He was my friend too, remember?"

"Then, you shouldn’t have to ask why I’m leaving this fuckin’ place," the words caught like a fishhook in Cleese’s throat.

"Look, Son. I hate these fuckers as much as you do for what they did to Monk. They used him and they spit him out," he said. His voice fragmented with emotion. "And I don’t think for a second that they wouldn’t do the same to you. Or to me, for that matter."

Cleese looked his friend over, knowing down deep in his soul that he was right. Nothing he was being told was anything he hadn’t already considered. It was just disheartening to hear his thoughts coming from someone else’s mouth. Since this was undoubtedly the last time he’d see Weaver, he let the man talk. As he listened, he made sure to keep his eyes reflexively scanning the area for anyone who might see them talking and report them.

"That all said though," Weaver continued, "no one knew the risks better than Monk. He’d been at this a long fuckin’ time. As I know you are well aware. Monk knew the kind of people running this place. He knew the cut of their jib, what was important to them. It’s all a part of what we signed on for."