"Cleese," Weaver panted, "Admit it, you didn’t think I’d make it."
"I was getting a little nervous there, Buddy. I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up and I’d have to go out there with nothing but my dick in my hand. Is that my shit?"
"I just wanted to put a few finishing touches on it," he said as he handed the parcel over.
Cleese pulled the bag open and reached inside. Weaver had been running prototype after prototype of his gauntlet design by him for weeks. After each time he’d taken the thing back mumbling about some new aspect he wanted to change. Cleese was happy with each revision, but Weaver, it seemed, was a perfectionist.
"I was able to install pressure sensitive pads on the inside of the back panel. With these, you’ll be able to flex your wrist and unlock the spike. It shouldn’t just pop open like it was doing in practice. You’ll still have to slap the release on the back to get it to withdraw though, but I figured that, with this new design, you’ll be able to draw it out without having to use two hands."
Cleese pulled the heavy object from the bag. Its metal shimmered brightly in the dim light. The gauntlet was a large sleeve-like thing which covered most of his forearm. At the furthest end, there was a place into which his gloved hand could slide; a small strap fitted snugly between his thumb and index finger. He slid his arm into it, pulling the straps that ran around it tight.
"I’ve tried to minimize the weight in order for it not to be too heavy. I’ve tested it out and it seems to work pretty well," Weaver continued.
Cleese raised his arm and felt the thing’s mass. He did some shadow boxing and, feeling quite satisfied, he smiled.
"I’ll be damned if I can even feel it," Cleese said astonished.
Weaver just stood back and grinned like a parent watching his kid open a Christmas present. Behind the scenes, he’d put a lot of work into the piece, but Cleese was a good guy and a friend of Monk’s and that meant a lot.
Cleese threw another couple of quick punch combinations—a right, a left, a couple of quick uppercuts—and barely noticed that he had something strapped to his arm much less this metal monstrosity. He was amazed.
"Squeeze the band between your thumb and index finger and flex your wrist," Weaver advised. "Careful though… the fucker’s sharp."
Shinkt!
The spike sprang out with a slight jerk and locked into place.
"Well, fuuuuck me runnin’…" Cleese said, clearly happy. "This is some diabolical shit you got here, Weaver. Who’d you work for back in The World again, S.P.E.C.T.R.E.?"
Weaver bowed and executed an elaborate flourish with his right hand.
"I aim to please. Now, slap the release on the back…"
Cleese did as he was told and the spike slid back into the sheath that was hidden in the gauntlet. The withdraw of the spike was more noticeable than the draw, but given the complexity of the mechanism, no complaints were forthcoming.
"Niiiiice…" Cleese said quietly.
"You like?"
"I do indeed, Pal. I owe you a couple bottles of Scotch for this one."
"You got that right. I’ve already cleared this little slice of Heaven with the Rules Committee so all’s kosher."
"Cool. Thanks!"
"By the way, they thought the same thing I did."
"What was that?"
"That you needed some professional fuckin’ help."
"I’ll make a note of it and schedule an appointment… if I live through this, that is."
The two men laughed and Weaver clapped Cleese on the back.
"You’ll do fine…"
"Thanks, man. I appreciate all of your hard work," Cleese said.
"No problem, Kid," Weaver said. He took the canvas bag back, tucked it under his arm, and turned to leave. "I’ll see you after all of this is over with. We’ll go get a drink and celebrate."
Cleese nodded and watched as the big man walked away from him.
"Listen… don’t get stupid out there," Weaver called back over his shoulder as he left. "I ran into Monk on the way here and he’s right, you know. This sport’s never seen anything like you or that greeting card you got strapped to your arm. That crowd out there is going to love you… Just keep your head and don’t pop off. You’ll be fine."
The old man’s voice echoed hollowly as he got further away.
"You’ll do us proud, Son!"
Cleese turned and looked down the long, dark hallway which stretched out before him like a tomb. Fleetingly, he wondered if he was really ready for this. After a second of consideration, he realized that he probably wasn’t, but it was too late to turn back now.
"Fuck it," he said—neither for the first nor the last time.
Waiting in the Wings
"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen and welcome back… to WGF Fight Night! Tonight… here at the renowned Microsoft Sports Center, we’ve assembled another night of combat featuring fighters so talented that you will be glad you stayed up for all of this one. I’m Bob Wester…"
"And I’m John Davis and so far tonight, we’ve had five fully unharnessed fights and things are looking stellar for our next match. By far, one of the more interesting bouts we have seen scheduled is our next one—a fan favorite—our Cherry Match. The untested fighter is a new-comer hailing from the city of Old San Francisco. He’s a big one all right and someone who, if you will recall, first made a name for himself by being one of the few who were able to fight their way out of the city by the bay. Word is that he did it with nothing more than a baseball bat!"
"Yeah, John, The League has put a lot into him, so he’s sure to be something else. I’ve seen some of his training tapes and I can assure you that we are in for a real treat with this one. And then, following that match-up, we’ll be bringing you our Main Event, but more on that later…"
"Yes, indeed. Another roster of first class altercations all brought to you by the good folks at Weber Industries. Ok, Bob… I’m being signaled now that it looks as if we’re ready to begin our next bout. So, put down the popcorn, Ladies and Gentlemen… and get out the plastic sheets, this one could get wet."
"Why don’t we get things rolling and go down to pit-side and Al Sanchez…"
~ * ~
Cleese stood within the confines of the cramped hallway which ran under the stands and led to the underbelly of The Octagon. The place smelled like a bus station and looked a whole lot worse. Encased in cement, it was really nothing more than a long passage which tunneled under the stands above and on into the side of The Pit. From where Cleese was, it was like standing at the throat to Hell.
I feel like I want to puke.
He was a far sight beyond nervous now and he felt adrenaline scream through his bloodstream like a freight train fueled by a bellyful of crystal meth. He paced back and forth, constantly adjusting and readjusting his hardware. He patted the pistol tucked securely under his arm. He pulled on the straps. Absentmindedly, he ran his hands over his exposed stomach and felt the clammy skin under his fingertips. He reached down further and cupped his testicles, silently hoping they’d still be there when this shit was over and done with.
He flexed his right hand, hit the release, and the spike Weaver made for him sprang out and locked into place. Cleese pushed against a lever on the back of the mechanism and the spike of metal slid back into place with a barely audible "sh-tik." He looked at it and repeatedly flicked it open and then closed. Open. Closed. Open. Closed.
Weaver’s a goddamn genius with the way he built this thing.
The old bastard had taken Cleese’s idea and run like hell with it. The gauntlet was (as he’d expected) a formidable piece of hardware which danced merrily along the edge of what The Rules would allow. Given its potential for drawing blood and the cool way it looked, Cleese was sure it would make him very popular with the blood-thirsty crowd. It would also no doubt turn him into a bankable commodity within The League.
He thought of Monk then and felt instantly disheartened. Cleese was going to miss his partner. He’d been a good friend to Cleese at a time when he most needed one. Monk could have easily declined the opportunity to train him, but he hadn’t and that counted for something.
At least it did where Cleese was concerned.
As he checked his equipment one more time, he wondered whether Monk would really be happy spending the rest of his days kickin’ it at his daughter’s ranch. Would he really be able to come to terms with Life now that Death had left its unmistakable mark all over him? Cleese wished that they could have talked a little bit longer, but in the end he knew it was better this way. Short and sweet.
Somehow, it all fit Monk’s way.
Cleese’s stomach twisted in his gut, greasy bubbles percolating through his colon. He touched the exposed skin of his stomach, just below his tunic one more time and waited for the doors to the Pit to open.
Gawd, I want to puke…
~ * ~
"Thank you, guys. What we have on tap for you tonight is sure to be an amazing fight. A Cherry bout with the combatant having been rushed into service after an unfortunate training accident resulting in the deaths of two fighters: Victor Lenik and Franklin Cartwright, both of who will be sorely missed. The tale of the tape on this new man is pretty impressive. He stands at a whopping six foot two inches and weighs in at a hardened two hundred and fifteen pounds. He’s a street fighter… with a record of 0 wins—0 losses. So, this oughtta be good. Ok, the pit door is just now opening and we can see him stepping out onto the sand. Yeah, holy mackerel… he’s a big boy, ain’t he?"
"Al, sorry to interrupt, but this is Bob back in the studio."
"Yeah, Bob?"
"Al, I don’t see a blade on this fighter."
"You’re right about that, Bob. There isn’t one in the conventional sense, but take a look at the end of his arm. Cleese has reportedly brought along with him a weapon of his own design. I’ve not been able to get a look at it, but I’m sure it has something to do with that metallic sleeve he’s wearing over his arm. Rest assured though, folks, that the WGF Rules Committee has looked the weapon over and given it their official approval."
"Ok… Good enough. Well, I can hear the start of our new fighter’s music, so let’s go back down onto the sand for his entrance and the beginning of this match."
I’m having a weak moment
A moment that may not end
Lonely in my own… skin
~ * ~
The thing Cleese noticed instantly as he stepped out onto the sand was the heat; the heat and the light. Both were a lot more intense than they’d been in the Training Hall. They were absolutely overwhelming. Jeez, it felt like he’d stepped into a sauna standing out here beneath the bright lights; all that heat and air that felt so heavy as to be barely breathable.
Everything is changing
Everything seems changed
As if quietly replaced by something soulless
The music he’d given the sound guy was pulsing through the sound system. Its deep, synthesized beat throbbed seductively throughout the stadium, rattling those in attendance right down to their molars. Its effect was something he’d pondered long and hard over. The pounding rhythm was at once infectious and menacing.
He walked out onto the sand in quick, bold strides, timing his movements so that they would be more or less in synch with the beats of music. He figured the crowd would like it and he wasn’t wrong. When he got to the center of the ring, he extended his arms (as Monk had suggested during the last of their training sessions) in a Christ-like pose and held it. Then, slowly, he turned in a tight circle so that the crowd could all get a good look at him.
Burn it down
The crowd out in the darkness erupted with a thundering applause which growled up from the floor and soared over all of their heads like a flock of angry vultures. It was a roar that, momentarily, made his guts pound and his head swirl.
What happened to the spirit with all its endless strength?
Did they swallow him up and put me in his place?
Did I grow within my shadow or simply melt around myself?
The human put back on… the… shelf
Yeah, Baby…
Looking up at the throng overhead and the television cameras pointing at him, Cleese wondered if this was what rock stars felt like as they stepped onstage. It was like a drug and he instantly understood why people worked so hard to be here in the spotlight. It was instantly addicting. Enjoying himself, he decided to play it up a bit to see how far this crowd would follow him. He wanted to see how much adoration they could rain down upon one man.
Burn it down!
Cleese looked the fighting space over as he continued slowly turning and saw that this Pit was very different from the one he was used to. The sides of this arena were not scarred metal but a clear, bullet-proof plastic; like hockey glass only thicker. Manning their cameras like gun turrets, the crew could be seen through the stuff even though the panes of acrylic were tinted slightly to cut the glare. It was a perfect six camera shoot of what could only be described as televised mayhem.
I have seen through the eyes of the opposition
The one who defines my failure
At touching that place in the heart
Where emotions bow their heads in wonder
You have encountered me
Familiar with my immediacy
In a wisp of melody
A neglected phrase unexpectedly heartfelt
In this world I may tap you on the shoulder
Cleese spun lazily to a stop and stood quietly, head hanging down, as if in prayer. His posture was, as previously planned, like that of a Corpus Christi. Hell, if these people were going to treat him like Jesus, he might as well
look
like him. With a grand solemnity, he raised his arms over his chest, crossing one over the other at the wrist. He was careful to make sure that his right hand—the one with the gauntlet—was on top.