No Flesh Shall Be Spared by Thom Carnell

feet and limped off like a spanked little boy, alternately cradling his arm and rubbing at his boxed ears. The men in the gym, who’d been watching the altercation with an expectant immediacy, all hooted and jeered. Most of them had been fucked with by Michaels and none had done anything about it, not wanting to run afoul of the League’s restrictions on fighting. However they were only too happy to watch someone else risk their gig and dole out a little payback.
    Monk came out from behind the bench and poked Cleese in the chest with his forefinger. "Well, that was just fuckin’ stupid."
    "Hey," Cleese said, raising his hands in mock contrition, "he attacked me. He threw the first punch."
    "Still, you know the rules… ‘No fighting!’"
    "Hey, I’m new. ’Sides, I don’t know no better."
    Monk looked dumbfounded for a moment and then laughed.
    "Yeah, well… you may just be right about that, but it could still cost you your spot."
    "I somehow doubt it. I’ll just plead ignorance."
    Monk smiled and scratched at the back of his head. He had to admit it; it wasn’t exactly something Corporate would toss an asset like Cleese out on his ear for. After all, Michaels had thrown the first punch. It could always be argued that Cleese was only defending himself. He’d sure as shit have enough corroboration for that story from the still-laughing men gathered around them.
    It was a given that the Suits would be pissed as hell, but they’d also probably give him a pass on it. Michaels was a schmuck and everyone knew it. Most of the mentors had already discussed how much trouble the kid was getting to be. There’d been talk of officially punishing him by docking his earnings. From the decisive ass-whuppin’ Cleese had just handed him, he was willing to bet that his days of being a tough guy and a pain in everybody’s ass were pretty much over.
    Monk looked over at Cleese with a newfound respect. Not only had he risked everything in order to respond to an insult, by goading Michaels into striking first he’d done so in a manner which offered minimal blow back.
    This kid was definitely growing on him.
    "Yeah, they’ll totally buy that, you simple fuck. You truly don’t know no better."
    Cleese grinned and walked back over to the bench.
    "Ok," Monk said as he walked back to the head of the bench, "see that something like that doesn’t happen again.
    "You got it," Cleese grinned and slid himself back under the bar. "We’re still pals, right?"
    "Fuck you…" Monk said and reached down to grab two more twenty pound plates. He slid a plate onto one end of the bar and then loaded the other one on the opposite end. He then nodded at the bar set across the bench’s uprights, "and give me another set."

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