No Flesh Shall Be Spared Read Online Free

of the events of the last few hours, he knew that Masterson was someone he simply wasn’t going to like.
    For the life of him, Cleese couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was that bugged him about the man, but it was there. God knew there were so many reasons to choose from. Maybe, it was that he was a "Suit" and Cleese hated Suits. Maybe it was the unceremonious way he’d barged into Cleese’s room and had him yanked out of bed at gunpoint. The promise that the trip would be "worth his while" might have been enough to spark his interest in the beginning, but more and more, even that was failing to hold water.
    And then there was that quiet-as-a-tomb airlift here. The chopper ride had been about as comfortable as a cavity search what with the guy just sitting there stone-faced the entire trip. He’d just sat there, staring straight ahead, not saying a syllable.
    It was enough to almost creep a guy out.
    Whatever the reason was, Cleese decided the least he could do was to put a little crimp in that anally-retentive timetable of his. The prospect of fucking with him was proving to be all too tempting.
    It was only after some silent deliberation that he decided it was Masterson’s sense of entitlement—that self-absorbed air of superiority—that rubbed him the wrong way.
    All that other shit was just icing on an already unpalatable cake.
    In the end, it came down to something as simple as chemistry…or a lack thereof.
    The crux of it was that Cleese was certain that the guy was an asshole of the first order, and for that alone he deserved to be given at least some small ration of shit. And he’d learned from past experience to trust his gut whenever it grumbled. That oily feeling deep in the pit of his stomach had saved his ass more times than he could remember. So when it spoke up as it had now…he figured it best to pay it the strictest attention.
    "I’m sure you’re wondering why your presence here has been requested," said Masterson.
    Requested?!? Is that what he called it? So then what were the firepower and military accoutrements for, setting a mood?
    Cleese looked him dead in the eye and slowly—methodically—scratched his balls.
    "It had crossed my mind," he said over the soft sound of his ball scratching.
    "That was a rhetorical question, Smartass. From here on in, I talk…you listen," hissed Masterson, looking down at his clenched hands. "I ask questions and you answer them. Interrupt me again and I’ll have you dropped back into that shit-hole where I found you."
    Cleese grinned his best "I’d like to see you do just that" grin.
    Masterson looked up at him for a heartbeat, silently considering whether he should make good on the threat. Finally deciding against it, he reached for the lone folder laying on the table near him. As he slid it across the table, it made a soft, whispering sound as if already betraying its secrets.
    "Cleese, have you ever heard of the WGF?"
    Cleese sat for a minute, quietly thinking. Of course he’d heard of them. Fuck, everyone had. The World Gladiatorial Federation and its subsidiary, The Undead Fight League, were huge—making the NFL, Major League Baseball, and NBA all look like sandlot pick-up games. The thing was…Cleese had never really given a shit for what many now called sport. He was, in his own way, a busy man and already had enough violence in his life. He didn’t really feel the need to watch a televised slaughterhouse in Dolby Digital. He left that sort of thing for people who led less active lifestyles.
    Cleese shook his head slightly. He’d wondered what cards this guy was holding up his sleeve and what the real reason was for his being brought here. Now, as the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, he was almost wishing he’d never agreed to get into that damn helicopter in the first place. Then again, with all the hardware his escort was sporting, it wasn’t like he ever really had much choice in the matter.
    Cleese took