No Flesh Shall Be Spared Read Online Free Page B

heads-up. This time, they all were longing for a change in venue and the hope of a different outcome.
    A young producer at one of the networks had been taken to a match by a story source and pitched the idea to his bosses. He told them the matches were a television natural and with the proper marketing the phenomenon could be big; huge, in fact. Like Survivor , only this time getting kicked off the island was the least of your worries. This time, if you played the game wrong, it was your ass. What was extinguishing your torch and being sent home compared to getting your throat ripped open and having your intestines eaten live on national TV?
    After all, with what the world had just been through—The Dead crawling out of their graves, family member murdering family member, corpses eating corpses—people had already become desensitized to the imagery of Death and of The Dead. Putting it all on TV was almost a fait accompli. Luckily for them, there was already a guy who was running the show and had a whole network of fighters, handlers, and support teams in place. The network’s Standards and Practices thought it over and agreed that this was something they could turn a blind eye toward, if for no other reason than for the good of the Nation.
    ~ * ~
    "Well…?" asked Masterson bringing Cleese back to the moment.
    "Sure. Everyone has. Zombie fightin,’ right? Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome -type shit."
    Masterson looked at the seated man for a moment and, quite against his will, the corner of his mouth twitched.
    "Yes, well…We prefer the term: ‘UD Engagement,’ but the sentiment is the same."
    "Tomayto…Tomahto, Pal. Call it what you want. It’s still kickin’ a zombie in the ass to me."
    Masterson picked up the folder before him, opened it, and looked at the contents once again. His eyes scanned the documents, and as if reciting a bedtime story to a child, he read what he saw aloud.
    "Cleese, William Thomas. Born 1977… Idaho Falls, ID… to… Cleese, Elizabeth Margaret… Father… Unknown."
    Masterson looked up over the rim of the folder and, just for a second, shot Cleese a wry glance.
    "Is there a point to any of this?" Cleese said, casually flipping him off.
    "You presently reside in what was once San Francisco, California where, at last report, you work as ‘muscle’ for a local loan shark and live in a rat-trap, walkup apartment." He raised his eyes once more and grinned. "Nice place, by the way."
    "Fuck you."
    "During The Outbreak, you achieved a bit of notoriety by fighting your way out of San Francisco armed only with a baseball bat. Since then, you’ve ridden that cred and managed to establish a bit of a reputation by supplementing your income with taking odd bar fight bets where you often cheat and seldom lose. You are not married and you have no children. All of your relatives have either disowned you or are dead. Sound about right, Tough Guy?"
    "Yeah, so…? What the fuck is this… my A&E Biography ?"
    "Let’s you and I be honest here, Cleese. You are a man with few options. You’re a bottom dweller who lives a life based on thuggery and unlawful pugilism. You, quite frankly, have little in the way of anything remotely resembling marketable skills. You’re a loser without a future and are, quite frankly, seemingly beyond redemption. However, The League sees something in you and has therefore asked me to bring you here to see if you have sense enough to try to change all of that."
    Cleese leaned forward in his chair. Despite himself, his interest was piqued. He sensed that the other shoe was about to drop, that the real reason for his being brought all the way out here was about to be revealed.
    Masterson leaned back in his chair and carefully closed the file. His eyes burned red and weary as he finally arrived at the point of all of this. He slowly rubbed his eyes and raised his gaze to meet Cleese’s.
    "Zombie fightin’…" He smiled slow and creepy, like a rattlesnake might if it had lips. "Ever