Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

Monk slid the last plate on and pushed it against the others.

"You guys going to fuckin’ gossip all day or give the rest of us a chance on that equipment?" a gravelly voice interrupted.

Cleese looked up and saw one of the other fighters standing there in sweat pants and a large red shirt. It was a guy he’d seen around who was known as Michaels. He was a big tub of shit who had somehow gotten it into his pint-sized head that his brawn automatically made him a proficient fighter. Michaels was one of the newer fighters, newer than even Cleese, and he’d already gotten himself a reputation as being an aggro asshole. From all accounts, he’d hit the ground running in that respect. As he stood there glaring at them, his hands were on his hips and his manner was severely impatient.

"Listen, Michaels," Monk said calmly, "there’s another set of benches right there." Monk pointed toward three additional benches on the other side of the room. "Use one of those."

Monk turned his back on him as if dismissing him and walked over to spot Cleese on his next set.

"See, that’s the thing, Old Timer," Michaels said, his voice dripping with caustic sarcasm and just a hint of menace. "I like this bench and I mean to use it."

Cleese slowly sat up and turned so that both of his feet were on the same side of the bench, just in case this fool decided to make good on his threat. He’d seen it happen too many times in the past where someone got rushed and his footing was compromised by stuff on the ground: a barstool, a drunken girlfriend or some other stupid shit. He didn’t know this Michaels guy too well and what little he did know said that he was a prick. Not having his whole story made him decide to err on the side of caution.

"Step off, Cherry," Monk hissed. His voice was low and steady, but it was barbed with an implied warning. "You want none of this, I assure you."

Michaels took a step forward and squared his shoulders.

"Is that so?"

"It is at that," Monk said and looked him dead in the eye.

"Listen, Monk," Michaels growled, "some people here think you’re some hot shit, but all I see is a washed up old man who’s past his prime. Now, take your hippy pal here and get off my fuckin’ bench."

"Not gonna happen," Monk replied, looking back toward the bench. "If you want to press it, we can talk to Masterson."

"Fuck Masterson," Michaels shouted and he took another step foward.

"Careful, now…" Monk replied, sounding casual and almost uninterested. "You know how the League feels about fighting amongst its staff. You wouldn’t want to compromise your sit-chee-ation," he slowly returned his gaze to the big man’s eyes and cocked an eyebrow, "now would ya?"

Michaels paused just for a second as if he was pondering how far he wanted to push it. Interestingly, Monk helped make the decision for him.

"Good thing, too… or I’d be handing you a big piece of your chubby ass right about now."

"Hey, fuck you, you old piece of shit."

Cleese stood up, having decided that he’d heard just about enough. If this little prick wanted his melon thumped, Cleese felt more than happy to oblige him. Besides, he’d dealt with assholes like this in bars for years. They were usually all bark and no bite and all you needed to do was whack them on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper and they quickly learned to behave. Moving rapidly, he took a step between the two men and smiled malevolently at Michaels.

"Hey, KoolAid…"

"You stay out of this," Monk warned. The last thing they needed was for Cleese to do something to get himself booted from the Roster.

Michaels glared at Cleese and leaned in.

"You should listen to your mommy, Frisco. You don’t want me to hurt you, now do ya?"

Cleese smiled and motioned with his finger for Michaels to lean in even closer.

"Two things…"

"Cleese, no," Monk said again.

"First, don’t ever call my home town ‘Frisco.’ We hate that shit."

Michaels’ face broke out in a wry grin and sniffed in lieu of laughing.

"And second… the only thing you ever put a hurt on is a deli plate, you fat fuckin’ pussy."

Michaels reacted as if he’d been slapped. His eyes went wide and his face flushed red. He quickly balled his hands at his sides into fists and slowly raised them.

Cleese smiled and knew he’d hit his desired mark.

"What did you say to me?" the fat man bellowed.

"I said…" Cleese leaned in even further and purposefully stuck his chin out, offering the man a target that was designed to be too good to pass up. "I said… that you, my rotund friend, are a poo…" specks of saliva flew from his lips as he enunciated the "p" and landed on Michaels’ cheek "…say."

He stared deep into Michaels’ eyes and smiled, watching as the man’s blood came to a slow rolling boil. His patience was finally rewarded when he saw Fat Boy’s right shoulder drop.

The punch was a wild haymaker coming from behind Michaels’ back. Cleese had to give it to him, the boy was as stupid as a sack of hammers, but if he was anything, he was committed. With all of this strength directed into his arm and his vision obscured by his rabid anger, Michaels never saw Cleese’s feet shift and his weight transfer to his push-off leg. As the haymaker came around, Michaels’ left hand dropped and his jaw presented itself with everything except a colored bow.

Cleese ignored the offering and was already in motion even as he slapped at the incoming fist with his left hand. Coming around the other man’s reach, he let Michaels’ momentum spin him like a top. With a little hop, Cleese let loose a savage oblique kick to the nearest open target—the knee of Michaels’ right leg. Predictably, the big lummox lost his footing as his knee collapsed. With a painful sounding grunt, he dropped down on all fours.

Cleese circled and, as the wounded man raised his head to scream out in pain from the leg strike, quickly boxed both of his ears. Michaels screeched anew and clutched at the sides of his head.

"Cleese," Monk shouted. He reached out and grabbed the bench’s barbell. Once he saw that it was already too late, he leaned over and rested his head in resignation on the cold, metal bar. "God damn it!"

Michaels collapsed forward, clutching at his ears. Now in a full rage, he started to rise to a standing position despite the pain in his leg. When he’d gotten up on one knee, he noticed an empty dumbbell bar which was lying on the ground next to the bench. Boiling over with fury, he grabbed at it. As he rose to his feet, he swung it viciously at Cleese’s head.

Having expected something of this sort, Cleese was ready. He caught his wrist as it came up and deftly wrestled the bar out of his grasp. He quickly twisted the arm and then maneuvered himself down and under the outstretched limb.

Now that all of the joints in Michaels’ arm were twisted in on themselves, he had but two choices—return to the ground or allow his arm to be broken in several places.

As the fat man fell, Cleese silently thanked an old Steven Seagal movie he’d seen years ago for the move.

Monk raised his head and, seeing how things were progressing, grimaced.

Michaels’ body hit the ground with another pig-like grunt and he immediately moved to cradle his wrenched arm. His face twisted up into a painful looking grimace and a small string of drool fell from his lips. As he rolled onto his back, he looked up and was horrified to see Cleese standing over him holding the dumbbell bar like a dagger. He gasped when he saw that Cleese was already in motion and bringing it down in a powerful strike aimed directly at his face. He cried out and raised his hands to protect himself.

Monk shouted out, "Nooo, shit!"

With a loud slap, the metal bar hit the rubber padding on the floor just to the left of Michaels’ head.