Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

Monk waved toward the scorekeeper’s box as if in thanks. Inside the elevated room, the shadow Cleese had previously seen waved back before evaporating back into the gloom.

"At the sound of that buzzer, the eight corners of The Octagon will pivot like you just saw," Monk continued, returning his full attention to his enthusiastic student. "In your head you should assign each corner a number and remember what’s what so you can keep ’em all straight in the heat of the moment. Once those spindles move, you’re gonna find one of four things there."

He counted them off aloud, using his stubby fingers as a visual aid.

"One: a weapon. It could be a better pistol, a shotgun, a chainsaw. You’ll never know, but whichever it is, you’ll be damn glad to see it. Two: ammo. This ain’t Halo or Quake out there, Buddy. There’s no cheat codes, so sooner or later you’re gonna need to reload. And that’s as good as fuck a reason as any to conserve your ammo. Three: A very pissed-off UD. They’ll be disoriented at first, but soon enough, they’ll smell you and come a-runnin’. Four: Nothing… Nada… Bupkiss. There are eight spindles and we have to maintain some sense of drama. We don’t want this to be a goddamn turkey shoot. Again, we gotta keep it interesting for the crowd. It is, after all, what they’re paying for.

"Keep this in mind, by the time the next buzzer sounds you’ll need to have thought about a lot of shit: your position in the Pit, the position, if any, of the remaining UDs around you, your weapon’s status and what you need to replenish it, where the spindles are (which can be both a good thing and a bad thing depending on what is there when it next spins). Lotsa shit… You’re a smart boy. You’ll figure it all out.

"When that buzzer sounds, kill whatever’s around—fast! You move on to get what you need, but only after those first UDs are down. Don’t stand around fucking shopping. Kill—Grab—Move on. You with me so far, Champ?"

Cleese sat up and looked the ring over. His eyes narrowed and as he thought, he spoke his thoughts aloud.

"Ring. Spindles. Buzzer. Weapons. UDs. ‘Kill—Grab—Move.’" He looked back at Monk and grinned malevolently. "Got it."

"Ok, genius, after six minutes and three rounds, the buzzer will sound each and every minute with the odds of a UD being ‘spun’ being higher. Think of it as a game and you’re going on to harder and harder levels. At ten minutes, the buzzer will sound every thirty seconds. You reach fifteen minutes and you’re done! Make it through and you’re a hero, a media fuckin’ god. Sound simple enough?"

Cleese sat thinking, going over the math in his head. No matter how he added it all up—it sucked. It also sounded crazy, but… as they say, "in for a penny, in for a pound."

"By my count, that’s a fuckload of UDs, Monk."

"It’s roughly fifty of the slimy bastards in those fifteen minutes. It’s why you’re being paid those big bucks, Pal. But none of that shit is gonna make a lick of difference ’cause, if you have to shoot, you’re gonna aim for the head. Demolish the lumps of shit that pass for their brains as quickly as you can. Remember, it ain’t considered a kill unless you destroy the brain or lop their heads from their shoulders.

"And don’t get cocky and don’t play to the fuckin’ crowd. Not at first. You get the job done and you’ll be back in your trailer gettin’ your dick sucked by a big-titted blonde faster than you can say "wet and sloppy."

Monk raised a hot dog of a finger.

"Fuck up…"

"I know… it’s a vinyl body bag," said Cleese.

"Fuck the body bag, Bronco, that’s for your momma to cry over. You get stupid out there and step in it, some UDs gonna be having your ass for an appetizer."

Cleese stared out over The Octagon, rubbing his hands over his eyes. This was some world of hurt he’d gotten himself into, but if he were to be honest a part of him was almost excited about trying this. He’d fought his way out of San Francisco back when the shit first hit the fan, but this… this was something else.

This was sticking your dick in a bear trap and callin’ it pussy.

This was crazy and Cleese fucking well knew it.

"Come on, Cochise," said Monk slapping Cleese across the back. "We need to get you fitted for your gear."

He turned and walked away.

Cleese continued to stare down at the fighting ring, weighing his decision… and his options. The last place he’d called home had been a bit of a bust. He’d been out of work—honest work that is—since he bitch-slapped Stolie, the loan shark he had worked for. The man pushed Cleese one time too many and needed to be ghetto-cuffed if only on general principal. It was a mistake and Cleese knew it even as he was doing it. Then again, "job security" and "good sense" were never high on Cleese’s list of watchwords.

When Masterson came calling, Cleese had already beaten down two guys with a broom handle earlier that night when they’d tried to muscle him over a boxing bet. Afterward, as he stood over their unconscious forms, he knew that he’d just stepped in yet another steaming shit-pile. Both of them were connected and that meant Mob. Whether he ended up getting into the Blackhawk or not, he’d probably not be living to see his next birthday. Making the choice between dying in his shitty apartment with a bullet in the back of his head or by whatever bullshit means Masterson might think up was pretty easy. The way he had it figured, either way, he was pretty far beyond fucked.

But then again…

It’s not like any of it really fucking mattered. He knew that if he bought it, it wasn’t like there was anyone there to really give a shit. With no wife and no kids (that he knew of) there was no one around who cared enough to mark his passing, much less mourn him. There really was nothing to lose here and, it would seem, a shitload to gain. All he needed to do was go ahead and slide his dick down deep into that bear trap.

From far off, he heard Monk’s voice come drifting in.

"Yo, you comin’…?"

Cleese forcibly dragged himself back to the present moment. He took a long look at The Octagon and then another one back at Monk who stood waiting a dozen or so yards away.

"Fuuuuuck…" he hissed before getting to his feet and trotting off to catch up.

Graveyard Shift

Before…

"Damn it!" hissed Jeffrey Adamson as he lost his grip on the long metal trocar he held in his hands. The instrument fell, banging loudly as it bounced off of the bright aluminum embalming table and continued on, clattering against the linoleum floor.

Adamson, who stood just over six feet with a cap of short cropped hair and a dark-humored personality, was the living embodiment of his vocation of Funeral Director. While outwardly stoic and conservatively dressed, he was known by the people in his life as a bit of a contradiction; someone whose tastes ran from micro-brewed beer to the crudest of jokes. His music of choice was death metal. In more ways than one, he was not the person he seemed.

He stood next to the embalming table, dressed in black suit pants with, white shirt with cuffs rolled carefully up around his elbows, tie tucked discreetly between the buttons of his shirt, plastic apron and thick rubber embalming gloves. For almost an hour now, he’d been putting the finishing touches on the late Mrs. Abigail Harvey and fatigue was starting to gnaw at the fringes of his awareness.

The woman lying on the table before him had died (ahem, passed on) as a result of a life-long heart condition. One minute she was standing in her kitchen drinking a cup of coffee and watching "her stories" on TV and the next she was a mound of inert flesh wrapped in a faded housedress. A tremendous weight pressed and twisted deep in her chest and then it all—the dishes that needed to be done in the sink, the laundry waiting to be dried, the machinations of the citizenry of Port Charles—simply winked out. There was no choir of angels singing "Halleluiah" to mark her passing, just a spilled cup of General Foods International Coffee Café Vienna and a soup of urine and feces congealing on the tile floor.