She nodded and they stood facing one another once more. This time, it was Cleese who threw the first punch. The blow just missed the side of Chikara's jaw line, but at his arm's full extension, he flicked the tips of his fingers, snipping the tip of her ear. The snapping sound caused her to flinch, which surprised him. She seemed unflappable, but he could tell that his zeroing in on what she felt was a perilous weakness deeply troubled her. It was almost as if he knew her inside and out even though they'd only been spending time together for a relatively short time.

Her response to the ear flick was quick, sharp and had none of the self control he'd come to expect. Two quick punches struck him in the chest and hurt. The follow-up uppercut to his solar plexus made those, by comparison, seem like a walk on the beach. The air was kicked from his lungs and he quickly decided that the best move at the moment was to get the h.e.l.l away from her, for both of their sakes.

It wouldn't do for him to get p.i.s.sed and let fly with anything near his full strength. She could undoubtedly take the force of the punch, but... Again, it was hard to put your best foot forward with a woman after breaking her jaw or cracking her one on the nose.

As he moved further around her-almost as an afterthought-he abruptly reversed direction. Her confusion by the ploy was obvious. Hastily, she tried to counter with a back fist, but it was sloppy and ineffective. The thing was... that in doing so, she once more left her back open and exposed.

He wrapped his arms about her and pinned her arms to her side for a second time. He pushed down with most of his weight and felt her legs buckle a bit under the burden. She groaned slightly as she attempted to support his weight. Once more, his face was buried into her hair and he could feel the heaviness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as they rested on his forearms. This closeness was making it really hard to think.

"Girl, you did it again!"

Chikara went tense and he could tell she was p.i.s.sed; not at him-he was only the catalyst. She was clearly more ticked at herself.

He backed off of the pressure on her and loosened his arms just a bit. She stomped her foot and turned around in his embrace, facing him.

"It just p.i.s.ses me off. Creed used to tell me the same thing back when he was training me. I've been working on breaking the habit, but... I can't seem to help it!"

"Hey, we all have our shortcomings. I mean, look... I am well aware of the fact that I tend to shirk technique and rely on my power way too much. n.o.body's perfect," he said, rubbing her back with the flat of his hand. "Just don't go and kill the messenger, ok?"

"No... no." she said looking up at him. "I appreciate your honesty and your willingness to point it out. Others... would not be so forthcoming."

Cleese stared down into her eyes and watched her lips as they continued to move. His attention drifted away from what she was saying and settled on the line of her jaw, the arch of her eyebrow, and the gentle bowing of her lip. After a minute, the fact that she'd stopped talking tapped him on his shoulder.

"What?" she asked, a soft blush reddening her cheeks.

"Huh?" he said, stupidly.

"You're staring."

"Oh, sorry... It's just that... You..." and he looked down toward his feet and then slowly back up into her eyes. "You're... Well... You really are a beautiful woman."

Chikara looked away, but settled into the warmth of his embrace. It had been a long time since someone she thought so highly of had said anything like that to her. Not since Creed... Her heart, while still knowing it should proceed slowly, beat perceptibly faster.

"You aren't so bad yourself," she whispered and slowly put her hands on his waist. "You're... Well, you're different."

Chikara felt a wave of emotion well up inside of her and suddenly there were words pressing against her tongue, fighting to get out. She fought them off for as long as she could, but then she felt his hand slowly slide up the small of her back.

"I... I missed you when you were gone. Missed seeing you."

"Yeah... me, too" was the best he could come up with.

Baka!!!

"Look," she said, "I had a simple life once upon a time, Cleese. I had a life years ago and that was taken away from me. I had people I cared for and they were taken from me. I had Creed, and he..." She stopped and swallowed hard. "...and he was taken from me. Jesus, I've been doing this a long time... too long... and I... I mean, I know the score."

He looked deep into her eyes and saw tears slowly fill them. Wisely, he said nothing.

"But now... now that I've met you... things have become... I don't know... different."

He smiled broadly and winked at her. Deep down, he sensed this train of thought, this view into the things that were important to her, didn't happen often. He knew better than to interrupt its flow.

She shot a quick glance over his shoulder and then slowly turned back to him. The smile remained on his face. She saw it and mistook his pleasure for self satisfaction.

"Well, don't let it go to your head... Darlin'," she admonished him and then poked his belly firmly. "It's just that... now..." She looked away as if she were unable to say what she wanted to say and still look him in the eye. "Now that I've found something... someone... worthwhile, well... I just think it's time for me to do a little taking of my own. I..."

Cleese reached up with one hand and took her chin in his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his. Her eyelids hung at half-mast and her lips softly parted, wet and inviting. He smiled and she returned it warmly as if she were bestowing a gift. Not wanting the moment to end, he gently inclined his head and lowered his lips to meet hers. As they touched, a spark pa.s.sed between them. They held each other closer and, like travelers lost in the desert and dying of thirst, they drank deeply from one another's mouths. When they regrettably pulled away from the kiss, they continued to hold onto each other and, for the moment, forgot all about The Dead and The Pit, and how either of them could die at any moment. For now, they were happy to have found one another and both silently made a wish that this embrace would never end.

Across the empty Training Hall, hidden deep within the blackness of the shadows, a lone form, hair tied back in a ponytail, silently watched and considered all the ways that this new development might benefit him.

The OFM Or "The 'Oh, f.u.c.k' Moment"

"Ladies and gentlemen, you don't need us to tell you that it has been one exciting first half. There's been plenty of blood already spilled and, as we head into the second half of this match, there's bound to be plenty more. As all of you have seen over these past few months, Cleese has proven himself to be nothing short of amazing in his matches. Absolutely h.e.l.l on wheels and tonight is proving to be no exception. He's really been pulling out all the stops here and this crowd is eating it up."

"That's right, Bob. This fighter has been taking no prisoners and giving no quarter. He's completed each and every round with minimal difficulty and has, as of now, sustained no damage. I mean, he's completely unscathed! However, that may all change now that we're heading into these later rounds and the danger level is even higher. For now, he's looking pretty good out there with no obvious signs of fatigue. The rest of this match oughtta be a good one!"

Once the last of the UDs was down, Cleese felt exhaustion hit him like a hammer to the solar plexus and his knees abruptly gave out. Bent over, down on all fours, he tried to catch his breath; pulling in-as best he could-great heaving gulps of air. His lungs burned like he'd been free-basing napalm and he was trying hard to forget about the knot that was twisting painfully in his side. He made a quick accounting of his arms, stomach and neck and was relieved to find no cuts, no sc.r.a.pes and no bites.

Well, that accounted for something.

He'd dropped the final UD in short order, making sure that it was dead by plunging the spike deep into its left eye. The metal tip came out of the thing's head like an antenna just above its ear. Dark blood oozed out onto the sand and soaked the granules in a blue-maroon.

By his admittedly unreliable count, this was Round Eight and he was looking at four more UDs coming up. Or was it six? He couldn't quite seem to remember which. s.h.i.t, for all he knew, it might be eight. Whatever it was, it was going to seem like way too many.

He fought his exhaustion hard for both a rational perspective and any oxygen he could get as he tried to gauge how much time he had until the next buzzer. Thirty seconds, at best. He knew that, for now, he needed to just stay still and breathe; replenish his lungs with oxygen as quickly as possible so that his muscles didn't cramp up on him. Forget about the crowd. Forget about the cameras. Forget about how much he wanted to puke his guts up onto the sand. He had to conserve his energy while he was able since it was still a long way to go until the final round and some of that big-t.i.tted d.i.c.k suckin' Monk had once talked about. Truthfully, he'd skip that last part in exchange for a hot bath, a good stiff drink and maybe some face time with Chikara, but he was willing to take whatever he could get.

"Miles to go before I sleep..."

He figured that whenever the buzzer went off, he would take a few seconds to survey the situation from the ground and, only then, would he decide a definitive course of action. If the UDs happen to catch him as he was halfway to his feet, he'd hit them low and hard from this crouch. Once erect, he could always spin off to a safe zone to gather his wits and plot his next move.

Far above his head, the crowd's incessant roaring throbbed like a bee sting at the back of his skull and made it hard to think. Cleese had once heard that, in the movies, when they needed a crowd to talk, the director would tell the extras to simply repeat the word "rhubarb" over and over. He'd thought that silly at the time, but now, standing on the receiving end of it, that was exactly what it sounded like- "rhubarb."

Cleese had always hated rhubarb.

He hated it even more now.

Ok, John, so we're seconds away from the next buzzer and the start of Round Eight. So far, we've really been getting our money's worth in this fight. Cleese has dominated the action with some vicious hand-to-hand skills and that spike of his is an amazingly effective weapon. He's even managed to get some time to rest between rounds. Now, here it is the beginning of the Eighth Round and he's still looking pretty fit out there although the physical strain of any match can crush a man.

"That's right, Bob... We've seen seasoned athletes get buried in few rounds."

"Boy, I'll say... Ok, we're getting the signal now that the next buzzer is just about to go off, so let's go back down to the pit for more action...

This time, when the buzzer went off, Cleese was almost ready for it-almost. Still out of breath and knowing he was a little past halfway through with this thing, he hoped it would surely all be downhill from here. At least, that was what he kept saying to himself. Then, he remembered that the closer he got to the end of the match, the more UDs would be coming out of the turnstiles. The more UDs there were, the greater the danger.

"Danger! Danger! Danger!"

Wasn't that what that crazy Aussie used to say on television back before a fish stuck his dizzy a.s.s and killed him? They'd called that idiot "The Croc Hunter," hadn't they? Cleese had always thought that anyone who would willingly crawl into a cage with a dangerous animal like a crocodile simply had to be a loon. As he glanced around the pit at the corpses and the blood, he wondered just who was the crazy one now.

"Crikey..." Cleese snickered aloud as he huffed in another breath.

The turnstiles spun and locked with their now familiar booming sound and Cleese quickly made note of where everything was. Positions One, Four, Six, and Seven had UDs in them. Position Three had a fresh clip. The other three spindles were empty.

Things could be a h.e.l.luva lot worse.

Knowing that there was a new full clip waiting, Cleese decided to expend a few bullets to make his life a little easier. He sprang to his feet and briskly strode toward Six (late teens/early twenties male, punk rocker with a crushed Mohawk, wearing a shirt with the words "Dead Kennedys" printed on it, a series of bruised heroin tracks ran up one arm) and Seven (forty-ish white guy-big, looked like a cop, a bullet wound was visible in his upper abdomen). The other two UDs seemed to be having a bit of trouble getting out of their turnstiles, so Cleese bet they wouldn't be posing too much of a problem, not for a few seconds at least.

When he had just about reached where Six and Seven were standing, he pulled his pistol out of its shoulder holster, and shot Six three times between the eyes as the boy came teetering toward him. Sure, it was overkill, but he knew deep down that the crowd would react positively to the splash the blood would make on the sand.

This early in the round, those f.u.c.kers'll go crazy.

The bullets shattered the bridge of the kid's nose on impact and blew most of his slack expression out the other side of his head. The punk's Mohawk flopped limply to the side as his scalp slid from his skull like a rotting orange peel. Cleese figured it was pretty safe to say, he was now officially down.

The dead cop came up unexpectedly from behind and wrapped his meaty arms around Cleese's chest, trapping both extremities at his side. He felt the thing's rank breath fall cold and clammy against the skin at the back of his neck. A chill ran like a thief down the length of his spine. The cop drove his mouth onto Cleese's trapezius muscle and s...o...b..r ran wetly down the meat of his arm.

f.u.c.k!!!

Luckily, the thing had clamped its jaws over the leather of his shoulder holster rather than on anything he needed. However, it did manage to scare Cleese more than a little. He had missed being bitten by a quarter inch of oiled leather. Simply put, he couldn't let something like that happen again. Ever! Next time, he wouldn't be so fortunate. A quick, reverse-headb.u.t.t broke the cop's nose and caused the UDs eyes to water enough so that it had no choice but to let him go. It was a risky move, but given the circ.u.mstances, it was the only option open to him.

Once free, Cleese drew out the spike, spun around, and, putting his back into it, slashed diagonally across the cop's chest. The metal edge of the blade went in through the bullet wound in his chest, cut through muscle and ribcage and slanted downward. The flesh parted like a sausage and let loose the dead man's intestines in a squiggling heap. The reanimated cop acted as though he'd been slapped with a pillow. His hands flew up and clawed voraciously at Cleese's chest, fingernails sc.r.a.ping against the chain-mail on his arms.

Over the sound of the crowd overhead and the snarling of the cop, Cleese could just make out the sound coming from the other UD's as they stumbled their way out of their turnstiles. He could tell from the hissing sound of their feet lumbering across the sand that they were coming, and coming fast.

He'd have to make this quick.

He whacked the gauntlet's release with the side of the Beretta's barrel and felt a jerk as the blade fell back into place. He raised the pistol and fired the last of his sh.e.l.ls with a "double tap" into the centre of the cop's snarling face. The hollow points slapped into his upper lip, splitting it, and then proceeded straight up the cop's nose. The back of its head exploded in a fireworks display of blood and bone. With a look of complete surprise still plastered on his face, the cop teetered briefly on its feet and then crumpled to the ground like an unwanted doll.

Immediately, Cleese turned toward Position Three and made his way straight for the new ammo. As he ran across the sand, he pushed his thumb against the pistol's magazine release and the now empty clip slid out, falling to the ground. He reached the turnstile and, with a practiced move, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the fresh magazine. His bullet needs now cared for, his attention shifted and he spun around and attempted to get a fix on the other UDs. He hastily slapped the magazine into the b.u.t.t of his gun and, in one smooth movement, thumbed the slide. He felt it "klack" back into place and knew the gun was now ready to be fired once again.

By now, One (a once-cute woman, about thirty or so, wearing a b.l.o.o.d.y pullover and light, green pants with no visible signs of trauma) had managed to come within ten feet or so of him. At first, he thought about taking her out with just his hands, but he'd lost track of Four and didn't want to get caught on a half-blind flank like he had with the cop. So, Cleese raised the pistol, sighted in on the middle of the young girl's face, and pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell and the gun went off in his hand.

The woman continued coming and had, in fact, begun to pick up speed.

He sighted in on her forehead and shot her again.

The gun fired sending up a small cloud of smoke, the air suddenly charged with the smell of cordite. Through the haze, he saw that her progress had not been impeded in the slightest.

What the f.u.c.k?!?

He took a couple of shuffling steps back and pointed the barrel at the ground. Pulling the trigger, he was not surprised to see the sand "jump" as the pistol's discharged force tore into the soft ground. However, now that his attention was focused on it, the "jump" was nothing like a live round would have made hitting the ground. It was different-more dispersed and not as powerful.

Looking up, he saw that the woman was even closer now and so, bending slightly and using all of the strength in his legs, he jumped into the air pushing off with his left leg. Putting the musculature of his lower back into the kick, he front mule kicked the woman with his right leg. When he landed, he pivoted on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet and threw an almost instantaneous spinning heel kick that hit her like a phone book on the side of her jaw. She flew back from the force of it, arms reeling. The foul air that had been trapped in her lungs was knocked out by the front kick with an audible "oof" and she fell heavily to the ground.

Far too quickly for his liking, she scrambled back to her feet and renewed the attack.

As he watched her coming toward him, Cleese took another quick couple of sliding steps back to buy himself some time. Deftly, he pulled the magazine out of the Beretta and inspected it. Sure enough, the d.a.m.n thing was loaded with nothing but blank cartridges. He looked back quickly toward the magazine he'd just ejected and saw that it, of course, lay useless in the sand. The warning Monk had given so long ago came whispering out of the back of his brain: "You go in shootin' up the place and you'll find that you're out of rounds when you need them the most."

It figured that old drunk would have been right about some things.

Who knew he'd be right about everything.

"Son. Of. A. b.i.t.c.h!" Cleese hissed.

They've given me a clip full of blanks!

Monroe's arrogant little voice rang in Cleese's ears.

"Good luck on your next Fight Night."

That little f.u.c.k.

Cleese quickly decided that he would have to consider the many different ways he was going to put the hurt on Monroe later. Right now, he had more pressing concerns in the way of a very undead p.i.s.sed off Valley Girl now coming toward him like a maniacal freight train; not to mention the still unknown quant.i.ty that was Four.

One came straight in his direction, reaching out hungrily for him. Cleese focused in on the ten clawing nails that were coming toward his face like whirling blades. The observation part of his brain noticed that her French manicure had gone to s.h.i.t. Dried blood and tissue lay caked under the beds of her bent and broken nails. Behind the clawing fingers, slightly out of focus, he could just make out the girl's perfect set of snarling, snapping teeth. She looked as if she had come from a bit of wealth: perfect manicure, perfect teeth. Someone's parents once had enough money to pay a top-flight orthodontist, Cleese idly thought. Her tattered shirt, while not exactly haute couture, looked as if it had come from a more than upscale shop.

Like, totally!

He angrily tossed aside the useless magazine and holstered the empty pistol, the black metal seating itself firmly into the oiled leather. Cautiously, he approached the girl. Her hands were his first problem. As they came clawing at him, he slapped the left hand aside, and circled her right wrist in his grasp. Quickly, he spun it, twisted the radial and ulna bones in upon themselves, and shoved the limb back up into its shoulder socket. Her elbow bowed up, drawing the skin taught across the soft underside of the joint. With the heel of his free hand, he struck her in an upward motion just at the point of the elbow, pushing it back and hyper-extending it. The joint snapped with a loud, cracking sound, like wet wood thrown onto a bonfire.

Overhead, the crowd gave up another wave of frenzied shouting.

The girl screeched in what could only have been-undead or not-agonizing pain, but her cry was cut short as Cleese followed up with a savage knife-hand blow to the front of her throat. The scream sounded cut-off as if she'd gulped the remainder of it. His blow snapped the hyoid bone deep in her throat with a muted scrunch. She took a small step, then another, and then stumbled to her knees.

As she fell, Cleese turned his head and quickly surveyed the pit. He still couldn't see where Four had gone. He needed to get an idea where it was pretty d.a.m.n quick, but for now, he had his hands full with the wounded creature before him.

The girl, down on all fours and crawling away, moaned coa.r.s.ely while she nursed her shattered arm. She may have been no longer alive, but her sense of self-preservation remained firmly intact as she tried to scuttle as far away from him as possible.

Cleese next threw a short, oblique shin kick that struck the girl across her already damaged throat. Her larynx collapsed fully and folded in on itself with a wet, gurgling sound. Cleese knew there was no real point to the blow, the damage had already been done. He just did it because he knew it looked good and it made a really cool sound.

The crowd, predictably, loved every second of it. They lapped up every burble and drowning gasp as if it were fine wine.

He stood towering over the girl, her usable hand now cupped over her shattered airway. Their eyes briefly met, but Cleese quickly tore his gaze away. Monk always told him, "Never look into their eyes. The hopes and dreams of what they once were remain there. Look into the eyes and you look into the soul, and that breeds sympathy and sympathy breeds hesitation. You hesitate down here and you're dead before your body hits the f.u.c.kin' sand."

Cleese grabbed a healthy handful of the girl's hair and jerked her head back. Her eyes rolled wildly about in her head and her mouth was pulled slack-jawed by the extension of the muscles in her neck. He slapped the release on the spike against his thigh almost as an afterthought. The spike slid out and locked itself securely into place. He raised his right arm and the spike sparkled menacingly in the light.

The crowd overhead continued applauding and stomping their feet in the stands, creating a deafening racket. The pounding made the entire building shake to its foundations. It was Thor's Hammer battering the world into submission. Cleese could feel the thunderous booming down deep in his bones.

After what he determined to be a sufficiently dramatic pause, Cleese brought the spike down and drove it into the top of the woman's skull. Its tip exploded through her head and out the front of her perfectly capped teeth. As the polished porcelain fell like shattered china from her mouth, her voice wailed in a crescendo and then trailed off into silence.

More rhubarb cascaded down from the crowd.