Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

For quite some time now, Monroe had thought of Cleese as a revenue stream to be plundered, a work horse. Nothing more than chattel. As everyone knows, before you can put a horse to work, you have to break his spirit. Cleese’s spirit had been more resilient than he’d thought it would be. The incident in the Training Hall was nothing more than a sign that he wasn’t getting the "who’s really in charge here" message.

And there was no way—no fucking way—Monroe was going to let that incident slide. The thought of that day and the way things went down still filled him with rage. How dare that crass bastard put his meaty hands on him! How dare he expose him to that kind of danger… in that place. Monroe still bristled when he thought of how close Cleese had put him to one of those… those things .

Ok, sure… Cleese had been pissed as hell over how things had turned out. The magazine of blanks ploy had been risky, but well worth it. Monroe suspected that an audience seeing a fighter empty a clip and do no damage would bring in big ratings. And he was right. The numbers on the broadcast had been astronomical. In fact, the surge carried over to the next week’s show as well. Who cared if shit like that put one of those reprobate fighters in danger?

After all, it was what those idiots were being paid for.

Then there was the Chikara incident. Yeah, that didn’t exactly go as planned, now did it? He’d thought that adding a few more of those things to the mix would make the round more exciting and he was right again. How was he to know she’d get herself distracted and be taken down? But it was a risk all of the fighters took when they signed on their contract’s bottom line.

No one was ever guaranteed a Get Out Of Jail Free Card…

No matter how popular they were.

Of course, how Cleese managed to deduce that Monroe had anything to do with any of it was still a question that was up for discussion. It could have been the equipment manager or a production assistant who’d said something to someone who said something to someone else, but there was no way of being sure.

Who knew? People talked.

But then again, who really gave a shit? There was no tangible proof.

And that lack of proof was Monroe’s ace up his sleeve.

Plausible deniability, baby.

If it was good enough for Richard Nixon, it was good enough for him.

And, looking back, that was where he probably should have left well enough alone.

But then, Masterson told him how Monk had gotten tagged while pulling some new recruit’s meat out of the grease. Monroe took the news as what it was: pure providence. They’d brought Monk back as what he was—a resource. The decision for him to fight was a given. What else were they going to have him do now that he was dead, their taxes?

No, he was a fighter when he was alive and he would be a fighter now that he was one of the reanimated dead. Who he’d be fighting was never really in question. It had pretty much decided itself. Cleese was getting uppity and he needed to be reminded of who held the reigns. He would either have to fall into line—get with the League’s program—or he could just as well fuck right off. All of it—the blanks, Chikara’s regrettable death and finally the addition of Monk as an active UD—should have been enough for him to see exactly which side his bread was buttered on. That was just the way things sometimes worked.

It wasn’t about what was good for the fighter.

In the end, it was only about what was good for the League.

Monroe smiled to himself, recalling the open-mouthed look of astonishment that’d dawned on Cleese’s face when he got his first glimpse of Monk.

God, it had been sooo sweet.

"Feed me to those things, huh?" he sniffed under his breath as he turned and made his way to the aisle where his parking spot was. "Yeah, well… how’d that work out for ya?"

He was now within fifty feet of his car, a classic steely black Jaguar XJ220 Pininfarina. He’d paid a pretty penny for the car and it had been worth every cent. During the mid-nineties, the Sultan of Brunei and his brother, Prince Jefri, secretly bought hundreds of supercars and had them customized by some of the best in the business. There were only a few in existence, but sometimes having enough money and the right connections made even the impossible possible. Weber himself introduced Monroe to the Southeast Asian seller and had even helped to have the car shipped. It was a beautiful machine and Monroe doted over it like he would a beloved child.

As he approached the automobile, his mind had already begun to move on to the rest of his evening. He was scheduled to have dinner with Claire and then the two of them would rush off for a "meet and greet" that Weber Industries scheduled in order to celebrate the recent jump in Fight Night ratings. Word of Cleese’s disappearance had not yet filtered down to any of the affiliates, but Monroe was already putting his spin on that particular ball, for when it did. The official company line was going to be that the man was certifiable—a thug—and, despite the WGF’s stringent filtering processes, he’d gotten through.

Yeah, sorry about that…

And even though Cleese had proven himself to be a good earner, his induction into the League had been a mistake, but one that was being dealt with accordingly. The League had too much invested to risk a dime of it on someone with as much instability as Cleese exhibited. The cold facts were that he’d been behaving erratically lately, even going so far as to attack another fighter in the gym as well as a League official. If any of the affiliates doubted it, Monroe still had bruising he could show them to verify the point.

Monroe arrived at the Jag and looked the car over with loving approval. He’d worked long and hard to procure the trappings of wealth and all his plotting and scheming had finally started to pay off. He’d come up from the poor section of Chicago and had lied, cheated and yes, even stolen to make it this far. In that way, truth be told, he and Cleese were somewhat alike. Growing up poor either made a man ambitious or a hoodlum. Monroe had chosen ambition and affluence for his life’s course. Cleese chose booze, broads and brawling. Monroe lived in a penthouse with a beautiful woman. Cleese was a criminal who did unimaginable things to pocket change. In the end, Monroe was the one who could look himself in the eye in the mirror and still feel a sense of pride and accomplishment. While Cleese on the other hand… what could he see in his reflection other than the face of an outlaw and a gorilla?

Monroe had done what he’d done for very specific reasons and now he was finally living a bit of the good life. This car was just one example of that. Important people in the WGF had already told him that he was destined for great things and he liked the way that sounded.

Damn straight he did.

Reaching into the pocket of his slacks, he found his key ring and hit the button on it to unlock his door. The chirp of the Jag’s alarm disarming echoed through the building. He slid his fingers under the door’s handle like he would into a lover’s blouse and gently pulled it open. With a sigh, he dropped himself into the leather of the car’s driver seat and wriggled into a comfortable position. Once set, he reached over, set his briefcase on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat, and then pulled the door shut behind him. Sliding his key into the ignition, Monroe breathed deep of the air inside the car. God, he loved the smell of this car. It had the rich odor of leather and wood that he’d always equated with money.

And if there was one thing that he liked the smell of, it was money.

Monroe lovingly slid his fingers around the key and gently turned the ignition. The starter caught at once and the engine jumped to life. The car purred softly as he revved the engine. Then, slipping the transmission into gear, he backed carefully out of its space. With a gentle hand, he guided the Jag forward. The car slid across the ground like a python. It moved with barely a sound, only the quiet hissing of its tires on the cement to mark its passing. Its engine’s power growled under his foot, and, God knew, it felt good.