No Flesh Shall Be Spared Part 26

Paul looked over at Cleese as they walked with a genuinely questioning face.

"I've seen some s.h.i.+t-Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Central America, h.e.l.l, I even got caught in Newark when the s.h.i.+t with The Dead went down-but I gotta tell ya..."

Cleese interrupted him having already heard this rap a time or two before.

"You'd never do what I do, right?"

"Correct, Sir."

"Well, Paul, I'll tell ya... I do what I do, quite frankly, because I was never much good at doing much else. Truth is... you've probably done some things I wouldn't have. So, we're probably even there. I guess what I'm saying is that we all play the cards we're dealt because we don't know no different or we're too stupid to see a way out."

Cleese looked over and shook his head.

"For me, it was a little bit of both, actually."

By now, they'd reached the other end of the hallway. Paul was working at unlocking the door so that they could go out onto the tarmac to where the League's private plane undoubtedly waited.

"Does that make any kinda sense, Paul?" Cleese asked.

"It does indeed." Paul said and grinned. He pressed against the bar that released the lock and then once again held the door open. Sunlight spilled into the hallway, momentarily blinding them both. Cleese walked through the doorway and into the morning's heat.

"On your left," Paul said and pointed toward the Learjet 60 XR waiting on the airstrip. "It's been a pleasure, Sir."

"For both of us, Paul." Then, "I appreciate your help."

Cleese took a few steps and then turned. He quickly snapped off a quick military salute. Reflexively, Paul returned the gesture. Cleese pointed at him with his index finger and the man raised his eyebrows in surprise and smiled.

"Old habits die hard, Paul."

"They do indeed, Sir," and he laughed. "Good luck at your next match, Sir."

"From your mouth to G.o.d's ear, Buddy."

"A request, Sir."

"Go ahead."

"Nail one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for me, ok?"

"For you?" Cleese asked, already knowing the answer.

Paul got a faraway look in his eyes. He seemed lost in thought for a moment and then, just as quickly, he returned.

"For my daughter."

"Consider it done, Paul," and he walked off toward the waiting plane, his thoughts already returning to the place that he was coming to think of as home.

The War of Art Cleese moved around the mat like a shark circling a sinking s.h.i.+p; a predator looking for any hint of weakness or opportunity. His simple grey sweats and wife-beater were wet with a sopping layer of perspiration; moist patches of sweat darkened the cloth between his legs, under his arms and in vertical splashes across his chest and back. The exposed skin of his arms, face, and neck s.h.i.+mmered in the dull light of the Training Hall. His long dark hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, left his face exposed. The pinkish blush of exertion colored his skin and made his cheeks red and fiery.

His right foot came up off the rubberized mat and slid cautiously to the side. His bare feet left moist prints on the already glistening padded surface. As it touched down, he remained up on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, all the better to facilitate his next move when the time came. And the time would come. The time always came. For time and its subtleties were-as Musas.h.i.+ once said-everything.

His posture was all business: hands raised and loose, back slightly bent. The point of his chin was tucked tight to the top of his chest, making it a harder target should his opponent try to hit him there. The point of the chin was well known by seasoned fighters as being a sure spot for a knockout. It wasn't called The b.u.t.ton for nothing. If a punch could be landed there solidly, the jaw got pushed back and slammed the jawbone against something called the temporal mandibular nerve causing a sensory overload, which effectively shut the brain off. It could also happen if a sharp blow made contact with either side of the jaw at the spot where the posterior condyle of the mandible fit together with the mandibular cavity of the temporal bone just under the zygomatic arch. At least that was what one of the anatomy books said. Both were a means to an end and that end was your lights getting shut off, but quick. Cleese was d.a.m.ned if he was going to serve that s.h.i.+t up on a silver platter.

Anyone worth his salt knew that keeping your chin protected was Job One.

Job Two was to know a thing or two about anatomy-hence the books. Cleese figured that to understand how to take something apart, it was important to know how it went together. In his opinion, the first book someone should get their hands on if they were going to learn how to fight was a book on anatomy and physiology. It just made sense.

Cleese moved around the mat bobbing and weaving, just to keep his opponent guessing, but it was mostly for show. It'd been a while since he faced a living adversary and he found that old habits really did die hard. With UDs, it was all pretty straightforward. "Grab-Kill-Move," as Monk had said. You tended to come at them like a freight train, a murderous force of nature.

Hit 'em hard. Hit 'em fast. Hit 'em with everything in the toolbox.

Living opponents were a different story. They were quick, agile, and some even had half a brain in their head. You just couldn't wade in and start wailing. You had to show your opponent a little respect... especially when you were starting to harbor hopes of getting them into your bed.

Chikara crouched into a deep yet relaxed Horse Stance and followed Cleese with the eyes of a hawk as he danced around the mat, baiting him to rush her. He was skilled and one of most facile fighters she'd ever seen, but it was pretty obvious that he put a lot of faith in his size and physical strength. It was a common mistake a lot of men made. They thought of their fists in the same way they thought of their p.e.n.i.ses: big, meaty clubs that could beat whatever lay before them into submission. More often than not, they'd end up flat on their backs with an incredulous look on their faces when she showed them what a little leverage and some feminine ingenuity could do.

Since first arriving at the compound, she'd been through this dance time and time again. Sooner or later, every swinging d.i.c.k that came through here lined up to show The Chick how rough and tumble this sport could be. She'd taken some awfully hard knocks in her time and some serious damage, but she'd decided a long time ago to never let anyone see her break. There were many late nights-far too many for her liking-when she'd hit the showers and cry silently as she cradled herself and quietly nursed her wounds.

As she continued to follow the movements of the man before her, tossing out half-a.s.sed jabs and crosses, she kept her eye on his centerline. Long ago, her mentor, Sebastian Creed, told her, "Follow the body's centerline and you will be able to better predict where your opponent will go and what he had planned. Learn to read the centerline and you'll know what they're up to even before they do." Time and time again, he'd been right about that... as well as a number of other things. The lessons she'd learned from that man were still ingrained in her mind and carved into the meat of her flesh.

Cleese reminded her of Sebastian in many ways. Much like him, Cleese was strong, smart, and a very good fighter. He was also honest, compa.s.sionate, and trustworthy almost to a fault. And while it was true he was a hulking pile of muscle and had a somewhat coa.r.s.e way about him, he'd also shown during their numerous talks a depth that all of the others-even Creed-had lacked.

Beneath all that sinew and testosterone, there was a good man buried in there somewhere.

As usual, it would take a good woman to bring it to the surface.

Cleese bounced lightly up onto the b.a.l.l.s of his feet and kept moving, pus.h.i.+ng Chikara to her right. He'd spent a lot of time reviewing her fight tapes and, by now, they'd been committed to his memory. He pretty much had her and her fighting style figured out; or so he thought. She was a gifted fighter and a h.e.l.luva smart woman, but she was a slave to her training and relied way too much on the flow of the sticking to her already decided upon game plan. Budo bulls.h.i.+t or not... it was a dangerous thing to do and a habit he felt needed to be broken. That was not to say that she was a pushover, far from it. She was one of the best fighters he'd ever encountered, man or woman.

It just meant she wasn't a perfect one.

As he batted away her half-hearted punches, he kept waiting for her to cut loose and really go for it. He kept waiting for her to hit him-really hit him. Maybe she was afraid of hurting him, like that was possible. Maybe she was just waiting for him to commit himself so she could level him with something a little more solid. Whatever the reason, this pitter-pat s.h.i.+t was getting old and pretty d.a.m.n annoying.

He wanted fury and ferocity from her.

He wanted pa.s.sion.

He wanted contact.

"Look, Darlin'..." he said between breaths, "how much of this slap fighting you plan on doing here today? If I'd wanted a ma.s.sage, I'd go get one."

A smile spread across her face and her eyes seemed to brighten up.

"Oh, you want some of this?"

Cleese was just about to say just how much he wanted all of it, when he saw her back foot dig into the mat. Planting the rear foot like that usually meant your opponent was planning something; usually something big. He lifted his right foot and, just as he was starting to take a step back, two sharp, quick open-handed slaps lashed out and struck his cheek.

He had to admit it, she was fast.

"Tag, Darlin'," he heard her say and then c.o.c.k her head and laugh, "you are It!"

Cleese touched the side of his face and the skin burned hot beneath his fingers. Two quick, shuffling steps forward and he was on her. A left hook, a right, then a quick uppercut later and he'd already let his mind move on to picking up the pieces of what was left of her. The problem was... the punches never landed. When his loosely clenched hands arrived at their intended destination, Chikara simply wasn't there. The bad news was that his momentum and committal to the attack had over-extended him. He felt a gentle-almost loving-push at the small of his back and then he was toppling over. The force of his own weight carried him down and to his knees.

Stupid.

Cleese's body fell past Chikara as soon as she stepped under and to the side of his antic.i.p.ated combination. The push on the back was done not for any effect other than to let him know that she was there; to know it and to also know that she could have done a lot more damage than just give him a simple push. He may have had strength and size on her, but that didn't always win the ball game. As she saw the all too familiar look of exasperated indignance appear on his face, she almost had to laugh.

Men...

With an annoyed woof, Cleese fell onto all fours, his head hanging down.

"What is the matter, Tough Guy?" she said giggling. "You need to take a break already?"

Cleese smiled to himself and looked down at the mat. He felt like an a.s.shole after all that mental pontificating to have made such a rookie move. He slowly climbed back to his feet and turned back toward her, his face now a slightly deeper shade of red than before.

"Careful..." she said and she wagged a castigatory finger at him, "you do not want to let emotion cloud your thinking, now do you... Darlin'?"

Cleese grinned and took several abrupt shuffling steps forward. He threw a punch high, aimed just above her head, and then quickly went to grab her arms. His blood was getting hot now and, even though he was beginning to have feelings for this woman, he was not about to let her-or anyone else-get the best of him in a fistfight.

As he bore down on her, she firmly stood her ground. At the last moment, he noticed her stance change ever so slightly as she braced for impact. His thick arms came toward her and a beatific smile lit up her features. It was not unlike the look martyrs got on their faces just before they died. It was a look of utter peace and complete contentment.

Of course, it was all orchestrated bulls.h.i.+t.

As his arms again closed on thin air, he heard her voice speak from over his shoulder, "Our flow cannot become disrupted by our feelings. We must stand to one side of our emotions: anger, fear, hate, wrath... Emotions can only cloud the clarity of our thinking."

Cleese stumbled to a stop and spun around. He shook his head and quietly chuckled.

"You sure do talk a lot. You sure you weren't a teacher in another life?"

A forlorn look momentarily pa.s.sed like a shadow over her face and then her features reset into a firm resolve.

"We must rely on our training," she continued matter of factly. "We must stick to our plan."

Cleese sighed and decided it was about time to cut the chivalry and pa.s.sive courting. It was time to remind this fighter of the physics of their relations.h.i.+p. He lunged forward and, as expected, she glided to one side. As he reached where she'd been standing, he pivoted on one foot and leaned into her. He felt his back b.u.mp against her chest. His heart fluttered just a bit when the soft point of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s came in contact with the meat of his back.

"The problem with sticking to any plan is..." he said and quickly threw his right elbow back and then the left. The blows, while light and without much force, rocked her head to and fro and still succeeded in scrambling her attention. He bent at the waist and, reaching between his legs, grabbed both of her ankles. Then, by simply standing up, her feet came up and off the ground. Once her stability was compromised, the rest of her body dropped to the mat with a slap that echoed through the Training Hall. Now that she was on the ground, Cleese simply dropped to his knees, sprawled back, and trapped her torso to the mat with his body weight. With his bulk covering her, she was more or less pinned. Her arms and legs thrashed wildly beneath him, but it was clear to them both that she wasn't going anywhere any time soon. Lying across her, he felt her breath on his neck as she panted near his ear. Her turned his head and looked into her now very p.i.s.sed off eyes.

"...that sometimes Life doesn't give a s.h.i.+t about your plan."

Beneath him, he felt her wriggle and attempt to throw him off.

"What was it Woody Allen once said, 'If you want to make G.o.d laugh, tell him about your plans'?"

"Maybe it's you who should've been a teacher," she groaned, crushed under his ma.s.s.

"I actually thought about that..." he said and now it was his turn to sound wistful, "once upon a time."

"Ok... point made," she grunted. "Now, d'ya mind getting the h.e.l.l off of me?"

Cleese stretched and put his hands behind his head like a man relaxing in a hammock. He then wriggled his body back and forth, settling in and pressing his weight down even further. He heard her moan and then give up a strangled giggle.

"No, seriously..." she said still laughing. "Get off me. You weigh a ton."

Figuring she'd had enough, Cleese rolled over and onto the mat smiling.

Once she'd gotten her breath back, Chikara slowly got to her feet.

"Jesus, I think you broke one of my ribs," she gasped, holding her side.

"Ok, Smarta.s.s, I'm not that heavy." He gently pushed her and she took two stumbling steps away.

"The h.e.l.l you're not."

After a brief moment of rest, it was time to get back to business. They both stood to their full height and again squared off with one another. Chikara fell into her relaxed stance, legs slightly bent, arms hanging loosely at her side; an old school Aikido stance. Cleese came up onto his toes, chin tucked, with his hands open and in front of him; in a b.a.s.t.a.r.dized street fighter-meets-Muay Thai form.

"Ok," Chikara continued, looking relaxed, "your point aside, I still say that proper training can and will counter any anomaly."

She tossed a sharp left jab followed by a quick cutting oblique kick toward his inner thigh-both he expertly batted aside.

"Look..." he said as he returned to his stance, "any training that is too structured, by definition, doesn't leave room for variation." His hands dropped from his en garde position and his attention became fixed on his explanation. "Bruce Lee said, 'All fixed set patterns are incapable of adaptability or pliability. The truth is outside of all fixed patterns' and he was right. A fighter needs to adapt to the fight and not expect the fight to adapt to him..." He bowed slightly, "...or her."

She dutifully bowed back.

"You can argue the point all you want," he continued, "but nothing's going to change what is."

Seeing Cleese caught up in his thought process, Chikara came on strong. Three quick steps and she was within arm's reach of him. A flurry of left jabs and right crosses followed, some of which landed, but most didn't.

Cleese stumbled back to avoid the onslaught then planted his foot and, redirecting his energy, surged forward. He rolled with her last strike, turned and spun and ended up standing directly behind Chikara. Almost as an afterthought, he wrapped his arms around her at her waist, trapping her limbs against her sides. Bending back, he lifted her off her feet. He thought briefly about slamming her body to the mat, but decided against it as he knew it would undoubtedly hurt her; maybe even break one of her ribs for real.

She wriggled and thrashed in his arms; her legs kicking futilely. Holding her this close, he couldn't help but be aware of the feel of her flesh in his arms. Her skin was smooth and soft, but underneath lay musculature that was firm and supple and very well defined. His face pressed into the base of her neck. His nose was buried in her hair that was damp with the sweat of her exertions. The smell of her was intoxicating; a delicate mix of jasmine and wild honeysuckle.

It had been a long time since Cleese had smelled anything as amazing as that.

"See there...!" he said trying to clear his head and calm the stirrings coursing throughout his body. "Despite all your Zen posturing, you have a habit of being so committed to your plan-of slaughtering what's right in front of you-that you end up leaving your back exposed. You gotta think in three hundred and sixty degrees!"

He quickly let her go and she dropped back to her feet.

In a conscious act of pure self-preservation, he took two giant steps back and away from her. As he did so, he could see her deeply thinking about what he'd said. It was pretty obvious it was not the first time she'd heard it. She stood there thinking and for some reason subconsciously rubbed at a spot on her left elbow.

"Monk recently told me something that has stuck in my head...," he added, driving the point home. "He said, 'It's not the one you hear that'll get you... it's the one you don't.' Become a slave to your plan or to your training and you leave yourself open to becoming a victim to it as well."

He let her stew on that for a minute and then said, "Again?"