Extreme Prejudice

The Training Hall echoed with an ominous sense of finality as its heavy doors slammed shut behind Cleese. The sound echoed through the place like the news of a loved one’s sudden suicide—quick, abrupt and undeniably pitiless. Inside the expanse of the large auditorium, the air was so hot that it suppressed the urge to breathe in those gathered there. The heat sweltered and twisted in the air like the body of a man long dead. Even though the Hall was proving itself to be a hellish sauna, a few fighters still stood idly around. They gathered near the free weight area, but their work-outs were halfhearted, at best. A couple of men lazily practiced grabbing and throwing combinations on the large mat but their movements looked as if it was a great discomfort to move about in the heat. For the most part, those who were in the great hall today just hung out and offered up silent prayers for a cooling breeze.

In such heat, it was difficult to do much else.

Cleese ignored all of it—the heat, the humidity, and the men—as he entered the Hall proper and walked briskly across the mats and on toward The Octagon. As he moved through the open area of the building, his eyes roamed the corners as if he were looking for something specific. His stride was direct and his gait was purposeful. A few of the fighters milling about the mats offered up whispers to one another. A few even crossed themselves as he passed, but none were confused as to the cause of this ill temper. The news of Chikara’s death had affected each of them, but they all knew by now of the special connection between Cleese and Chikara and they paid its due respect.

As he made his way across the floor, they made sure to give him a wide and silent berth. It was as if, on some subconscious level, they could sense that whatever his purpose was for being here today, the aftermath of this foul mood would surely put a stain on the walls.

Odds were that it would do the same to a few pairs of underwear.

Down deep inside the pit, a newly recruited fighter and his trainer could be heard as they went through a set of basic drills. This early in the game, the reasoning was to get the new fighter used to being around The Dead without feeling the need to piss himself. Exposure bred familiarity and familiarity bred composure. At least that was how it was in theory. Some fighters never got used to it and they’d all paid the price. The UD they had on the lead was moving about and attacking the Cherry with a murderous intent. The thing’s face was a contorted mess and its hands were a blur as they clawed at him. The fighter batted the advances away with a cautious and unsure hand.

Cleese, for a second, had another one of those uncomfortable flashes of déjà vu.

By now, he’d gotten closer to the pit and had moved up toward the bleachers. In the distance, he was able to make out the suited form of Masterson standing at the foot of the stairs over by the far end of the stands. The big man was gesturing and talking to someone seated in front of him. From this angle, Cleese couldn’t really see who it was. He could tell from Masterson’s body language that whatever they were talking about wasn’t going well. Masterson’s demeanor and the forceful way he waved his arms and pointed emphatically betrayed the topic of discussion as being both important and personal. One thing for sure, he wasn’t happy.

As Cleese got closer, he heard Masterson’s voice hiss a name: "Monroe."

Sometimes… sometimes… life could just be too sweet.

Midsentence, Masterson caught sight of Cleese coming up the stairs and waved a dismissive hand to silence the discussion. As Cleese got closer, he could see from his posture and his expression that he was pretty tense. In fact, the word infuriated might have been a better term.

And rightly so…

The League had thrown out some wild pitches as of late. Chikara’s death was a serious and unsuspected blow to Cleese and The Warriors.

Hell, the whole damn League was reeling from the shock of her loss.

But if one took some time and thought about it, a fighter's death—even a popular one—wasn’t that big of a surprise given how dangerous this game was. Sometimes they forgot the truth of what it was they were doing out there on the sand. The Dead had—once not so long ago—nearly eradicated the whole of Humanity. The fact that Mankind had been able to pull itself back from the brink was a minor miracle in and of itself. Time had a way of blunting the memory of how serious it had all been… and still had the potential to be. These were high stakes they dealt with on a daily basis. Death was always just a dumb mistake away, and what happened to the best of them could easily happen to the least of them.

The important thing was that, according to all reports, things seemed to be going well for The League… and what was good for The League was good for the fighters.

Masterson had seen tapes of Cleese’s matches, and even he, a non-fan, had been impressed. Revenues were up. Internet buzz was like nothing anyone had ever seen. Corporate was as happy as newlyweds, already gearing up a line of merchandise with Cleese’s face on it: shirts, hats, hell, even foam spikes—for the kids. Recent tragedies aside, business was good.

As he watched Cleese continue to approach, Masterson silently considered how God gave every man in this life one gift: some could sing, some could erect buildings, some could paint portraits, but every man had one thing that he was able to do better than anyone else. Masterson felt his gift was his ability to lead and to make the hard decisions that often meant whether men lived or died. For Cleese, his one gift was his ability to put the hurt on other living things. It was this gift that made him a perfect match for the world Weber had made for them. The man was born and bred to be in this sport, and it was that very reason which was, undoubtedly, why his life back in the real world had amounted to such a steaming shit pile.

On more than one occasion, Masterson had tried to imagine the kind of sewer that could have bred a man like Cleese. Poverty, abuse, neglect… they were all just ingredients in a lethal recipe. Spices in a naturally toxic stew.

But then again, Masterson really didn’t really give that much of a fuck about the bastard or his childhood, if he were to be completely honest. No one was more aware than he of the fact that Cleese was simply this week’s fêted warrior. He was fuckin’ Pokemon and not a damn thing more. His time would come and go with a minimum of fanfare. Masterson knew from his tenure with The League that the UDs—given enough time and opportunity—claimed every fighter. No one was exempt. Not even the pretty ladies. Fighter’s faces came and fighter’s faces went—sometimes literally. Cleese had been a doomed man since he first stepped off of the Black Hawk.

He just didn’t know it yet.

"Cleese!" Masterson called and waved. He smiled that oily smile of his and extended his hand toward the approaching fighter.

"Masterson," said Cleese in a monotone and nodded in lieu of shaking hands. His pace, however, never slowed.

"You remember Philip Monroe, don’t you, Clee…?"

"Of course, he does," interrupted Monroe as he got to his feet and brushed at the seam of his pants. Casually, he stepped forward. "I got a message you wanted to talk to me, Buddy?"

Cleese had gotten close to the two men and, as he stepped to within arm’s reach of them, he brushed past Masterson with the same ease that he’d exhibited time after time in the pit. As he did so, he took an additional step forward, raising his right hand up toward his chest as if scratching an itch; a classic misdirection. Without warning, he suddenly snapped his hand out in an open-handed back slap, its speed more like that of a viper than any human appendage. The hall reverberated with a sharp, clapping sound as he cracked Monroe soundly across the jaw.

Far off across the Training Hall, the other fighters all stopped what they were doing and turned and stared.

Monroe stumbled backward, almost skidding like a cartoon character on the back of his heels. His knees went soft and he fell, flat back onto the bleacher’s seat. A dark red imprint resembling the back of Cleese’s hand burned hotly across his cheek.

At first, Cleese was kind of amazed. The blow was meant only to get the fuck’s attention. He hadn’t even hit him that hard, but Monroe went down with surprising ease.

Whatta bitch!

Monroe scrambled across the bench, trying his damnedest to get himself as far away from Cleese as possible.

"How dare you!" he shouted through rapidly puffing lips. An incoherent stream of threats of suspensions and legal action followed as he nursed his rapidly swelling face. His ponytail had come undone, leaving oiled hair hanging loosely across his eyes.

Cleese wasn’t sure, but it looked as if he was crying just a little.

Cleese crossed the distance between them with frightening speed. He deftly reached out, grabbed up a handful of Monroe’s tie and shirt collar and dragged him toward the side of the pit. It was a move he’d performed a thousand times as a bouncer in bars. It surprised the drunk by throwing his balance off and it hinted at the raw power that was at his assaulter’s disposal. It also got him up on his feet, out of the bar and into an alley where the real punishment could take place. It was—as they say—a "win-win."

Monroe began, this time as expected, to scream and screech like a little girl.

"You fucking cunt!" Cleese spit out, his voice dripping with hatred. "Did you really think I wouldn’t figure out your fuckin’ hare-brained shit, huh?!?" Cleese shook Monroe like a rag doll and pulled his face within inches of his own. "Who do you think you fuckin’ are with this Blofeld bullshit?"

Monroe screamed out, his voice cracking like ice. "Wha…? Let me go! What are… What are you fucking talking about?"

"You know damn well what I’m talking about, Knucklefuck! You set it all up, you limp dick motherfucker! Everything! You fucking did it all!! And…" he hesitated for a heartbeat, then, "I know you had a hand in what happened to Chik…"

An unexpected knot as big as a fist clogged his throat and choked off his voice.

Masterson rushed up behind Cleese and wrapped his arms around him. He did his best to pull him backward, but to his complete surprise, Cleese’s position never wavered. The man barely moved. In fact, he was so intent on getting his hands on Monroe and doing what he wanted to do with him that he didn’t notice Masterson was even there, much less any of his fervent attempts at containment.

"‘Good luck on Fight Night next week,’" Cleese said, his voice mimicking Monroe’s arrogant demeanor. "Fuck you!!"

Monroe finally managed to wriggle his way free and stumbled over toward the railing on the side of the pit where Masterson had been standing.

"You keep away from me," shrieked Monroe. And then to Masterson, "Keep him the fuck away from me!"

Cleese moved again and his speed was something Masterson simply couldn’t believe. Masterson was a big man—a life-long soldier—and Cleese brushed him off like an old coat. One second he was standing three feet in front of him, the next he’d moved past him and had his hands once again on Monroe.

To Monroe’s credit, he finally screwed his testicles to their sticking point and threw a weak and undisciplined punch at Cleese. Cleese snatched the weaker man’s fist out of the air as it flew by. He circled it in his grasp and twisted the wrist. With the bones of his arm torqued in such a manner, Monroe had little choice but to go where he was being pointed. Cleese tugged on his arm, pulled it upward then quickly downward, and Monroe dropped to his knees.

Cleese pushed his knee into the center of Monroe’s chest and leaned him against the railing, backward over the Pit’s edge. Then, he shook him violently.

"I ought to feed you to one of these fucking things!"

In the pit, the fight above had not gone unnoticed and the training UD had begun to get agitated by the raised voices and the palpable sense of aggression. The thing immediately went into a frenzy the moment it saw Monroe’s hair dangling a foot or so above it, just out of its reach. Having had little success with the live fighter standing in front of it, the thing immediately made frantic leaps and grabs for Monroe. Its frustration level rose markedly as it felt the tips of its fingers brush through Monroe’s dangling lock of hair. The trainer who held the reins pulled the UD backward and it came away with only a few strands of hair caught under its cyanotic fingernails.

Cleese wasn’t entirely sure, but he could have sworn he smelled Monroe shit his tailored silk pants.

The fighter and his training partner quickly pulled the agitated UD away from the side of the pit nearest to where Monroe hung. Off in the distance, a raucous chorus of cheers, shouts and applause were heard coming from the other fighters in the Hall. It seemed that there were more than a few people who didn’t like Monroe or his methods and watching him get bitch-slapped was riotous sport.

It sure as hell beat standing around and sweating like a pig.

Finally, Masterson was able to pull Cleese from on top of Monroe, but not without a good deal of exertion. Cleese let go reluctantly and brushed Masterson off.

"Cleese, what the hell do you think you’re doing?" Masterson asked excitedly, pushing him back. "You can’t strike a League official. Do you want to get released from your goddamn contract?"

Now secure that Masterson had Cleese under control, Monroe renewed his shouting and impotent threats as he rose to his feet.

"How dare you! How fucking dare you!!" Monroe shouted as he stood up and brushed at his shirt in a vain effort to wipe away the wrinkles. "Don’t you get it, you stupid mother fucker? We own you, you stupid fuck!"

"What did you just say?" Cleese growled.

"I said, we own you. Lock, stock, and white trash barrel."

Monroe, feeling a bit of his old self now that Cleese was away from him, threw his hands up into the air.

"Let me break this down for you," Monroe pointed an accusing finger at the man who just seconds ago was trying to throttle him. "You fighters…" and he raised his voice loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear, "You are nothing more than commodities. Property. We call the shots here."

 "Shut up, Monroe," Masterson warned.

"No… No, Masterson… he needs to hear this."

"Shut. Up. Monroe."

"You really don’t get it, do you? We… Us… The League… We make the decisions here. We decide who gets signed. We decide who gets fighting slots. We decide who gets play. You’ve never been anything other than a circus act, you fuck."

"Shut. Up. Monroe. Walk away…"

Monroe stared at Masterson then shot a menacing glare at Cleese.

"You know what… Fuck you! We decide who lives, Cleese. We decide who lives and who fucking dies!"

Cleese grinned malevolently and tried to decide which body part he was going to shove up Monroe’s ass.

"Walk. Away!" Masterson warned. "NOW!"

Cleese looked around and decided he couldn’t just kill this asshole in front of God and all these witnesses. Better to step back, get some perspective, and decide what to do. He figured it’d be best to decide just how cold his dish of revenge should be before serving it. Slowly turning away, he took a step back the way he’d come.

Then, Monroe went and ruined it all by opening his mouth and letting the other inconceivable shoe drop. Monroe glared at Cleese and smiled.

"After all… if you hadn’t noticed, you fucking chimp, shit has a way of happening around here."

Cleese stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned at the hip and stared menacingly at Monroe.

Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to…

"Shut up, Monroe," interrupted Masterson angrily. "Shut the fuck up!"

Cleese glared in Masterson’s direction and then back at Monroe.

"Just ask your girlfriend," Monroe said smugly and looked away.

Almost immediately, he regretted making the statement and glanced over at Masterson. From the look that passed over his face, it was plain to see he knew that he’d fucked up. Silently, he wished he could take that last bit back the instant after he’d said it, but Cleese had laid his meaty hands on him, struck him and made him look like a fool. If anyone needed to be taken down a rung or two, it was Cleese.

Far off, he heard the sound of Masterson sighing in frustration.

As he gazed sidelong at Cleese, his mind almost didn’t register the fighter’s movement.

Cleese spun at the waist and threw a reverse side kick which hit Monroe square in the center of his chest. The air was kicked out of the man’s lungs and Cleese took no small amount of satisfaction out of the sound it made. The only thing better than hearing it was watching Monroe go sailing back into the railing, pitching over the edge and falling headfirst into the Pit. His shocked face disappeared over the edge milliseconds before his shoes did. He went over with the most sublime expression.

"Fuck you," said Cleese as regained his footing. His hands went up into the air in frustration. "Fuck you and fuck your little fuckin’ game! Fuck your League! Fuck this…" and he waved a hand in the direction of the Hall.

He brushed past Masterson and, as he walked away, he shouted, "And fuck you too!"

Another shout of rousing consensus from the fighters across the Hall rose and fell in the room like a wave. Cleese sensed a few rounds of free beer in the offing.

Masterson reached out to Cleese, as if to try and stop him, but Cleese was beyond hearing any more of his or anyone else’s bullshit. As he walked away, he looked back at him with a look of complete contempt.

"You fuckin’ Assclowns," he spat as he continued on back across the Training Hall and toward the door. "You fuckin’ deserve each other."

Cleese made his way toward the main door and his form disappeared into the blackness of The Hall’s shadowy corners. The applause from the assembled fighters continued unabated until he’d kicked the door open and walked out. Once again, the heavy sound of the door closing echoed through the hall.

~ * ~

Masterson walked to the edge of the Pit and looked over at Monroe who’d by now managed to pull himself up into a panting, seated position down on the sand. His fall had been far, but the sand softened his landing considerably and the only thing injured was his ego.

The two training fighters were not amused as they made their way quietly out of the Pit. When Monroe fell over the railing, they’d had to yank their UD around hard to keep it clear of him as he hit the sand. From the look of things, they’d broken the damn thing’s neck doing so.

"Ass-hole!" Monroe shouted as he stood and set to brushing the sand from his pants. He stood silently fuming for a moment and then glanced up to Masterson with the look of an errant child.

It was immediately obvious to the fighters still in the Pit that they’d been pulled into something of which neither of them wanted any part. Leaving the corpse with the broken neck lying in the sand, they both headed out the hatch.

Sometimes discretion really was the better part of valor.

Masterson peered over the top of the railing, his expression not a happy one. Once he was sure Monroe was for the most part unhurt, he stood fully erect and slowly crossed his arms across his chest.

"Nice job… You just had to say something, didn’t you? Had to open your goddamn mouth, eh Monroe?"

Masterson looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. He had no doubt that the fighters out on the mats heard what Monroe had said. It’s not like he didn’t fucking shout that shit at the top of his lungs. As he looked out over the Hall, he saw most of the fighters looking away. If they’d heard anything, they were not showing it. Satisfied that things were more or less ok, he stared down at Monroe balefully.

 "You might as well have just signed your name to a goddamn confession, you stupid fuck! There will be no controlling him now. Not now… not ever!"

"Oh, bullshit…!" Monroe said with disdain, still trying to pull himself together. "Oh, and thanks a lot for helping me out there. You know you could have done something to stop him! He could’ve gotten me killed!"

"No, can it, Phillip. You’ve habitually pushed this whole thing in a direction it never needed to go. Things were progressing as they should have: revenue was up, attrition was manageable and everything was fine. We really didn’t need you lending a helping hand…" Masterson uncrossed his arms and grabbed the rail before him forcefully. "God knows, there is enough drama and trauma in these damned spectacles to keep people tuning in. You didn’t have to fuck with things."

Masterson ran a hand across the back of his neck.

"Now… Cleese has gotten wise to your bullshit and he knows… he knows… you’re the fucking man behind the curtain. Jesus… Weber is going to be furious over this." Masterson looked down and concentrated his gaze toward the tips of his highly polished shoes before whispering more to himself than anyone else, "We’re going to need to be extra careful… now more than ever."

"What?" Monroe said emphatically from the pit.

Monroe paused and looked back in the direction Cleese had left.

"Perhaps there is more to our friend than we’d first believed."

 Monroe stared up at Masterson and looked deep into the old soldier’s eyes as he went back to pulling himself together and rubbing his cherry-red cheek.

"Whatever… That fucking idiot’s becoming a liability and a menace despite the money he’s pulling in," he whined as he continued brushing sand from his pant’s seat. "And don’t tell me you haven’t thought the same."

The two men each stared into space for a long time, thinking. After a moment, Monroe looked around at the pit in which he stood.

"Jesus… look at this place. It’s disgusting!"

Then, he looked up and caught Masterson’s eye.

"Do you think…" he asked and looked around for any unwanted ears, "Do you really think he’ll be a problem now?"

Monroe suddenly looked more than a bit worried. The League had a lot invested in Cleese and they would remain happy just as long as things continued along the rosy path they’d all been traveling. If he’d somehow managed to push things a little too far and jeopardized all of that, it might cause an inconsolable rift to appear.

"I mean," Monroe continued, "Weber will be really fucking pissed if Cleese got clear before the League was done with him and his contract. If he were to be killed, that'd be one thing, but…"

Masterson pondered the situation silently for a moment. It was good that Monroe had gotten his head back in the game and was thinking clearly again. The man was an impetuous and manipulative jerk, but he was also pretty adept at climbing the corporate ladder and sensing the ebb and flow of the tides. Masterson wasn’t much interested in the upward mobility of his career.

He just wanted to keep his job.

Thinking it through though, Masterson decided that yes… Cleese was indeed pretty hurt and angry—and with good reason—but when push finally came to shove, he was alone in this. Chikara was gone. The League owned Weaver pretty much lock, stock and barrel. He wasn’t close with anyone else and had no one he could trust outside of this place.

"Ok," sighed Masterson, "so looking at it objectively, I don’t think Cleese can do shit. He’s pissed now, you’ve pretty much seen to that, but give him time. He’ll calm down and remember who pays the bills and when he does, he’ll either get back on the program or he won’t."

Monroe thought it over and decided Masterson was right. He nodded his agreement and then moved to tie his hair back into its ponytail.

Masterson smiled and then added, "Besides, where else does he have to go?"

"You really think so?"

"I do. And besides… something’s just been brought to my attention that, I think, should help settle the matter, one way or the other. Once and for all."

Monroe turned and limped painfully across the sand toward the Pit’s entryway.

"After that," Masterson said from overhead, again looking over his shoulder toward the Hall’s door, "he’ll either be on the team or he won’t be. Whichever… It’s all the same to us, right? And you know as well as I do… It’s not like there’s a shortage of fighters out there. They may not be as talented as he is, but they’re still more than willing to step out there onto that sand. It’s like you said, whether they end up living or dying… we win either way."

Monroe nodded and continued hobbling toward the door.

Masterson turned and leaned against the railing, saying, "And if Cleese thinks he can do anything like bailing on his contract, well we have a battery of lawyers just waiting to sue him for more money than he’s ever imagined.

Monroe had by now reached the hatch to the stairway. He stopped and waited for Masterson to finish his thought.

"If that doesn’t work…"

"There’s always the mercs…"

"Right. If he does as he’s told, we’ll utilize his talents until he’s no longer any good to us. After that…"

"I’ll just continue to stack the decks against him during his matches until he has a change of heart… or gets himself injured."

Reluctantly, Masterson agreed.

"But just so we’re clear… and let’s be agreed on this… The man is, as of now, utterly expendable."

Masterson nodded and looked away. For a moment, he thought he had an idea of how Judas Iscariot felt.

"One thing I doubt he ever read was the small print of his own contract," Masterson continued, "and you are quite right… We do own him—alive or dead—and we continue to own him until which time we decide that we’re through. Not the other way around. Even if a fighter ends up dying in the pit, The League still has a legal right to whatever is left of his body. Dead… or Undead."

Monroe stood at the open Pit door and looked toward the gangway which led up to the grandstands. He’d always figured he could trust Masterson. Now, he was sure of it. He’d only had to take an ass-whipping to find it out for sure. He was convinced now the man would watch his back and, as a result of that, they would both come out of all of this being solid gold.

Masterson watched Monroe as he limped his way around the corner and up the ramp from where the gangway was. He watched him approach in the dim light of the hall and silently wondered how wise it was to be allied with a duplicitous man such as Monroe. He was proving himself to be a bit of a pain in the ass and Masterson was beginning to think it might be wise if he put as much distance as he could between himself and the man’s impulsive schemes as possible.

Because, if he wasn’t careful, Monroe was going to put both of their asses in a sling.