Rules of the Game

"Listen up," Monk said one afternoon as the two of them sat, taking a break in the stands overlooking The Octagon, "’cause I’m only going to say this shit once."

The fighting space below them was a pit roughly thirty feet across with dull, brushed metal sides. The walls bore the marks of training sessions past, blood smears and bullet holes hung like macabre decorations across the vertical iron surface. At the spaces where the walls came together, there were metal X-frames which Cleese had previously seen spin on their central axes. The floor of the pit was mostly sand to aid the fighter’s footing.

It also made cleanup a whole lot easier.

Cameras sat perched like paparazzi on the walls above and sent a steady stream of video to the media booth at the back of the Hall. It beamed an up-close-and-personal view of the action to the monitors there which recorded every fighter’s training session. All of them were required to review the tapes and use whatever they learned to refine their techniques. Off to the side, a dimly illuminated scorekeeper’s box sat high above the stands. Cleese noticed an ethereal, ghost-like shadow move behind the glass.

"Rules of the Game… Listen to ’em, learn ’em, and never fuckin’ forget ’em." Monk said and leaned forward, his forearm resting on his knee. "Forget ’em and you will almost assuredly have your ass carried out of here with your toes pointing toward the ceiling." His manner was secretive and almost conspiratory; as if great knowledge was about to be handed down in a lurid, oral tradition.

"You may think you already know this stuff, but as with all things, you don’t know shit from shaving cream."

Cleese leaned back and closed his eyes. He gently prompted his mind to imprint the words he was hearing upon his memory; to sear them into the meat of his brain. They were just a few days away from Cleese’s first training session with the UDs and he knew better than to blow this off.

This… this was important shit.

"One man goes inside," Monk explained. "He has his bare hands, a blade, and a side arm with one full clip. We use Beretta 92Fs with Teflon M882 hollow point rounds for side arms. We’ve opted for the meatier slide that’s sixty grams heavier and one millimeter wider to improve control for when you’re firing multiple shots in quick succession. The Beretta is used because it’s a damn reliable weapon. The hollow points because they make for splashier bullet hits. These are televised events after all and we want to keep it exciting for the crowds. You’ll have fifteen rounds in the first clip with one up the pipe."

Cleese nodded, taking it all in and mentally transforming principles into instinct.

"As the rounds progress, you’ll come across a rash of shotguns out there: Mossberg 500s, pump action Remington 870s, Winchester 1300s… even semi-auto Browning A-5s and Benelli M1s. There’ll also be chainsaws, harpoon guns… a whole host of shit. We’ll have a ton of weapons training available, so we’ll make use of it all. You don’t want to get caught out there with a locked and loaded weapon that you don’t know how to use."

Monk dragged the back of his hand across his chin. His stubble produced a harsh, rasping sound. For a second, his mind seemed to slip away to a time when he’d first been given this speech. It seemed like a lifetime ago and the talk, quite literally, changed his life. After a moment, he returned to the here-and-now and continued with his explanation.

"Oh, and a word of advice: save your bullets for when you draw a crowd. The people in the stands came to see Spartacus not High Plains Drifter so be frugal, you get me? You go in shootin’ up the place and you’ll find that you’re out of rounds when you need them the most. And then… Toes up."

Monk shrugged and broke away. He paced back and forth along the front of the benches. He’d found long ago that keeping himself moving helped him to think. At a time like this, it wouldn’t do to forget something important.

"A match begins with three UDs released into The Octagon. Every two minutes, a buzzer will sound." He jerked to a halt, and pointed a finger at Cleese. "Listen for that sound, because that sound… is your ass."

Monk raised his right arm and made a tight circle in the air with his finger. The room echoed with the sound of a loud buzzer. Suddenly, the X-frames spun a quarter turn and locked into place with a hollow, metallic sound.

"Motherfu…" Cleese exclaimed. He’d heard the sound before, but for some reason, this time it made him damn near jump out of his skin.

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.