Free No Flesh Shall Be Spared by Thom Carnell Page B

he’d hit his desired mark.
    "What did you say to me?" the fat man bellowed.
    "I said…" Cleese leaned in even further and purposefully stuck his chin out, offering the man a target that was designed to be too good to pass up. "I said… that you, my rotund friend, are a poo…" specks of saliva flew from his lips as he enunciated the "p" and landed on Michaels’ cheek "…say."
    He stared deep into Michaels’ eyes and smiled, watching as the man’s blood came to a slow rolling boil. His patience was finally rewarded when he saw Fat Boy’s right shoulder drop.
    The punch was a wild haymaker coming from behind Michaels’ back. Cleese had to give it to him, the boy was as stupid as a sack of hammers, but if he was anything, he was committed. With all of this strength directed into his arm and his vision obscured by his rabid anger, Michaels never saw Cleese’s feet shift and his weight transfer to his push-off leg. As the haymaker came around, Michaels’ left hand dropped and his jaw presented itself with everything except a colored bow.
    Cleese ignored the offering and was already in motion even as he slapped at the incoming fist with his left hand. Coming around the other man’s reach, he let Michaels’ momentum spin him like a top. With a little hop, Cleese let loose a savage oblique kick to the nearest open target—the knee of Michaels’ right leg. Predictably, the big lummox lost his footing as his knee collapsed. With a painful sounding grunt, he dropped down on all fours.
    Cleese circled and, as the wounded man raised his head to scream out in pain from the leg strike, quickly boxed both of his ears. Michaels screeched anew and clutched at the sides of his head.
    "Cleese," Monk shouted. He reached out and grabbed the bench’s barbell. Once he saw that it was already too late, he leaned over and rested his head in resignation on the cold, metal bar. "God damn it!"
    Michaels collapsed forward, clutching at his ears. Now in a full rage, he started to rise to a standing position despite the pain in his leg. When he’d gotten up on one knee, he noticed an empty dumbbell bar which was lying on the ground next to the bench. Boiling over with fury, he grabbed at it. As he rose to his feet, he swung it viciously at Cleese’s head.
    Having expected something of this sort, Cleese was ready. He caught his wrist as it came up and deftly wrestled the bar out of his grasp. He quickly twisted the arm and then maneuvered himself down and under the outstretched limb.
    Now that all of the joints in Michaels’ arm were twisted in on themselves, he had but two choices—return to the ground or allow his arm to be broken in several places.
    As the fat man fell, Cleese silently thanked an old Steven Seagal movie he’d seen years ago for the move.
    Monk raised his head and, seeing how things were progressing, grimaced.
    Michaels’ body hit the ground with another pig-like grunt and he immediately moved to cradle his wrenched arm. His face twisted up into a painful looking grimace and a small string of drool fell from his lips. As he rolled onto his back, he looked up and was horrified to see Cleese standing over him holding the dumbbell bar like a dagger. He gasped when he saw that Cleese was already in motion and bringing it down in a powerful strike aimed directly at his face. He cried out and raised his hands to protect himself.
    Monk shouted out, "Nooo, shit!"
    With a loud slap, the metal bar hit the rubber padding on the floor just to the left of Michaels’ head.
    "BAM, Motherfucker!" Cleese shouted into Michaels’ twisted face. "It’s just that fuckin’ easy."
    Michaels rolled up into a crouch and, wiping tears away from his eyes, shouted, "They were right! You are fucking crazy!"
    Cleese casually tossed the bar aside. It hit the floor with a clatter and bounced under the bench.
    "And that was me making you a fuckin’ corpse! Now, get out of here before I fuck you up but good, you fat fuck!"
    Michaels got to his