Free No Flesh Shall Be Spared by Thom Carnell Page A

he’d seen around who was known as Michaels. He was a big tub of shit who had somehow gotten it into his pint-sized head that his brawn automatically made him a proficient fighter. Michaels was one of the newer fighters, newer than even Cleese, and he’d already gotten himself a reputation as being an aggro asshole. From all accounts, he’d hit the ground running in that respect. As he stood there glaring at them, his hands were on his hips and his manner was severely impatient.
    "Listen, Michaels," Monk said calmly, "there’s another set of benches right there." Monk pointed toward three additional benches on the other side of the room. "Use one of those."
    Monk turned his back on him as if dismissing him and walked over to spot Cleese on his next set.
    "See, that’s the thing, Old Timer," Michaels said, his voice dripping with caustic sarcasm and just a hint of menace. "I like this bench and I mean to use it."
    Cleese slowly sat up and turned so that both of his feet were on the same side of the bench, just in case this fool decided to make good on his threat. He’d seen it happen too many times in the past where someone got rushed and his footing was compromised by stuff on the ground: a barstool, a drunken girlfriend or some other stupid shit. He didn’t know this Michaels guy too well and what little he did know said that he was a prick. Not having his whole story made him decide to err on the side of caution.
    "Step off, Cherry," Monk hissed. His voice was low and steady, but it was barbed with an implied warning. "You want none of this, I assure you."
    Michaels took a step forward and squared his shoulders.
    "Is that so?"
    "It is at that," Monk said and looked him dead in the eye.
    "Listen, Monk," Michaels growled, "some people here think you’re some hot shit, but all I see is a washed up old man who’s past his prime. Now, take your hippy pal here and get off my fuckin’ bench."
    "Not gonna happen," Monk replied, looking back toward the bench. "If you want to press it, we can talk to Masterson."
    "Fuck Masterson," Michaels shouted and he took another step foward.
    "Careful, now…" Monk replied, sounding casual and almost uninterested. "You know how the League feels about fighting amongst its staff. You wouldn’t want to compromise your sit-chee-ation," he slowly returned his gaze to the big man’s eyes and cocked an eyebrow, "now would ya?"
    Michaels paused just for a second as if he was pondering how far he wanted to push it. Interestingly, Monk helped make the decision for him.
    "Good thing, too… or I’d be handing you a big piece of your chubby ass right about now."
    "Hey, fuck you, you old piece of shit."
    Cleese stood up, having decided that he’d heard just about enough. If this little prick wanted his melon thumped, Cleese felt more than happy to oblige him. Besides, he’d dealt with assholes like this in bars for years. They were usually all bark and no bite and all you needed to do was whack them on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper and they quickly learned to behave. Moving rapidly, he took a step between the two men and smiled malevolently at Michaels.
    "Hey, KoolAid…"
    "You stay out of this," Monk warned. The last thing they needed was for Cleese to do something to get himself booted from the Roster.
    Michaels glared at Cleese and leaned in.
    "You should listen to your mommy, Frisco. You don’t want me to hurt you, now do ya?"
    Cleese smiled and motioned with his finger for Michaels to lean in even closer.
    "Two things…"
    "Cleese, no," Monk said again.
    "First, don’t ever call my home town ‘Frisco.’ We hate that shit."
    Michaels’ face broke out in a wry grin and sniffed in lieu of laughing.
    "And second… the only thing you ever put a hurt on is a deli plate, you fat fuckin’ pussy."
    Michaels reacted as if he’d been slapped. His eyes went wide and his face flushed red. He quickly balled his hands at his sides into fists and slowly raised them.
    Cleese smiled and knew