Monk looked over at Cleese with a newfound respect. Not only had he risked everything in order to respond to an insult, by goading Michaels into striking first he'd done so in a manner which offered minimal blow back.

This kid was definitely growing on him.

"Yeah, they'll totally buy that, you simple f.u.c.k. You truly don't know no better."

Cleese grinned and walked back over to the bench.

"Ok," Monk said as he walked back to the head of the bench, "see that something like that doesn't happen again.

"You got it," Cleese grinned and slid himself back under the bar. "We're still pals, right?"

"f.u.c.k you..." Monk said and reached down to grab two more twenty pound plates. He slid a plate onto one end of the bar and then loaded the other one on the opposite end. He then nodded at the bar set across the bench's uprights, "and give me another set."

Rules of the Game "Listen up," Monk said one afternoon as the two of them sat, taking a break in the stands overlooking The Octagon, "'cause I'm only going to say this s.h.i.t once."

The fighting s.p.a.ce below them was a pit roughly thirty feet across with dull, brushed metal sides. The walls bore the marks of training sessions past, blood smears and bullet holes hung like macabre decorations across the vertical iron surface. At the s.p.a.ces where the walls came together, there were metal X-frames which Cleese had previously seen spin on their central axes. The floor of the pit was mostly sand to aid the fighter's footing.

It also made cleanup a whole lot easier.

Cameras sat perched like paparazzi on the walls above and sent a steady stream of video to the media booth at the back of the Hall. It beamed an up-close-and-personal view of the action to the monitors there which recorded every fighter's training session. All of them were required to review the tapes and use whatever they learned to refine their techniques. Off to the side, a dimly illuminated scorekeeper's box sat high above the stands. Cleese noticed an ethereal, ghost-like shadow move behind the gla.s.s.

"Rules of the Game... Listen to 'em, learn 'em, and never f.u.c.kin' forget 'em." Monk said and leaned forward, his forearm resting on his knee. "Forget 'em and you will almost a.s.suredly have your a.s.s carried out of here with your toes pointing toward the ceiling." His manner was secretive and almost conspiratory; as if great knowledge was about to be handed down in a lurid, oral tradition.

"You may think you already know this stuff, but as with all things, you don't know s.h.i.t from shaving cream."

Cleese leaned back and closed his eyes. He gently prompted his mind to imprint the words he was hearing upon his memory; to sear them into the meat of his brain. They were just a few days away from Cleese's first training session with the UDs and he knew better than to blow this off.

This... this was important s.h.i.t.

"One man goes inside," Monk explained. "He has his bare hands, a blade, and a side arm with one full clip. We use Beretta 92Fs with Teflon M882 hollow point rounds for side arms. We've opted for the meatier slide that's sixty grams heavier and one millimeter wider to improve control for when you're firing multiple shots in quick succession. The Beretta is used because it's a d.a.m.n reliable weapon. The hollow points because they make for splashier bullet hits. These are televised events after all and we want to keep it exciting for the crowds. You'll have fifteen rounds in the first clip with one up the pipe."

Cleese nodded, taking it all in and mentally transforming principles into instinct.

"As the rounds progress, you'll come across a rash of shotguns out there: Mossberg 500s, pump action Remington 870s, Winchester 1300s... even semi-auto Browning A-5s and Benelli M1s. There'll also be chainsaws, harpoon guns... a whole host of s.h.i.t. We'll have a ton of weapons training available, so we'll make use of it all. You don't want to get caught out there with a locked and loaded weapon that you don't know how to use."

Monk dragged the back of his hand across his chin. His stubble produced a harsh, rasping sound. For a second, his mind seemed to slip away to a time when he'd first been given this speech. It seemed like a lifetime ago and the talk, quite literally, changed his life. After a moment, he returned to the here-and-now and continued with his explanation.

"Oh, and a word of advice: save your bullets for when you draw a crowd. The people in the stands came to see Spartacus not High Plains Drifter so be frugal, you get me? You go in shootin' up the place and you'll find that you're out of rounds when you need them the most. And then... Toes up."

Monk shrugged and broke away. He paced back and forth along the front of the benches. He'd found long ago that keeping himself moving helped him to think. At a time like this, it wouldn't do to forget something important.

"A match begins with three UDs released into The Octagon. Every two minutes, a buzzer will sound." He jerked to a halt, and pointed a finger at Cleese. "Listen for that sound, because that sound... is your a.s.s."

Monk raised his right arm and made a tight circle in the air with his finger. The room echoed with the sound of a loud buzzer. Suddenly, the X-frames spun a quarter turn and locked into place with a hollow, metallic sound.

"Motherfu..." Cleese exclaimed. He'd heard the sound before, but for some reason, this time it made him d.a.m.n near jump out of his skin.

Monk waved toward the scorekeeper's box as if in thanks. Inside the elevated room, the shadow Cleese had previously seen waved back before evaporating back into the gloom.

"At the sound of that buzzer, the eight corners of The Octagon will pivot like you just saw," Monk continued, returning his full attention to his enthusiastic student. "In your head you should a.s.sign each corner a number and remember what's what so you can keep 'em all straight in the heat of the moment. Once those spindles move, you're gonna find one of four things there."

He counted them off aloud, using his stubby fingers as a visual aid.

"One: a weapon. It could be a better pistol, a shotgun, a chainsaw. You'll never know, but whichever it is, you'll be d.a.m.n glad to see it. Two: ammo. This ain't Halo or Quake out there, Buddy. There's no cheat codes, so sooner or later you're gonna need to reload. And that's as good as f.u.c.k a reason as any to conserve your ammo. Three: A very p.i.s.sed-off UD. They'll be disoriented at first, but soon enough, they'll smell you and come a-runnin'. Four: Nothing... Nada... Bupkiss. There are eight spindles and we have to maintain some sense of drama. We don't want this to be a G.o.dd.a.m.n turkey shoot. Again, we gotta keep it interesting for the crowd. It is, after all, what they're paying for.

"Keep this in mind, by the time the next buzzer sounds you'll need to have thought about a lot of s.h.i.t: your position in the Pit, the position, if any, of the remaining UDs around you, your weapon's status and what you need to replenish it, where the spindles are (which can be both a good thing and a bad thing depending on what is there when it next spins). Lotsa s.h.i.t... You're a smart boy. You'll figure it all out.

"When that buzzer sounds, kill whatever's around-fast! You move on to get what you need, but only after those first UDs are down. Don't stand around f.u.c.king shopping. Kill-Grab-Move on. You with me so far, Champ?"

Cleese sat up and looked the ring over. His eyes narrowed and as he thought, he spoke his thoughts aloud.

"Ring. Spindles. Buzzer. Weapons. UDs. 'Kill-Grab-Move.'" He looked back at Monk and grinned malevolently. "Got it."

"Ok, genius, after six minutes and three rounds, the buzzer will sound each and every minute with the odds of a UD being 'spun' being higher. Think of it as a game and you're going on to harder and harder levels. At ten minutes, the buzzer will sound every thirty seconds. You reach fifteen minutes and you're done! Make it through and you're a hero, a media f.u.c.kin' G.o.d. Sound simple enough?"

Cleese sat thinking, going over the math in his head. No matter how he added it all up-it sucked. It also sounded crazy, but... as they say, "in for a penny, in for a pound."

"By my count, that's a f.u.c.kload of UDs, Monk."

"It's roughly fifty of the slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in those fifteen minutes. It's why you're being paid those big bucks, Pal. But none of that s.h.i.t is gonna make a lick of difference 'cause, if you have to shoot, you're gonna aim for the head. Demolish the lumps of s.h.i.t that pa.s.s for their brains as quickly as you can. Remember, it ain't considered a kill unless you destroy the brain or lop their heads from their shoulders.

"And don't get c.o.c.ky and don't play to the f.u.c.kin' crowd. Not at first. You get the job done and you'll be back in your trailer gettin' your d.i.c.k sucked by a big-t.i.tted blonde faster than you can say "wet and sloppy."

Monk raised a hot dog of a finger.

"f.u.c.k up..."

"I know... it's a vinyl body bag," said Cleese.

"f.u.c.k the body bag, Bronco, that's for your momma to cry over. You get stupid out there and step in it, some UDs gonna be having your a.s.s for an appetizer."

Cleese stared out over The Octagon, rubbing his hands over his eyes. This was some world of hurt he'd gotten himself into, but if he were to be honest a part of him was almost excited about trying this. He'd fought his way out of San Francis...o...b..ck when the s.h.i.t first hit the fan, but this... this was something else.

This was sticking your d.i.c.k in a bear trap and callin' it p.u.s.s.y.

This was crazy and Cleese f.u.c.king well knew it.

"Come on, Cochise," said Monk slapping Cleese across the back. "We need to get you fitted for your gear."

He turned and walked away.

Cleese continued to stare down at the fighting ring, weighing his decision... and his options. The last place he'd called home had been a bit of a bust. He'd been out of work-honest work that is-since he b.i.t.c.h-slapped Stolie, the loan shark he had worked for. The man pushed Cleese one time too many and needed to be ghetto-cuffed if only on general princ.i.p.al. It was a mistake and Cleese knew it even as he was doing it. Then again, "job security" and "good sense" were never high on Cleese's list of watchwords.

When Masterson came calling, Cleese had already beaten down two guys with a broom handle earlier that night when they'd tried to muscle him over a boxing bet. Afterward, as he stood over their unconscious forms, he knew that he'd just stepped in yet another steaming s.h.i.t-pile. Both of them were connected and that meant Mob. Whether he ended up getting into the Blackhawk or not, he'd probably not be living to see his next birthday. Making the choice between dying in his s.h.i.tty apartment with a bullet in the back of his head or by whatever bulls.h.i.t means Masterson might think up was pretty easy. The way he had it figured, either way, he was pretty far beyond f.u.c.ked.

But then again...

It's not like any of it really f.u.c.king mattered. He knew that if he bought it, it wasn't like there was anyone there to really give a s.h.i.t. With no wife and no kids (that he knew of) there was no one around who cared enough to mark his pa.s.sing, much less mourn him. There really was nothing to lose here and, it would seem, a s.h.i.tload to gain. All he needed to do was go ahead and slide his d.i.c.k down deep into that bear trap.

From far off, he heard Monk's voice come drifting in.

"Yo, you comin'...?"

Cleese forcibly dragged himself back to the present moment. He took a long look at The Octagon and then another one back at Monk who stood waiting a dozen or so yards away.

"Fuuuuuck..." he hissed before getting to his feet and trotting off to catch up.

Graveyard Shift Before...

"d.a.m.n it!" hissed Jeffrey Adamson as he lost his grip on the long metal trocar he held in his hands. The instrument fell, banging loudly as it bounced off of the bright aluminum embalming table and continued on, clattering against the linoleum floor.

Adamson, who stood just over six feet with a cap of short cropped hair and a dark-humored personality, was the living embodiment of his vocation of Funeral Director. While outwardly stoic and conservatively dressed, he was known by the people in his life as a bit of a contradiction; someone whose tastes ran from micro-brewed beer to the crudest of jokes. His music of choice was death metal. In more ways than one, he was not the person he seemed.

He stood next to the embalming table, dressed in black suit pants with, white shirt with cuffs rolled carefully up around his elbows, tie tucked discreetly between the b.u.t.tons of his shirt, plastic ap.r.o.n and thick rubber embalming gloves. For almost an hour now, he'd been putting the finishing touches on the late Mrs. Abigail Harvey and fatigue was starting to gnaw at the fringes of his awareness.

The woman lying on the table before him had died (ahem, pa.s.sed on) as a result of a life-long heart condition. One minute she was standing in her kitchen drinking a cup of coffee and watching "her stories" on TV and the next she was a mound of inert flesh wrapped in a faded housedress. A tremendous weight pressed and twisted deep in her chest and then it all-the dishes that needed to be done in the sink, the laundry waiting to be dried, the machinations of the citizenry of Port Charles-simply winked out. There was no choir of angels singing "Halleluiah" to mark her pa.s.sing, just a spilled cup of General Foods International Coffee Cafe Vienna and a soup of urine and feces congealing on the tile floor.

Luckily, the preparatory work for her upcoming service had gone well. The acrid embalming fluid that Jeffrey had pushed through her arterial system via the Sawyer machine had completed its chemical alchemy, preserving her tissues at least long enough to last through her wake and funeral. When she'd died, Mrs. Harvey had fallen face first onto the floor and remained there for as long as it had taken for her to be found and for the Medical Examiner to arrive and a.s.sess her cause of death. The dark purple discoloration from post-mortem lividity where her blood pooled had almost completely faded from the side of her puffy face.

After death, blood settled in whatever the lowest point was in the anatomy: the back, feet and hands. Gravity's laws demanded to be obeyed above all else. Marilyn Monroe died lying flat on her photogenic face and it had been a certified mess by the time the embalmer was able to begin his ministrations. The timely removal of such settling was one of the trickiest parts of the job. If not caught early, the red blood cells would burst, forever staining the surrounding tissues. The condition was called "post-mortem stain" and it was best to clear the circulatory system out as soon as possible in order to achieve the most eye-pleasing results...

...for the family's sake.

With an exhausted sigh, Adamson squatted down and picked up the trocar. Standing up, he took a moment and checked it for damage or dirt. The instrument was an imposing length of rigid metal with a sharpened point at one end. Three small holes were visible just before the tip of the point. At the other end, a ribbon of rubber hose was attached to the handle. The pale rubber tubing snaked away, its far end plugged into to a delightful little apparatus called a hydro-aspirator which, in turn, was fastened discreetly under the table's drain. The metal instrument was used to remove any fluids trapped in the abdomino-thoracic cavity of the deceased by the use of the vacuum created as water ran through the aspirator.

The point of the shining steel shaft was designed to be inserted roughly two inches to the right of and two inches above the navel and pistoned back and forth allowing the vacuum to suck up all of the blood and other fluids from within the cavity.

Insertion point is two inches lateral and two inches superior to the umbilicus, perforating the rectus abdominis, he recalled from Embalming cla.s.s.

Upon completion of this motion, Jeffrey would redirect the tube into the lower abdomen through the same hole in the skin and remove any blood, urine and watery wastes that remained in the lower gastrointestinal tract. Once all of that was done, he would use the same procedures to pour a highly concentrated formaldehyde solution called "cavity fluid" into the same areas in order to preserve the now perforated viscera. The procedure took a little getting used to since it was so similar to repeatedly stabbing someone in the belly, but with enough composure on the part of the embalmer, it soon became just another part of the job.

So much to do...

As he set about taking care of Mrs. Harvey's internal organs, he silently considered his busy night so far. He'd already embalmed Mr. Lodene and now that he was almost finished with Mrs. Harvey he only had one more case to complete before calling it a night. After that, there was minimal cleanup that needed to be done and then it was all quiet on the Western front until his shift ended.

Adamson enjoyed working the overnight shift at the Howard, Fine and Howard Funeral Home. The place was nice and had over the years developed a solid reputation. The late hours allowed him to work out from underneath the a.n.a.lly retentive eye of his boss, Mr. Marshall Howard, and let him care for the dead in the manner-and with the respect-he felt they deserved. In the past, he'd worked for too many firms that gave little to no care for the amount of consideration afforded to those who had pa.s.sed on. For many people in this profession, the job was more about making money than any real sense of compa.s.sion; more about financial gain than offering any tangible psychological benefit to the bereaved. In some cases, the bodies themselves were tossed about like sides of beef in a slaughterhouse. In fact, many morgue workers often referred to the moving of bodies as "throwin' meat." This was the kind of sentiment that Jeffrey neither understood nor condoned. It was crucial to Jeffrey that the dead be given their due. Working the late shift allowed him to see that quality care was given to each and every case that came under his watchful eye.

"Jeez," he said aloud, his voice sounding alien in the silence of the room. He checked his watch and raised an eyebrow. "Four hours." He rubbed the back of his wrist across his forehead in an effort to relieve some of the tension there. "I've been at this s.h.i.t for four hours."

He absentmindedly let go of the trocar still inserted deep into the belly of Mrs. Harvey and pulled the latex gloves from his hands with a loud snap. The lance stuck up phallically from her midsection and pointed toward the ceiling.

"Break time," he muttered, unstringing the stays at the back of his plastic ap.r.o.n. He stepped away from the table and pulled the cords from around his neck. The muscles in his back complained silently the moment his arms were raised over his head. As he took an appraising look at his handiwork, he draped the plastic ap.r.o.n across the foot of Mrs. Harvey's table.

Mrs. Harvey was a big woman with great rolls of flab cascading from her thick frame. Years of overeating with little or no thought ever being given to her health contributed to the stroke. A lifetime of Funyuns and root beer floats were not exactly conducive to longevity.

A doctor had once told Jeffrey as he'd signed off on yet another death certificate, "You never hear the expression big old man or big old lady... It's always little old man or little old lady." Most folks never seemed to get that.

On the table before him, the woman's hair laid slick with water against her skull, giving her face a "standing in a high wind" appearance. Her chubby cheeks hung like sacks of water from her face. All in all, it was a look that was not in the least bit flattering.

Adamson turned to the small sink behind him and picked up a bottle of green antibacterial soap. The stuff looked as if it might have smelled of mint, but instead gave off an aroma of old socks and fungus. He washed his hands, first one and then the other, repeating the procedure until he was good and sure they were disinfected. With the amount of bugs and disease he worked with, sanitization was an important aspect of his job. Any embalmer who didn't think that was so, usually ended up on a metal table himself. After shaking any excess water from his hands, he then dried them and unrolled his shirt's sleeves. He walked to the door of the room and turned to look back at his works.p.a.ce, feeling a genuine sense of pride at how well the night's procedures had turned out.

One more to do.

He looked toward the last case which was a Mr. John J. Robinson, according to the toe-tag wrapped in one of the hospital's plastic shrouds. The man's arms crossed his chest, bound by a length of thin twine designed more to keep them in place than for any aesthetic purpose.

Jeffrey figured that after he completed the necessary work on this last guy, he would be free to spend the last few hours at the end of his shift either reading or doing homework for the Business Administration cla.s.s he was taking at the local city college.

"I'll be bawk," he said in a put-on Austrian accent as he opened the door and stepped through. As usual, he made sure to close it until he heard the click of the bolt mechanism falling into place.

As he stepped into the dark hallway, Jeffrey heard the phone ringing in the main office. The radio he kept playing during his shift to remind him that there was still a world of activity going on somewhere out there droned on despite no one being there to hear it.

...due to the clear danger to countless people as a result of the situation that is occurring, this station as well as hundreds of others throughout this part of the country will remain on the air and pool their resources through the Emergency Broadcast System to keep you informed of all developments. At this hour, these are the facts as we know them...

Jeffrey rushed across the loading area, which was an open s.p.a.ce that had once been a garage. At the far end was set a large roll-up door. The s.p.a.ce was used so that employees could have enough room in which to "casket" the prepared bodies for upcoming services. A "ship-out container," which was nothing more than a flat piece of wood covered by a cardboard box designed to protect coffins while shipping them via airline or train, sat with an occupied casket sealed inside.

He quickly walked past and entered the office proper. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the handset of the phone just before the answering machine clicked on. As he lifted the receiver to his ear, he leaned over and twisted the volume b.u.t.ton on the top of the radio to quiet it.

There have been rampant reports of the de- As the radio fell silent, he subconsciously noted that the clock on the radio read 1:37 A.M.

"Howard, Fine and Howard Funeral Home. This is Mr. Adamson speaking. May I be of a.s.sistance?"

"Jeff!" said the voice from the other end. "This is Marshall..."

"Heya Boss, what's up?"

"I'm home, buried up to my ears in taxes since I got here. I managed to lock myself in my study with no distractions: no TV, no kids, no wife, no nothin'. Just me and Uncle Sam, all alone with his finger up my a.s.s," and the tinny voice laughed in Jeffrey's ear. "I just wanted to call and make sure you were doing all right. How are the cases coming?"

"Marshall, you've called me every night since I started here a year ago, no matter if there were cases or not. Are we sure there isn't the word "micro" in front of your t.i.tle of "manager," Buddy?"

Again the voice on the phone laughed. "Ok... you're right. I'm mothering you."

"The cases are going great. Mr. Lodene and Mrs. Harvey are pretty much done and I only have Mr. Robinson to do," Jeffrey said, reaching over to switch the coffee on to start a fresh pot. "Now, providing we don't get any new First Calls, you guys should be OK for the morning."

"Ok, that's just great. I have some death certificates to get filed in the morning and..."

A loud metallic clatter interrupted the man's next thought. The sound came from outside the office, somewhere deep inside the funeral home.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" asked Marshall.

"I have no idea," Jeff said, leaning back and looking toward the loading area. "I was working with the trocar, maybe it fell from the table. Let me call you back."

"No, don't. I'm heading to bed in a while. Me and the wife are gonna have some quality time, if you know what I mean. You check it out and leave a shift report on my desk."

"Okay. You give my best to the Mrs."

"I will... right after I give her my best," again he laughed. "Oh, by the way, before we hang up, I need you to look on the Case Board and give me Rabbi Feldman's telephone number. I need to give him some information first thing in the morning about the Jacob service."

Jeffrey strained, phone cord dragging, until he got to a point in the room where he could see the large, white board where all of the particulars of each case were posted. He scanned the board, found the rabbi's number, and repeated it into the receiver. After a perfunctory good-bye, he hung up. Taking a quick look at the progress his pot of coffee was making, he made it a point to reach over and turn the radio back up. If there was one thing he hated, it was to feel like he was alone in the silent mortuary. It didn't matter what the sound was-music, commercials, or even talk radio-but it was important for him to know he wasn't by himself in this oftentimes creepy place. Given the tricks one's mind could play on itself, a mortuary was not the place to let it run wild.