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My GYM PARTNER'S BRO IS AT STATE, HO!

THE SERIES

PORTION III

by Eightane

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If Rod hadn't been half-tossed already, the lack of beer goggles could've meant intimidation here. Whom he looked on he recognized, sure, but in the back of his fuzzy head... 'Never mind', he told himself. Imagination's strong, and the stature of his long-standing friend had never faltered, why shall it add up to anything now.

6-feet-8 of kangaroo inside creamy tan fur. Arms and legs a bit longer than the norm for his own hardy species. Size 25 shoes, and a size 50 smile, however thin-lipped. Lines the breadth of a hair that were scars, some on top of each other, peeking from a blue rayon tee... One with particular jaggedness could be traced down his right cheek... Some things only a knife could do. The marks and shirt were lid for a pair of black pencil jeans. A tuft of pewter hair between his ears, a rattle in his voice, Omar nevertheless spoke as no danger here. "I hopped the 412 from Midtown, there was a screamin' baby the whole damn way. Who feels like roast suckling pig?"

Rod bust out into bird-snort laughter. This was what breaking the ice looked like, the type of crust to gloss thin over lapsed acquaintances. Everything behind his beak sought to catch up with the lanky punk. And a little startlement might have been Rod's also, for the new metal seen... Three rings and a bar in Omar's right ear, two rings in the left, spaced different. An azure jewel at his nose, sapphire perhaps. Overall a color-coordinated cuss. No question about it, as Rod asserted, "Still the same mosh fiend fucknugget."

Hard to say where the 'roo's chuckle ended and his cagey eyes began, but impatience ceased the humouring. He cleared his throat loud as a jackhammer. "Yeah forget you too cupcake."

Soon, his arms went up and broadly framed him. "You gonna let me die of exposure, or can I walk my ass in? Oh hold it a sec..." before Rod could chuckle off the buzzed forgetting of courtesy and fix that, Omar's hand slipped in his front, well, area. Into the cuff of a natural pouch, fumbling with a set of things. Wallet. House keys for his aunt's place, back when they meant he was welcome. Menthol Blistex. Two tokens from the local beer-'n'-arcade-cabinets tavern. "Badaboom." He clutched the pack of filterless cigs he had rummaged for. Three seconds passed, and he'd extracted a 'nail', kept the rest tidy and closed back the pack without ever showing a brand label. Like it mattered though, his winged host knew the bastard smelled like Winston shorts everywhere he went.

What should come up outta nowhere, but the voice of a chimp. "Attabo'ah, make it billow! Didn't know I'd be around a huge guzzle o' yes like you, hah. Damn the day's just been packed w' the tall guild." Jerr brought back every trait sensed from Mickey in his recollection - literal, brushing on all of that witty buster - and three eyes peeked out the door at their new guest while Will brought the weight and the sweat down. One of those three weeped and the clear was no tears. A quarterback's arms squeezed the fire out his fetching bro, winning the pin easy. Albatross had just broke in that monkey, now the lean catcher had his prime concu-boss on the outlet. Omar's feet shook when Will slammed down his palm to do his own count.

Biased, Omar's scrutiny went to the huge ass on top of Jerr, and what an ass it was, big as half a table, luscious, defined. A top's pair of buns leading down to freight-train legs and over all the twink orange howler he buried it on. Rubbing Jerr's loss into the carpet, tough sweetness, dominating with gay bond. 'Roo would have his take on this gorgeous turn as well. "Lookie what's at play here. So you got primates in a show as a hi-there-gift, but where's the oil?" He socked Rod at the chest, a play-tap on a left pec. Rod's wing motioned him in even while he rubbed the new soreness, and Omar kept right on a'puffing... How much could tobacco really curdle noses here. To that end, Quentin let slip a ginormous air pocket from his stomach, the belch of half a bottle of Pepto when he'd lost his brunch earlier with the sister-stench of later lemon-Schnapps and Funyuns because life is short. Jerr cackled, madly lovin' the way that sound complemented a tackle, getting pressed, dryhumped as joke AND foreplay with his closest manhound's mocha brawn. Omar stepped into the media-stocked, weight-bench-having dudes'-pad, 'feeling it' already, taking mondo huffs of the rattrap-ganja-hooch-and-fucksweat paradise. He had alms for the show, and tossed a gold dollar; Rod hadn't seen him even reach in again, too busied with these naked pals goin' ass-to-cock and flaunting. The 'roo rallied his balls, scratched and half-cupped them. "Sick", he offered, all-positive.

Jerr made ways to keep his big blues open, watching Omar covet, tan tail swishing as he trampled the carpet, simply stepping in. Rod shut the door behind, and saw Will rail his bud with what could only be imminent crackplow. The big ape's sneer said his wordless penetration; Jerr's back fluttered, he howled with tongue in spasms, took giant girth in stride. 'Roo stood so warm and proud to the duo, from the rear it almost looked like he was ready to piss all over them, be the second among them today to bring gold to an orange maw, or douse the 'rilla and his hamming whiny screecher... For all he knew the great ape might enjoy a good shower... Not the way it progressed, though. For now he observed. Jerr's voice put tenor in the -clunk- of getting ground into the floor, the same one whose fibres he snagged in two li'l hands, grabbing on for dear scorching life. Will's glans threatened the fuck out of him, retreated then came back fierce with prods and hole-aimed headbutts.

Will talked down to his dude and lifted chimp's soul. "Get comfy, fella. Going nowhere with rugburn, make him know you're a sleeve and a soldier!"

Jerr snickered, turned to twink putty in words and squirms, handled like a cut of beef by a butcher. That butch 'rilla split his legs wide open, shoved in and showed Omar each one of Jerr's pearly whites. Every tooth revealed in his blushy crave, yearning for what fried his hole. "Ffffffuuhhhcc-ccckkkg-gonna be goo when y' done, duuude, man you got this ho-ooole 'til you can't punch it no mooore..." Sweet poofs of heavy-masc' mewls by a subby sucker, gettin' his tight burgled. The worn spot was already pink, a tailbase tested its trillionth go.

Quentin went chatty, tanked on whiskey that could turn a preacher atheist. Shirtless, classless, he cheered through the gut acid, heartburn but tenting, rubbing like Aladdin. "Inch by fuckin' inch, playdude! Kiss the floor, monkey, get turned inside-out!! Y'll swell up, all the batter in your buttpurse!!" He hardly knew what he was saying at this point. His peter did, by all rights. To bird and 'roo - and simians two - 'twas all good.

There it went, Omar's left mitt turning ballplay into masturbation. Below his sack the 'roo's unit pulsed, slick and tapered to a ballpoint-pen of meat. Jerr would have to wait to guage the size, view the magnitude; wincing happened when the force of his man's love afflicted that hole. All else had to stop in Jerr's world for the spiced beating he took from Will's knob to let off steam. Omar's mug lit up; it kept a wizened edge, and the stories of years granting premature wrinkle. Saucy ideas still battled prudence. "Another hour and I might have you bathed in white heat, tree-bitch. But I'm not here to gig out then grab some butt space and retire. There's work to do." He turned to Rod, slowly ceasing his self-enjoyment. The package swung in his dark trousers, coming to rest when inertia let it. "You have a place set up I can bring it in?"

Rod thought; first off, the lack of telling names back and forth was getting to him. But he'd have made a fine actor: Redirecting, he slapped his own brow. "Of course, you wouldn't be here empty-handed. Yeah I told Quentin to leave the far room open, in case, and turns out it paid off. And there weren't even cops or the mob involved." What an... Interesting excuse for a quip.

The 'roo looked like he'd slap the silly off that avian, but no such thing, just a sullen reply. "Well ain't we lucky." He looked down to the show taking place, but knowing it was not the time just yet, made himself resent wanting. Out the front door he went, slamming it. Rod looked rather surprised, almost starting to doubt until the door swung wide a second time and a box the size of a microwave came in with the 'roo. Omar all but pushed his way past Rod, who was slow on the uptake this moment; there was a good excuse, he realized Omar had skipped introductions and likely on purpose. New-blood stepped right over Will as well, who didn't move a muscle out of place of this rhythm. He put Jerr's heart in heaven and his guts in chaos; chimp boi was beat to hell by a wet schlong's mass and hundreds of male pounds, body and battering ram. Quentin took another swig, perspiration ran down his face and it was 20 proof already. One bottle more and any fly who landed on him would drop and need rehab. Rod was about to chase after the 'roo, help him maybe set down that box or situate it in the room bare of all but a bed right now, or to at least let him not shirk manners and get their names, anything. He made for the interior, on Omar's heels...

... Jerr grabbed his ankle as he tried, and cooed out the 'why' as albatross dripped pre; on him, so conflicted. "No h-hurry... Bruh... I'm thinkin' he wants to... Make it his... Stay, c'mon... Ice this fuckin' caaake..." There was no rush indeed, and Rod's schlong cast the deciding vote. Stay here and pull pud over the chimp and his beast-buddy, share the appetite.

Q' did beaucoups of the latter, screaming "Packeeeeers!!" like it wasn't a team's name. Will's jackhammering was what kept him from berating that shellback to shit and back for mentioning a franchise non-Colts... That, and what he cast in a shout to Omar, screwing his dawg and still level like a calm convo. "Another hour and I'm out of here. The gridiron calls. You walked past a future ringbearer, Superbowl-style." His shove of a fat monster headed up the power surge. Meat murdered the glutes of a chimp and turned his hole to jelly. Jerr's limbs wilded out as if electrocuted. Slobber had the carpet dark where his tongue danced tangoes.

Monkeysub swung his loose neck and showed Will misty sly needing. "Super ain't describe you, G'... Godlike... Y'all know..." He loved just as much the beating - his ass suffering for his bliss and Will's - as the strength. Gorilla forearms circled and locked on the skinny clowner. Concrete columns have crumbled from less.

And from Will, growls and nudges of ownership. Diving his high-'n'-tight haircut to dig on Jerr, then lay teeth on his earlobes and bite. "I bowed YOU the fuck down, give that cut here!! Rrrrrrghhh!!" He saw this as mandatory. Quickie before tryouts, sloppy seconds from the birdboy with the feel it was in peril of being two fast loads.

Quentin clutched his head; the ice-cream headache of cold booze, drank the way you would a spring when parched. He started to speak, then just belched again. Will's kink for the macho gratified it and made him fuck harder.

Omar, mind in the vast reaches of many a contrasting thought, had started ripping cardboard. "Gonna be dope to have us all here. I look forward to it." He could barely be less attached to the sentence... What he did he poured adequate attention to. That box had his whole life, essentially. No time like the present. Still he detested an empty silence. "Be the ball, monkeybutt. I mean if you two are an item the way I felt it off you." Rather discerning, though not exactly hard to spot.

Rod confirmed. "They're as wound-in as they were in your viewfinders..." He had low decibels, speaking softly but flogging a firm stick. Will might not even have the time to count off again before Jerr was the pastry he yearned to be, glazed and amused. That ape and his athlete's dong stole in a tiny volcano, brought giant throb for a chimp's pert cave that cinched up when the strongass ape dipped in.

Two men lay a speck away from unleashing floods; Rod had a real question but had to say it over rises of Jerr's moaned joy. "Hey Omar, your pah-paw have anything to say about you bringing that?" It was in reference to the box.

His old chum had a calm reply. "Not what you think, I left his microwave there. I ain't in the business of lifting people's shit, you know how I am." He thrust his hand in the cardboard flaps, started fishing out.

"That's... Not what I meant really..."

Kangaroo heard the subtleties and kept on unpacking. A comb. A bottle with cream made for Eczema. Shortsleeve tees, most from Op or other '90s standbys. His style was defined, if anything. "Cool. Yeah I'm here for broadcasting, I'll be squeaky-clean until the day they hand the paper here."

There was no answer. Omar kept right on then, talk and laying out his boxlode around him, and finally their minds hit the same ground. "So if we're in this place together, might as well learn who I'm sleeping around. Who all's staying the fuck outta my room?" He said the last of it with a gentle turn; it clearly meant they were all barred in that fashion while he learned the identities.

Rodrigo had to chuckle. Then he let himself be spokesman. "Well there's Will, the hunk of hombre you stepped over, he's varsity stock like he said. He's over Jared, goes by Jerr, and I think he goes after anything with a male pulse. AKA, salt of the earth and friendly." He tacked that on to sound less like a judgy prick.

The chimp never cared anyway. Under Will he wriggled, sweat and honoured every pump into him, on-pace with his stronger bro, in such sweet aching torture of his hole. Sometimes Will's cock went particularly cruel; it was now he pushed that button, gutting that li'l monkeytunnel, stabbing that ass. He pushed bulk down earnestly. Bound up Jerr's spindle of a chest in hands that could hide its whole existence. Pure men so close and tight they moved as one. Jerr's cap wrinkled on the scruff of his bigger half; his own patches got curried when Will slid a hand up and played with them. Toying, chiseling that ass. Precum had Jerr sopping down to his knee fur, on them as they bitched about his being one. Fat-as-fuck manhood moulded Jerr like a jar, new clay at a wheel. The chimp'd never last without it; in truth, he could get the shakes, any day Will left for trips or old high school games and he couldn't ride along or sneak. Addicted to his man, nothing else. Not a thing that swam more in his mind, or had more play on him and where he's tender.

This is all to say why he offered nothing in words; his world right now was Will, chiefly if not exclusive.

Rod talked, and it became clear as Omar heard it that views in the room the bird stayed at were hard to resist. "And Quentin... The tortoise, he... Yeah." Noises, the gentle foley of faps were between breaks. "The drunker he gets, the louder and chattier. So if the house goes quiet, we're outta hooch... He's fine though. Handles it like a sailor." He chuckled again, and slower now, with more lung put into it. "Except today I guess."

Now the half-sloshed coldblood squawked. "That was different. I was wrappin' up lacrosse practice and I spotted a McDouble. Was still in the wrapper all the way, not crinkled. Nobody opened it." He'd been called many things but 'smart' not necessarily. He wasn't curt there, but rambled, also hot for the primates' fun. "That was the pro'llem. The time it sat unscarfed."

"Awww, baby boo..." Omar flung condescension from his room and cackled. By now the door sat nearly closed on its own, he saw it would stop at one inch cracked. Perfect. He set down more things: toothpaste, champion pogs his uncle gave him, box full of buttons and sewing string for when his tops were 'injured'. Reading glasses, for some of his pocket books, another heirloom that settled in the bottom of this cardboard satchel. He swore under his breath, but said more towards Quent' knowing his voice carried. "Those sure as shit aren't fit for consumption straight off the line, and they uh, don't ferment either. It's not McKimChi's."

Quent' had to ponder his comeback for, oh say about 2 microseconds. "Fuck right off, Kangaroo Jackshit, you and your fruity tuft." He figured Omar knew it was the curly scalp deco, dyed heavy.

In fact he did, but that's not why the tall 'roo sat in a funk, getting angrier. He picked up another inner box, one of dark green, the size of what one might keep a watch in. The contents themselves, he blocked out of his mind. They were here but not his. Once he carried that heavy little thing, scratched up on the sides in some manner, to the corner, he could walk back and feel open to proceed. The distance helped; it oppressed him less this way. He had blank tones yet purpose in speech, pulling the last out of that giant carry-in. "We've all been there. And three of my aunties cook feasts, one owns a four-star place in Pittsburgh. Wait for me and it won't happen again." Confident that good eats were inherited, expert at not showing the sanguine. A picture frame was the last thing to come out, and he tossed the box to another corner. It bounced and came down on its side; a hint of OCD in him made him growl a bit more.

Again there was not a peep back to him after. "Hello? Z'ere a gas leak or somethin'?" Impatiently he got to his feet with no wait, and started out to see what had called them to silence.

He stopped just above them and felt he should have expected it. There was push to smile now; they were ALL in care of this slim cocksucker frat chimp. Rod was on bended knee and Quentin with him by the mouth of Jerr's lust. Two shafts filled his gob, packed it with enough outside in the air that they could crank 'em, jerk slow, love him and their own cocks while he gave two heads sweet focus. Bird and turtle's mind spun; Jerr lavished with suction, lick barrages, what they deserved for having dicks far as he was concerned. Omar stood and pulled it out again; this time he held the tapered slab of pulse similar to them. It flicked clear spatter, then a few conspicuous specks; no man's perfect when cleaning.

Seven inches of leeway, hollering bliss to his every sense each petting. He tapped it topside a third-down from the tip and moaned out; fucker had a G-spot on that hammer. It was pliable and he worked this into wielding that backed-up manhood, waggling the pitch of it, dangling, voyeur for this meat frenzy. Tongue from Jerr rode all around the feeders, between green and pink, and their thanks was to skullfuck his mouthhole, feed raw virility; he slicked their pipes down while they leaked the clear juice to. Quent' was more than fine sliding it, frot with his Latin tagteammate. Omar spilled fleshy bag over his own hose, salt cooked into the fur that wrapped it by default. He felt each brush of the globes, too encumbered, needing to drain, and it sent him closer. No one's moans were richer than the rest. A quartet of hot relief, wet male power, swole to quintet.

Will held it down and got Omar's gaze on him fast; no hard-damn-buns he'd ever seen looked that good when they pushed and spurred on all that dick, blew Jerr's tailway to pieces each and every day. The little taker wailed like it hurt, and he thrived on it. Rod saw the beat he kept on Will's pecs with intimate move, the munk's shoulders pushing onto them all chance he could, at the same time he worked those other poles and gave 'em lip and tongue as two candycanes he'd starve without. His energized blues looked up to Rod's handsome browns. Two men thrusted and fucked this smooth boi's throat.

Quent' spat in his hand and laughed. He worked it on his thumb, placed it on Jerr's brow and drew a line down the snout. "Yogurt fiend. Rrrfhhck..." Not the best of taglines but sober minds do better.

As did Rod's. Jerr sighed in joy from play-debasement, subbier for the men he liked as soon as he'd met them, and the albatross showed out more and more. He plugged a groaning Jerr's piehole, dick swole as its veins could get, so much goddamn bliss in that monkey fuck. "All this man in him... He's a fuck machine, we just fuel him up... Fill him with nozzles..." Will roared and it rattled every beercan around and half the games on the shelves. Quent' pushed in deeper, started fucking handsfree and leaned on Will's high back to anchor. The huge bastard didn't change pose, weight was nothing to him. Rod' put further light to his yearn and their heat. "That tank's never full, eh? Can always... Unnh... Take more... Ff-ffuck... Ran on all eight cylinders!" He closed eyes and felt Jerr's talent, hunger, but Will's shove and that pipe of hairy, hung champions dominated so much. "Fucked by all eight inches!! Get 'im Will, y' sunuva Clydesdale!" This much good meant his climax would be an early guest.

Will boomed it through the whole place and Omar's knees shook. "ALL the way, fucknuts!! RRHhhh, he's clenched on it! I rule this shroom slut of a MAN!!" He admired Jerr as much for being down and chill as for the flawless ring he decimated, broke into with bottlesize gun. He'd always get clenches that honeyed his dick more, steeled it, from a guy who loved being what he pleased. Sweat fell its way through the filter of Jerr's moustache, a wisp of fuzz in sparse cords. He had a true monster up his hole gone so sweet and excruciating. More mass than any man in that house shoved girth in tiny chimp cumbasket. Will's chest forest scrubbed that back; the dick bush had Jerr's high crack red above familiar puff. Swelling was never bad times.

Monkey's tiny hands flexed lively on the carpet, felt the dust of dry jizz under that infused his fur. 'What a dude's pad', he thought faintly while the action railed him and his shrimpdick pulsed. 'Such fuckin' G's usin' me... Blessed here...' Meaning every word while his pecker buried in burbur and Will rawdogged him. Two flushed fellas ran dick down his throat, a pair of pistons, a shot of two tastes every spurt of pre they shot. Two bare male cores he could look up on as his poor bod' was ravaged and he curled at every toe and finger for it. Quent was so rough on the surface, fit his disconnection so well. Rod's dark Latin furtrails were a drug for him; speaking of, the morning blaze was now the lesser thing to put red in his eyes, with sore butt and a jaw getting manhandled. He looked on Rod's gut, the black peekouts from underarms, Quent's wasted machismo, the curve of every scale, back and forth. Will went so big when coming up to peak - down south and in the yardful of beef all across him - Jerr was halfway to crumpled under him. Crushed at the ass, muscle grown all around him. Above his subby chill self at the spine.

Omar's tone went low, gutteral, droning. He reminded Will of a furnace cutting on, Jerr of a diesel engine. Turned out, as Will found jets upon his back, their new plebe was first to hit crest. Will rumbled as he liked but spited the unannounced shower, in conflict with his role. He raised a hand, managed to scrape a bit just in-reach, and flung it back at Omar with a joking 'ook'. The jacker-roo jumped back in a laugh.

"Just like smoking, man," The newest member retorted. "Tryin' it with the right folks opens doors. Don't knock it." He'd reminded himself in full now, and felt nicotene pangs. It could be ignored a while; as could the cred'-laden folks his habit once brought.

Will groused, yet not much in light of the dick he tossed up his fave manhole, and rising approach. He answered two points with one. "No need to... Plus my lungs are closer than cliques... Save my power, for this ripe pluck!!" Will pumped into that ass, rode the line, killing that perfect peach 'til it shook from pain and the li'l sub geared to shoot soon, used like a toy but loved as a fuckbud and gay bro from ano' mo'.

Jerr couldn't hope to talk now. He rattled, meat shoved down his talkbox from multiple perps. But Will caught everything. 'Yerr the ripe one, maaaan, that golden banaaana' is what the chimp tried saying, when it all turned to slurp and garble through the backwash of pre AND cum. Quent' had early leaks... Just before he went off, a spritz of white; Jerr's stomach boiled with want. His heart did jigs. The first taste of heaven started in; a turtle's groan and whiny tenor intro'd. Quentin felt every inch of his shots, and the swallows from he who can't feel he got it down quick enough...

... Will pounded and beat the floor halfway in. Clatter while he destroyed this simpering fuck matched his vocal chords in ruling. A glans like a fist beat the fuck out of Jerr's asspocket, and Will wrapped the frame of a hercules on such a lanky critter. His elbows were the real troopers. Jerr's tail whipped around him, up over Will's rear brawn. Left indents in dark fur. They were locked in, not a micron separate. Throes of a gorilla sped to climax and sent both home. "FFFFUUUCK YEHHH!!"

The last word dimmed loudness only since Jerr said it alone; Will blew yell and bluster, rocketed jizz up Jerr's craw, sounded off in war whoops. He hoarded his bro's shallow muscle, squeezed on with his tankness. Channeled every ounce in plowing him. Dripped slobber down his neck, reached and bit his ear. Jerr bent like an octopus on electrified stairs. Puddles formed at his four-incher's tip, scooped into foreskin just to pour it out again, a cycle in the shove and pullback, Will-controlled.

Rod couldn't help but lose it; the cream and its crippling paradise flooded from prostate to pole, fired into Jerr deep as Quent had, maybe deeper. They leaned on each other, bumped snouts as they huffed. Rod saw the turtle's eyes, and in a solitary gesture swapped tongue and kissed. Manlust, at its purest. Shooting gulp after gulp from throbbing cocks in a primate, giving protein and more cause to kink his tail. Omar's drone of an O-groan flattered them and all it touched in purring chant. Just incidental, part of the tapestry of varied men, beauty to ears. Will rocked his partner's ass through every rope, laid it full and heavy, to the enddrops and last spooning reacharound.

The little fucksleeve shot it no-help, but Will helped himself to some, brought it up to taste Jerr's batter. Just a smidge on his tongue, contended hums... then up under Jerr's face, onto both suckees' shafts, so when they went on releasing and wound their own peaks to peter out their mark tasted three batches. Beside himself, Jerr twerked on his footballer and sent pleading whine to the sky, monkey screech and lower male grunt, a symphony. Quent and Rod bashed his hole while seed flowed and his own slicked his gums. It steadily ceased, trickled, and the pair left his gob with a -POP-. Nothing about it passed them by, and the humboldt pair reached for each other's tools just to 'shake on it', a job well-done. Jerr's gob cried out in happy trill with swaggering edge, but Will's hand waited. Stuck fast in those overworked lips the moment they had vacancy.

Big-ape-on-campus pulled out, rolled his pecs and paunch down the curves of every orange lumbar. Wet and randy, teasing the bro he just seeded. Sliding back he looked down, pursed lips at the grandest sight he could never tire of. His giant mitt went to Jerr's creampie, and scooping from the well he added to the chimp's feast. Jerr knew this brew. His tail went into patterns, diagonals, gang signs, all in the task of taking those swimmers in, housed in his gut. Love that recycled.

Quent and Rod helped clean each other gallantly; Omar ran fingers up his own rod and trusted the wells betwixt knuckles to do a good enough job. Damn nice getting in on un-set-up voyeur, the few times he'd been lucky enough. Needing more wasn't for him... He could trash-talk with the greatest. Jerr tumbled, had Will slap his hardy spine a few times before the monkey stared up at ally and alpha. Will had more sperm on his ballgrabber-hand, this time from who even knew which sweaty bloke. He fell back on his bud, now eye-to-eye, and rubbed cream into the edge of monkey chin. When Jerr snickered, lit up and half-shut his eyes, Will receded just to where he could cup his mitt over Jerr's whole mug and have him coated in spunk. The screech of comfort was deep, and the tongue bath started. Will's palm was spitshined and he left that face as filthy as he was handwashed.

Jerr lay open and chill, but pulled on Will with those wild blues. "Gimme some sweet." Will complied; glad to as anyone could be, he dove onto Jerr with locked lips, Frenched and gave all the passion his legs gave in going hard. Will would say Jerr was erudite in serving, and worshipping.

And loving him all his days.

Beef to cock to standin' piss to manfun that never stopped.

They shared the glow, and the knowledge they would not all be staying for long. Will reached with the hand not ate from, sucked from five digits... Down to the grounds he tilled. Fingered his bro while he traded warm kiss and push into carpet. Then he made his willpower win. Slowly they parted in favour of him standing up, ready to go out and prove, moist and swinging. So, ready after putting on gear. And clothes.

"Always good wakings," he said, holding up biceps and feelin' them out. They'd be on display and in use, the time was so near he tasted the name of his on their roster... As he did the reek of every hanger in their cotton straps, hooked to the turf raiders on the field, their marauding. He looked to Rod. "I don't have to quantify how RRGH I find you fucko's. Bro-sit the monkey magic while I'm gone, I know you can take him through thick, viscous lands."

Jerr's smile - before a sloppy, tickled wall of glad and work well done - withered and became nothing. He pushed up off his li'l haunches and stood with open legs and a need for Will clearer than the view of his dick. Short orange pecker bounced as he jumped over to the big ape's leg, leaned on it with his own gams but fell onto Will higher-up, with matted chest fur over flatness. He sounded broken and despondent; a great actor and sucker. "Will, man, you ain't leavin' the wok while you take that ladle away! What reason you got to put th' bro in a corner?"

Though he cared every-which-way for the spidermunk that now clung to him by the lat and a hunk of his pit hair, he did indeed have motive here. "Pro scouts are in the singularity of the black hole of money culture, so you know what that means? They're a few degrees harder to pay off or talk down when they catch you busting in half your team under the bleachers. Or a wiry blesser with two hollow legs."

He reached his mug down and planted a peck on Jerr's chops... Gentle at first, then augering into the lipline, over tongue, exploring his man as butch in mode as ever. Jerr's shiver - with his lean self so tight on Will's musclehide that air molecules would die of loneliness if trapped - told of strong resistance down low. Will wrapped an arm around and squeezed the man who took his full male arsenal daily; Jerr's back cracked. He sighed in true joy and let Will pull his heavy self away.

Quent had something to say though. Standing up, he leaned as he talked, but onto no one and in telltale swirl. His rather drunk ass had props to give. "I swear y'rr the first porn footba-... Football pornstar. Y'know. Here have this." He threw each word out and dove to the floor; almost falling on his scaled ass, he pulled a bottle from under the couch. Maker's Mark, straight from their 'whiskey cellar' as it functioned. "Earnnd it", he slurred. There was no cap; it had lay one-third full below the neck and horizontal. He picked it up and meant to hold it to Will's lips for a quick chugged shot. Having his share already is exactly what got his green hand to shake, falter and spill half the contents over Will's cleavage.

He stepped back; Will too, the opposite way. Straight 80-proof now poured down the fuzz of a pec valley, caramel colour on the abs 'n' fat pocket, the jet curls of that Amazon of bush around huge tubesteak. They were open-mouth startled, Will annoyed, Quent becoming fearful. He stuttered out a walkback for the sitch. "Ma-aaan, didn't think that'd happen!... Well at least now you'll smell like a party, o-out there, heh..." He was sobering up quick, hoping to god he didn't screw the whole scene over with this frat' foul.

Rod added on... He would defuse any broil Will felt. "Yeah, just add chips and bean dip!"

Omar was terribly busy, bowed over the couchback and laughing to where his sides hurt. Jerr was proactive hisself. He'd saw a golden op' and knew how to pounce. As bird and tortoise stood on-edge, he was sledding tongue up the beef, Will's mancurves drizzled in essentially booze sauce.

The QB took breaths with depth, eyes closed, and came out of it gladder by the smirk they saw on him. "Jerr and I passed a few clowns in the lab atrium that smelled of maggot guts, if they were part of manure. This is hunky-dory for campus life." Solid and sure in it. A monkey's chuckles at his colourful example led to dives upward; a few drops of bourbon had trickled their way to Will's armbend, his inner pit - musk heaven - invading a Brillo pad of follicles, sweat old 'n' new - where the chimp said close, hot goodbyes. For now.

He slipped out the warm arch, while Will thought of plays on the field that would be reminiscent... Had to get mind in the zone, it wouldn't help if he didn't. He pounded fist into palm, rubbed it to feel the rock. Hummed a B sharp, and grabbed his right nut, for luck. Jerr whistled, and Rod with him. Quent was busy feeling his face, seeing if it was as scorching as it felt in red-on-green. Ah well, shame would be forgotten like hell with blood full of suds. Up to point-one-nine, as it happened, and on the climb.

Gorilla swung his bare bod over to the near wall, where his clothes had been folded but lay low without a bureau to occupy. "Toweling OFF, suiting UP, lemme grab the giant CUP-" He throated it like metal lyrics, but ducked into the pile of his threads before seeing Jerr hold hand high in 'devil horns' and then a different gesture. Tweed cloth got after his nooks, his brawny canals, crevices, coming away brown with spirits. He tossed it to Quent, and ringed the fucker straight on his scalp's spines, whiskeytowel horseshoe. A snicker sealed the end of embarrassment, followed by a Ric Flair-esque 'Woo!". Turtle breath filled the place with alkie odor, but it meant nothing, a mere add-on to the haze of manscents punctuating corner to corner.

A drier but rushed Will fetched a pair of boxers, just extra protection if his bottoms ripped and that fat ass threatened to moon. This he also tossed away, not to Quent though, nor to reject it outright. Jerr was up: The man who'd just taste-tested armpits took a set of drawers to the face.

The deep squeal alone could rock a barn from its moorings.

Will looked down his nose, seeing Jerr inspect with all the schnozz nature gave him. "That one didn't make the cleaners. How's air quality in there?"

Jerr shimmied at the wrists and stomach, reactive as fuck. "Christ on a cracker, man... Reeks like a subway tunnel in Brooklyn, if they had a locker room."

A laugh from Will, loud and lobbed hearty. "... Got it. Just one more day it is."

Jerr followed suit, now sunk into yearn that made it harder to stay. "Maaaybe two, I'll get down w' that."

He handed back the boxers, a share of willpower devoted to that too. Will swept in with his second hand and took up Jerr's in it; they held grip, two specimens of Y. Those paired extremes of male in their height, their endowment, body tone, role in the sheets, or on the floor, against the table, in public, on a urinal, in parks, the full gamut. Their eyes shone on each other, dual Ferraris running nitrus on the Autobahn. That much they would always have in common. Together.

Omar shed the laugh conniption he'd had, and spoke from the sort of heart he carried. "I'll keep the chimpo entertained, Magnus." Disconnectedly, but he spotted the approval on Will's face of the random nickname. "He's got a game trove here, anyway, the fuck does he have to be mopey about." The edge in it, one could cut with. Jerr saw him walk up, so the short howler was now in-range to sock him, messing around. Omar boxed his ear in return, counting on it to be fine... Barely but yes, as Jerr let it throb and didn't rub.

Something else he would've, but it was on its way out, attached to Will. Any dawdling would mean lateness, a likely shutout... The tall drink of athlete pulled a tee down his chesticles, dark blue fabric over darker nipples. He rolled it down as it bunched up; always jammed on grabbable strength with teak skin and a snail trail. Jerr already imagined them, the hairs one-by-one that sprouted from testo', grew by pattern, lead a traveller straight to the weapon of a hero.

It was, in fact, exactly as Rod put it, murmuring under breath as Will's tan slacks also carried him off, good choice with higher blue the bird thought besides. "Pistola guapo de leche."

Will winked to the guy anyone could guess he would. Jerr grabbed hatbrim back at him, projecting what he wished it was. The chimp had a concept spontaneous and prudent, to Will, over the 'phobe farm rhino and his assetry. "Y'know Percy might be there. Actin' his fool shit... Well Faith won't, at least, I bet th' world..." He thought back on the rhino's poor form, but then the rish-bish's foot, crunching into his. His tail took a hostile stance, a periscope. "She's too much VALUE." He retched, in all seeable means.

The bigger ape cracked up again. "Guaranteed. Yeah if HE'S there I can brush off the rage-smoulder, and if SHE is I've slipped through a wormhole to an alt dimension."

Jerr had feelings alright, and recalled Will's twisting around Cypress Hill lyrics at their wakeup. He got in-mind to do his own retelling of their words. "Here is some-thin' you can't com-pre-heeeeend... How I could jus' -kill a hen-!!"

The whole roomful went wacky. Raucous laughs from drunk Q', Rod's hoots. Omar coughed he laughed so hard, then hacked, like he needed to throw up a lung. He didn't pass out but stayed in rather tortured laughter.

It could be said that Will's next move was either ill-timed or a perfect fit. He cut one, thunderingly, then stood arms up high. It mimicked goalposts; touchdown and fanfare since his butt was a tuba. Only Quent seemed to curl his lip, moderate disgust. He was one to 'talk', but so would any of them have been, as they all learned the prior night after stirs periodically from booms out of buns at intervals. Gorilla dude did anything but atone for it. "Breakfast burritos, they leave their calling card, eh? If brunch locales ever use real eggs, who's to say it gets better." He guffawed, and wafted, and they cussed in snickers.

At last venture when he was set to exit, the capped cock fan threw him some added ego. "Remember, if they ain't showin' out or they hurt for ideas tell 'em to put their nuts together! Thinkin's best that way, Haah!!"

Will grinned. Jerr showed full swagger, he showed full handsome teeth. The door opened, and when it closed they were a man down.

... The steady breath told that Jerr would be cool about it. Weathered worse in the past few years than a while without, as has every dude old enough for his salt and his thick patches. Soon, he felt an off-white wing over him, Rod's dingy damn limb that looked a lot like Cheeto dust and had scent bouquets of beer and lotion. Things were pretty well-calmed then, before Rod could edify. "Never fear, hothole. Resin time. We still have green, but times when I'm lonesome, I like mining for black gold." He pulled in, and Jerr let himself be close. Any son of men was welcome to him.

He even put his eyes to Rod's, gave his own kindness. "An' 'ey, Top Gear's due to come on here soon, might as well use a bro like a beanbag." He set fingers to combing the crop of gutfeathers, a broom of monkey hand in tall quills and warm-clime pigments. Rod liked plenty of where this could wind.

Jerr, fighting a skirmish inside with how he'd choose to still be at quarterback's side, looked around valiantly. "Fuuck, that last rope he put in me... Dawgs it, it is what it is, heheh. I'm good. Just gonna pine for him, feels like if I don't it's disrespect. Dig?"

He heard tones he knew were a kangaroo's. "Pipe down and c'mere then, I got somethin' that can make your troubles ancient past."

Omar was closer than Quent' to Jerr at this juncture but back from Rod. Quickly he came up, rubbed monkey's shoulder, stronger than he looked. Skin and tendons glided over a twink's bones at his kneading. "I wasn't lyin' when you heard the shit about entertaining you. You 'bout to eat something, and it ain't dick or rosebud."

..... Clouds obscured the Sun, and rays branched down the horizon. Perfect for Will's first peek over the hill, stepping down the miniature valley, made not by nature but backhoes for this bowl of Tuesday night lights and roaring crowds to sit in. A bead of sweat ran the neckline of his tee. He knew there'd be action. Shining helmets, thick asses, freight trains of legmeat weaving in the indian summer. Time to shine and time to war with his peers. Not equals; he scratched his chest, then locked on it with a grope, feeling himelf, even happier now. Black dots of gum lay under his trainers, but they didn't so much as goo up the cleats; weather bleaching and months or years in some cases kept them solidly part of the grounds. Giant lightpoles adorned the place's outer rim; instincts in his subconscious had a wild hair to climb them, perhaps if he could sneak up a cooler of pale ale. With that he'd deffo yoke his albatross roomie into skybox seats for the campus on lazy days. He laughed when he saw the rumours had been true; there was a giant piece missing from the side of the stadium, maybe 3x3 feet squared of concrete. A flag stuck out just below, school's colours on it. Nothing was better than a team with a sense of humour.

Except one with a coach who exuded it the same, if he was truly fortunate. There'd been a hiring shakeup when the prior one left; he was going in as uncquainted as the Colts were to him.

Into the entrance for those trying out and in a way rolling the dice... Will flared his nostrils to drink in a cool air rush through the vestibule. Come the end of the year, it'd be snow and a hearty freeze he huffed in and out, while all eyes watched him and his magic... He was getting ahead of himself again. For now the thirty or so men in a line, roundabout his age, stood across half the grassy grid. Two more were on the center part of midfield, wrestling those comical dummies down. One had a bit more trouble. But he also had a brand of shirt that cost a bundle, so he stayed in with the rest. Will knew just how the world worked... And sliding his hands into each other, cracking knuckles, he grinned to know he competed there too, and strolled his tall rich thicc self to the coach.

There leaned the dragon who commanded them. One hand on the ground, his back and its pullover hemmed in by two ridges, the edge of a support brace. Pain kept none of this guy back. A whistle draped on his aging neck, years of wins and losses in those wrinkles leading from his eyes. A shape like he lived on shrimp cocktails but he wore it well, red scales down his face and legs, thin wisped silver on his head under the visor. The man had a get-in-there-and-bless-'em-out approach... Will would hardly be discouraged to get gutsy and perform. The energy was it, to him.

He was next to the man over this band of hopefuls, when the herp leaned up out of his 'push goddmnit' pose. He nearly lost his hat, startled by the ape he didn't see. "Mother o' God you came up quiet, I didn't hear shit o' you. Here to see if you measure up, eh?"

Will didn't chortle like he wanted, but rather gave back a "Yessir" with body neutral. Put your best size-15 foot forward.

"Grand, grand. Then get in line with the other lintheads, I'll see where you fit in." He motioned the gorilla down, towards back of the queue. Will accepted it, knew he'd have to pay his dues. But there was a glint for a sec in the old man's eyes. He'd been recognized, from maybe local papers, high school ball coverage on TV, perhaps a police blotter. Will crunched green turf and white where the paint went under him, strolling down past a young buck in a wife-beater, gecko with a nose ring and arms from hades, a short 'n' broad toad dude built like a brick shithouse. He caught most of their eyes on the route past, for better or scaldingly worse. Not much love for one another at this early stage... But he fared worse, being the face of half the state to them. His ego didn't grow from nowhere, unlike some hairier, huger areas of him. He'd scratch his nutsack as he passed a good few of the men; it didn't itch as it swung inside his Joe Boxers. Seeing all this fresh meat enticed his.

The gecko said shit first, and right after a red panda guy backed it up with cold shade.

"Whoap, found our first third-string!!"

"Yeah he made it here now, so he ain't makin' it. We roll like we care. He ain't look weak though, he'll carry the waterjugs."

Will laughed condescending with all the lip-slide they warranted. Flicked his own ear just to flaunt unaffectedness. Blowing smoke up each other's ass was a rite of passage. He could take it, dish it out AND end up putting what isn't smoke in one another. Or both. He showed no weakness, ergo they stopped looking his way. The line moved; one of the two guys he'd seen coming in was walking to the bench, a brightness in his eyes. The other walked off to a different spot on the bench, picked up a bottle and other personal effects and was outta there. How it goes in a nutshell.

A clap echoed from the seats up this expensive arena; it came from the coach, who had them keep going while he took a fat-man's-breather. He could fit a parking lot's worth of rear in a two-car garage, it seemed, his cherry tail stuffed under chairs for the paying souls on the right nights. His next pair to assess and give a chance to weren't up to the task. One was an okapi, who knocked the dummy down then promptly proceeded to beat on it. Mercilessly. The drake coach jumped down in a hurry and pulled him off by the shirt, said he was good 'n' devoted but they might have openings on the boxing circuit.

The other was the heaviest, baddest sun bear to ever grace Will's eyes. The gorilla stood taken aback; ten tons of ursine pride looked down on the dragon ahead of them, black nose, beady eyes, teeth that looked like they ate lugnuts for cereal. He even breathed with temerity, like he'd murder the shit out of any who stood in his way. Then the coach had him tackle the thing they all had to. He tripped, knocked himself out and lay his giant pink tongue on the dirt. Three minutes more and the forerunners in the lineup AND coach dragon together had rolled him far enough out of the way to continue. The EMTs would arrive whenever, no one cut much of a sweat for that.

Will was sandwiched in by a few later chaps behind him, while the cutups in front who were 'punctual' still acted out and did little to show antsiness. He had time to look at a scab. His mind got more out of its swirl patterns than the others tried to pull from him. No one cared upon recognizing him; not a damn guy in this place would hug on his coattails for shit. Honestly that was STILL to his liking: They came for image, and would leave for the disgrace of it all when the coach had it out with them. A weak year of hopefuls he'd stumbled on. But outside of that, he'd seen it play out in K-12, and here it was only that much more pronounced; higher education, higher stakes. He liked the instructor more and more, seeing whiskered red gesticulate and talk down to dudes who weren't hot shit, and had never learned that up to now. Coach patted some on the back just to tell them they'd have better luck if they tried to fly by holding their dick and singing R. Kelly. Will's smile invited this into his life, wanting a window to hear it by-proxy each morning. It wouldn't be him that got bullied right, by this right-lookin' man.

Before Will got there, however, a jab hit his spine. Too forceful to be accident. Two fingers and a speedy perp, but Will was savvy. His fibres of sheer strength on wrists, arms, thighs, they itched. Scowl rushed over his square mug, and he zeroed in on the jackal who looked off into wild blue yonder, whistling. Cute... The guy thought this was playtime. Will arched his neck. He was about to take it on, redress the situation. Then the bison the other side of him turned, with tired eyes and a chin waddle. For as weary as he looked, he sounded more like a bastard, and conveyed it. "Didn't know I'd be next to a homeless guy who cleaned up for a day. Get a load of the bourbon fumes. You smell like a brewery."

Jackal sneezed, or that's how it sounded; but Will had still trained on him and found it a crappy shot at masking laughter. The grey-furred goof made the dumbest racket around, and honestly he didn't have the build to cash those 'checks' his face wrote versus a tank of dark mighty primate. Will didn't know why the pipsqueak even cared; what's the point in being decent now. And, while hiking up his shorts - undoing the slipdown he caused them just by weighing huge at the front, inside - he stepped to bison-boy first. "You mean a distillery?"

He stabbed the ox-adjacent with elbow, right in the chest, perfectly between pecs. They went cockeyed. The target was a slow-mover; he did well covering up the pain, not doubled over. He reconstituted even better and leaned back up in hurries, only to find the simian lumbering up, closing in on him in nothing flat. Will grinned right up in that bison's face, nose smushed on his, six-pack a bit close to the Buddhabelly of a hornhaver. Close enough to smell his last three dinners. Looming with dominance, tingles on his teak flesh with urge to put this fool over knee and spank his ass red, then use it redder. Bison-dude jumped back, not into close quarters, yet neither did he turn it into shoves or a fight either... He threw many flags in the ape's mind, none penalties. Will couldn't be straight even in emasculating this pussy; he talked with cajones like he'd love that bison into shape, after fixing him was wrapped up. "It's fine though, I grasped. Not everyone's granddad drank with Roosevelt. In his Rolls Royce."

Bisonbitch scoffed. The jackal opposite Will's tall mass laughed like the hyena he wasn't. Then Will dipped into the ass on his jeans - he fished around, having nicer troubles just wedging in there when his male rear took up so much firm goddamn room - and got into his wallet, pulled out a photo. The jocularity died. Lowrent-buffalo saw the two suits in black-and-white, and every dollar involved in the captured old scene. The word 'his' referencing the Rolls Royce didn't name the ex-president, but his host. Will's arm went around the jackal, yanked him in for a 'hug' that just reduced that littler jester and took advantage. There was no escape, and Will jabbered right to his black-and-grey-mottled snout. "As for living status? Keep your wits while you watch them discover me. Next time you see this on a gridiron, in a filled bowl with thousands who'll paint me on their backs, faces, taint acreage, you'll know I AM home. Long as I'm in the spotlight and up to throw the next world record."

He grabbed himself; the jackal was still in his clutches, and pushed against as Will fondled his own bulge, showed tight cotton stretched to fit. Middle and ring fingers thumped it, and there was recoil alright. Will let him scramble out of that huge hand, if a fella needed free he gave them freedom. But the doggish dork was red now and couldn't look anywhere near down. There'd just been a victory here today.

Five more went before them and bison was three back, but in the time it took, that bellyacher looked more and more like departure was the right choice for him. To be on a team with one who smelled, threw his weight around, got way close with guys he didn't even know... Yeah if he couldn't be the one who brought that, it was moot. He simply walked out of the lineup, went out the way he came, and thus might end his saga of sports greatness. No one asked him to stop, or acted remiss. Cutthroat line of work; it was play instead to only one of them.

Concerning that... As Will thought in threads in the single second between his smirk at losing one asswipe, and getting to his moment, one man he expected was a no-show. Not a rhino around, maybe Percy wasn't into foo'bah unlikely as that was for a country boy. Though the best that wimpy fuck ever did was fling sweat that he wiped off his six-pack while he plowed the lower 40, chances were. And it'd taste identical to the Michelob he wizzed out. But the gladness would wait. Will put his cleats down one more time, dead-level with each other, toes faced out to the ruddy coach's. At present was the first Will had been thoroughly looked over by the time-worn coot, and although he knew no-nonsense was what he'd get, it also came with a tongue tripup. Coach had a trill of sorts while he gave the question. "You are hrrere with no bag, eh? Saw that much when you crept on me."

"I'm not on this field to snack and gossip. If you can't prove your salt by yourself, you belong at a fireplace reading Voltaire." He made a righthand fist and pounded his left side; it didn't move an atom. Too sturdy. "Then when you can, it's applied to the team. We band of brothers."

The flit in dragon's eyelids could fit in the dictionary at 'impressed.' But even HE seemed to have sidelined in his mind any coverage that told who was standing there, above him by a head. Man had priorities. "... Well I don't hear somethin' that good every day. Let's find out how what I see ranks in. Get to the left one, I want it in splinters." He didn't mean to knock it far and away; those shoddy metal abominations might puncture school property. But he counted on the ape's noggin to get it after such an intro, and the rest.

Wisely.

Will stooped down; his laces were tight, all his form loose and abled. To his right was the jackal, maybe 140 kilograms, a third-down from the number he brought a scale. Ape, against an unliving, thoughtless material husk. A pair of legs that can crack coconuts bent into maul pose. Air by the truckful rushed in his lungs through his nose. Mouth was held thin, hips stable. His nutbasket drew up in the cup like it knew to seek safety. Pound by pound his potent flesh found its very center of gravity. The half-beaten object was his prey; it shined glare in the hunter's eye, but no squint happened. He stood on toes. His body took over for thought. An instant propelled him; fluid, like water in a sprint, he hit that ballast and clobbered with everything his beef could do. Full strength.

If a bomb had gone off, inside another bomb, it would do a fraction of the carnage. Heaps of plastic shucked free from metal as it clocked the ground, in explosive disrobing. Will's arm cleared the space ahead of him, having been the 'bar' that murdered it steel-face-first. Strange wobble sounds issued from a shiny grey; the face reflected a bullseye, now that sunlight had to bounce from bends like cannon welts. Mud and grass blades heaped around the spot it had slid to a stop, after digging in on the forced go. Everything not forged from alloy was in pieces or crumbles, and metal itself was a crater. A fourth of the guys waiting behind rubbed their temples; dear God, the echo.

There were indications of smoke, too. Not the crash-site, where he'd lodged it in the dirt. Instead, it blacked the air above shoe prints. Cleat-shaped grillmarks where the generous size zoomed. Will, stopped ahead, had stood himself in gut-first pose, arched from beltline to neck, a living Renaissance sculpture. His hand went to his lip, three fingers plucked at it and bent off upward; a kiss of death to his no-name years.

Of course, the coach found his words again before the youth could pick their jaws up. "-Hoooohhh SHIT, get my nitro pills! B-buddy you're gonna sit over there for a sec, and you ain't leaving, I'm makin' a phone call!! Sons'o'bitch, I've seen fire and I've seen rain but I never saw ape warlocks 'til now!" He danced the dad-est of jigs, almost tortured by the need to go blab and get the balls rolling. Will's neck had him pitched coy and bold where he saw the man in his outer scope, and the boys a bit better.

First off, three down. A bull, the toad and a kinkajou had hitched their ass up and walked it straight outta there. But they were as dumb as they were vain; at least several had instant props for this monster truck show they'd gotten free of charge. A red panda had started up a smile, complete with spitswallow in his Adam's apple and a little guilt for playing the fool; likewise the gecko had gone from slackmawed unbelief to attaching his pride and ego to the great big steelkiller. One, not strolling but jogging, had been shunted from the lineup, but he'd heard the shot and had good vision afterward... Bison had seen the light. Or the shockwave of a nuclear primate takedown, they're adjacent. He was 6-mph back towards Will, who cut eyes to him, and those emerald circles were their own gems. Bison thought about how his name would fit into the script scroll on Sportscenter: This gorilla, maybe power-tight-end, and Hal Buffalo, 2023 Superbowl MVP... In Bryant Gumbels' voice it'd be as good as a T-shirt slogan. Hell, they'd license those too. He came up fast and Will recognized him for a man on a mission to shake a hand. He let it happen, trading brute strength with a bit less of the same but by coal-black palms and tangly brown fur... Will smiled for what Hal didn't yet know, how he could feel about textures and builds. Will socked him one good in the chest, playful and taken as such, but moreso to feel that give.

The gecko started to come up too, and lay his act on, but the coach saw through every bit of it also, while in-process of running inside. "Back in the line, stupid asses, you don't all fly cuz he bought his ticket!!"

Will's chin squared even nicer when it sputtered laughs like it did. His side tickled with pain, and he liked what the ruined rig left as its mark. No burn, no earn. He didn't mind flattering his new posse while they moved to follow orders. "See you at the lockers for this year's legends. And years to come at a penthouse cafè, swiping pics of now over lobster platters." They heard and simply chuckled, with less of an artist's heart about them. Will thrummed in the bloodcords of blue down his forearms and his semi'd snake testing the cup; he put fists together at face-height and wrung hands to even out friction. Goddamn sequoia trunks of muscle fanned out, and he noticed a hopeful tiger look. Gecko boy returned to near the queue's front, and the bison started to restart from the end, losing nine spots... Before he slipped a little higher, and persuaded a great dane to let him wedge frontward of the guy. Persuaded, not convinced, while they bickered and got petty. Now at six seconds forward from the tiger's eyeful, he adjusted himself. Will ogled it, the flesh wrapped in street-decent garb, a hand moving its protrusion, hiding it but making every ounce just hop and state in loud ways who it wanted. Will's family jewels lay so draped with burden, white gold to churn up and wreck in, he'd not perceived how bison and great dane fought louder and louder. Soon they lobbed bigoted breed epithets for bad measure.

Coach dragon held hand up to cover the phone's mike, then a whistle louder than Will's impact site put everyone's ears to hurting. That was that.

Bookended in the dudetrain securely now, Hal felt like the Jack of clubs in a card stack. It was always the cool one, in his opine. Gecko just worried about how he managed to get behind Will if the latter had got here later... It must have been that that bash they witnessed warped space and time. He had thoughts of this, then vulnerable eyebrows for a sec. Time to read and study the 'natural' additives in his creatine tub.

Will had sat his ass on the seat - cooler than Pluto's surface as he pressed down his buns and their line of manfuzz - stretching his arms and those mountain shoulders, getting tribute-alms from the straighter guys in the gayest noises. They tried to respect that bulk and at the mildest dropped hints at an inner self. Meantime a beep was from the dragon's phone, the coach's biggest call done, and he started to keep on and dial another interested party. He luckily caught and snatched himself from the moment. Still on the clock, he wiped his face and walked back up, a bit knock-kneed in his gait but cherry as a handsome fruit in those dimples. He stood toe-to-toe, not that far from honouring the crew-cutted scalp HE might sow paydays on. "Here's the deal: you show up here tomorrow, bring papers, I ain't have to tell you which ones. You were born on a football field." It was the fitting turn of phrase. He was down then, he knew not to discount the smalltimers. But it inferred the same how Will was a natural.

The fucker had an answer, conveniently true. "I was made on a football field, you're awfully close. And it's privelege-" He had his own double meaning there, feeling ten feet tall in all that blessed bod, nipples fucking hard in the shirt... That was a hit and a half, it always stirred his deepest reach... But he'd trailed steady off, letting coach fill in the name.

"Dicker."

Instant suppression of gut laughs. Will's lips went tighter than he knew he could place them. Instinct kept him controlled; wisdom kept his mouth shut; thoughts in every colour put his bulge into growth mode. Not a good time... It didn't help that the bison's contours ever-played under his chocolate wool, from the moment a selfish Will had nosed him and looked down the shape of thick macho fameaddict... Fucking hell, his shirt was too short and it showed tufts of yellow caramel where peeks of bush were bleached by the sun... So he was a beachfly in his off time... Fuck, still not ideal now to be sprouting tall gay wood. He thought of a deflater, and found a correct one; the punch that sent Haley airborne had no fun to be felt. He got the burgeoning mind back to fine prescribed things, in the sense of future, status, pull. He'd have sway in every bar and coffee shop. Another pat on his back, from a hippo with three scars and a curly blonde hair on the snout. He'd been one to win the coach over, first thing in the roundup. The camraudery here lived in his wide legs, and his wink. Will's hand gave him a thumbs-up, tucked discreetly over gorilla lap... Whatever happened, this dude would be true blue. Hippo grabbed at his gut with two hands, steeply rounder than the ape seated adjacent, as if to say he wouldn't be usurping the limelight. Or to flaunt the chubby softness that lay in wait. Signs for a proud specimen to unpackage.

The coach looked over at guys milling around, joking, belching. He cast glance back to his new major muse, professionally. In his case.

The big dude had open eyes, to a fault. He looked the rest of this mob up and down, really studied every form; the coach deciphered it as good team approach. Know who's on your side and learn their ins and outs... He sure had part of that nailed in blissful ignorance. The welcome came through what he said down to a seated, unshorn ape. "You'll make me proud. Just don't get in the paper now, I don't like funerals." He walked back to the machine, where some kinder hopefuls were already trying to stand the metal casualty back up. Inanimate, and now too warped to stand, they let it fall. He whistled , and their ears were still a foot apart. They got the message, and four seconds after, it had been carted to the sidelines, careful above the fertilized, manicured, sylvan green.

Will looked on it and rued the day. The moment, this breath, the next blink, those air currents, the temperature. It was etched as recollection, tomorrow's yore. However rich in outcome and beyond, he soon distracted himself on purpose. He didn't like Dicker's words, the last comment was stark and smacked of a truth he could never avoid by ignorance. Knowledge hurt the spirit, and he had lower shoulders, but he reached up with thumb and finger, clutched the wall between his nostrils, and said quiet prayer to Saint Sebastian. His good deeds done, he pounded chest, jutted that jaw and felt so many hues of vigor; they had as much to do with cracking heads on a new platoon of stars and their stage, as it did the bounty of beef around cracks lined with fur, or thick winter sausage in briefs where the filthy guys didn't freeball it.

Not everything concerned had to do with the pits they'd be raising to soap up. Nor the talk in sauna-temp nude showers, rinsing grass and red stains into drains, male boast and gossip. The press. Opposition politics, rivals at and with U-scale stakes. Pranks and yes men, and of course the unexpecteds. Blue balls before TV cameras if they lingered.

And as he negotiated, inwardly, the gears turned, and he nearly missed the figure on approach from downfield. It was an odd place at the perimeter to crash... That's what it figuratively did to Will who'd become a party. It came closer and was grey, closer still and it was rhino. Fashionably late. Spitting, and on the ground it was goop. Brown. Percy left his chaw pond in the grass, paced up, in deliberance like he owned rights to be heard. He wore a denim blazer - no indication yet he owned something that won't hang in Fuzzy Lumpkins' closet - but poorly kept besides. It was torn wide, strings hung out. The pants were camo, at least what of them wasn't mudcaked and scarred from stripped layers. Two sandals had unequal wear, like he'd tried to doctor one and said the hell with it. If they had a fashion show for dollar-store styles... He'd not be in that either cuz it's hard to model clothes when you're in Sing-Sing for killing by tractor.

Coach had leaned down to counsel a recruit, taking only one at a time now, when that dude simply melted down, learning what he wasn't cut out for. It made excuse enough for Coach Dicker to stand up, at this dick's blushing behest. Percy'd ran here. That had been a mistake.

"... If you want in, I can fit you last, we have about what'll get us to wrapup for this part. But I'll tell ya if you're this tuckered in, there won't be much left to push out here, you gettin' me?" He whipped his tail... Will guessed it was a slight defense if things got threatening. Ape's back discs stood straight as an arrow... His total felt detached from this dimwit. Watchful, he casually stayed put.

Percy's yapping came with a vengeance, as did the farm drawl. "I hit a curb and fucked up my truck. Look I'll just say right now, I ain't got that much time. The wrecker's gonna be down any minute and they'll need me there. Just lemme go through the... Y'know, the stuff, and I'll be gone."

The coach did look, in a way that someone might if they watched a guy burst into flames instead. "What're you sayin', son? You should be there with your damn car! And how you gonna do all it takes to get on a team if you're breathless, you charge 'n' knock and you're outta here?"

One of the slackers, an elk in this case, dissed the new newcomer. "Yeah this is football, not drunk child abuse."

After the necessary moment where their eyes went to that craziness source, Percy got right back on the bargaining. "Well it's not that long to try, dipshit!! Dis'uhdvantaged for a pileup, I don't think so!" Will's forehead nearly popped a vein staying composed, hearing a dumb solo bad driver call it a 'pileup', and after the slaughter of a four-syllable word. None of Percy got better. "Ah asked you nice, damnit! You gonna let me wow you or not?" Ah, exactly what the old dragon came to expect with these types. Will stifled laughs with the same skill he did boners, but looked away to random seat rows as he did it. This peewee-leaguer required that much.

Dicker never went out on that field without the right way to handle shit. He talked without moving a muscle. "I won't ask how you junked ANY car bad enough for a tow by scrubbing a curb. Or why you think you can haul ass here and talk down to me and I'd listen." He watched Percy's nose scrunch, and eyes shrink, and didn't give a shit where it was going. "Daddy mighta said you need to be here, but check out your face. Your clothes. And lllllook at planning better next time. Bye, truck man."

He tapped the ground with tail; so far the codger had done nothing to provoke, above the plain style he jabbered in. Surely a kid who really wanted football knew that much of the culture. Percy had red come to his cheeks, and deepen.

Will preempted even a bitchout from the rhino. He didn't want Dicker alone on this, fond already. "You're right, but it may not be daddy who broke our fair chauffer. I detect the ghost of a thousand breastfeedings at age 5 or 6 or 14. It's an aura."

He waved his hands eerily and cornball. The other dudes broke into merriment. Percy was fit to be tied. It was the slam, yes, but also adding injury to insult. Hearing that many larger words, still annoyed from the English 201 homework he crumpled up the night before. It struck his final nerve, and there weren't that many to spare. Fists were balled before his blown-out shoes could even guide him there.

He didn't meet a seated Will like it would have begun. The force of a thousand plane takeoffs pulled the man-ape to his feet, and the rhino faltered at the end of his ten-pace journey. In a stumble, he found footing again and felt assured he saved face. "You got so'm to say, faggot, you say it to this!!" He started to lift his arm; it played out in slo-mo more than any part of the dummy tackle. This was Will's doing. His mind had fit together the redneck pachyderm, his torn clothes, half-shredded kicks, his beer gut before his time. The attitude to cast a line with no bait and hardly a boat to reel it back to. The clear Pringles aroma.

By the time Percy's left hook hit a wall of palm lines, where Will's open hand deadended it, the ape knew more about the few wrinkles on that farm belly than he did.

"Gahh-h-h!!" By God all the work and country-hardening in the world couldn't stop him waving his hand, finger joints in agony, thumb sprained. Will had barely put an atom forward, the defense was true and total. Dicker dropped the toothpick from his mouth in a second round of good shock, and it was a mere eight seconds since he stuck it in anyway. They were stress chewers, for times with entitled dorks and no hope. He'd go through another pack if the hick didn't cut it out now.

Will smiled on the hater who just played himself, and the views inside the slash marks of what that pickup also did. The words "Fruit" and "Loom" kept flashing past the rips in the denim blazer's tails. More than that appeared in the ape's imagination, its bends. He still tried to support his new drake den father. "Just that your wrist didn't lock and you boxed with more force on the tricep, that's a great way to land in a cast. See, you don't even require a chance of getting on to learn something!"

He gazed down the whole, pudgy, fuming male. The chest pips had a wreath of black strands each as they flew by openings in the tatters. Percy roared in rage while his skin glistened. Will knew there was a thin, bushtipped tail on the other side of this maniac, and a round, thick pair of pillows... Damn hard to be serious when the rhino's cropwork beef wrapped his tibia, and moved in on the monkeyfucker. Male grace, even from a stupid loser about to be sorry.

He tried jumping on Will; this was a change, from other idiots' method. Arms wrapped on the gorilla left and right of his neck. Will walked out from the bench so it wouldn't get damaged; the pride of every player came out. They whooped and cheered, no split on who would triumph. Will's right arm flogged Percy's temple; rhino eyes tumbled in sockets, his legs jerked. He didn't let go, he would wrestle this giant tree-eater to the dirt. Will felt the rod and its geometry packed in a dumber, lesser man,and with nothing else than his own instrument. They wrapped ever-tighter but it wasn't Percy's doing; Will's growl trilled and his bare teeth showed malice with a twist. He grabbed Percy's neck and pulled hard, stretching skin, while his chest bombed the 'phobe with clench and swell, while his frot so tenderly shamed and made fun of ignorance. He snatched a grey arm to turn it how it doesn't go, but felt down it, glorifying. Stopped where the male peach fuzz ended and a clammy hide began. Held at that point and swung it 'til a *snap* was heard. Yes, heard. Only the furthest guys from this unsanctioned scrap missed the crackle. Coach had been screaming at the country boy to quit, yet he winced and held his own arm in sympathy. Percy yelped. His legs hung unused, not even trying a shinkick. The cousin-lover had weird principle, and balls. He hung on and socked Will's chin, hair, elbow, anything he could catch. Praying to Lutheran-God he'd catch the right place on goliath and bring him low.

The saints blessed Will heavier; he swung to the side, pulled a sort of in-line corkscrew even coach couldn't follow. He'd bodyslammed the dude and his desheveled outfit. Will huffed a delish roar, not just knowing great ape muscle beat the shit out of hick wrestling. HE felt it come down on that impassioned hatemonger. It stole P's space, his dignity. Squeezed clothes ribbons and hair patch into pec valley. Hurt Percy more just pulling in his soft chest by the follicles. Will buried him in man, down to the grease under his fingernails, mound in his shorts. Percy spit rage, and Will laughed at every glob in his stubble. He dipped and rubbed it back on the spitter then dodged out of bite range. Grinded with something else, where it put into the dude's inner thigh. Monster bulge chafed where rhino boy ran here. Percy's beer fat wobbled under scorching paunched abs. Huskular owned pudgy-with-good-arms, pure dominance. 'Rilla face crowded and breathed on one what spewed hate. There were play thrusts. Percy tried to headbutt, and caught himself in the first man-on-man kiss of his born days. A peck, cold as ice, to fuck with him.

He strained to get out of this, beat dust out of the grass as Will kept pinning. He thought Will could never do worse than put those lips on him.

As he heard the foghorn, hot air through Will's jeans, it occurred to him how terribly, horribly wrong his guess.

The guys, by now holding their stomachs, cried with laughter. Count the coach among them too at that decision of Will's. The breakfast was back again; Percy outright screamed as he was forced to smell, and succeeded in headbutting Will. The ape didn't let go for this, but for the dragon's hand slapping on him, a surer sign than any that it should end. Calmly he undocked from around Percy, almost docked in the literal had their units come any closer; he'd learned the kid's parents didn't snip him, being so close just a breath ago that he didn't need to yank the fella's pants down and check. He unfurled his limbs, but the rhino stayed crumpled, at least until the coach could lean and give him one good smack in the nose.

He hated everything about everything. Too scared to wield anger, too fucked up by the facts. He hated how smart, how able, how hung Will was. His mind was saying plenty to him, unusual since normally his mouth was inexhaustible and his brain was TV static. 'Fuhkin' fruit, I'll kill him... Why's he star o' the show, why is m' truck fucked, why'd a bastard like that have two inches m-... M-MotherFUCKIN' HELL!!"

He shot to attention and scrambled so fast to stand up coach mistook it for a seizure. He couldn't react, however, when the hornheaded waste already beat a path for the exit. He'd never walked anywhere so fast, and he'd seen a ghost in the outhouse when his leg was broke.

Will barely breathed hard, but that he did to a degree, drenched now in sweat. He trusted the older drake in his own way, about how it went without saying he was roped into it. Not Will's choice, but his victory. And the effects were high-minded...Maybe it was trust, or experience, or the mark on a mind of maleness, its temperance when bathed in a group of its own... Dicker didn't disappoint. "Don't let him under your skin, he's dead wrong from the second he parked his ass in my face."

Gorilla-stud chuckled through one side of his lips; the brain painted a damn nice picture. Coach then augmented his own statement. "You're actin' pretty level over it. Used to making enemies huh?"

Will simply looked on that daddy as frank as he could. "Comes with the territory." He smacked a mitt on his simian core and swirled a circle over the whole of himself. His dick basket grew in breadth and weight; even he reeled sometimes at how much man he brought to the table.

No more made it out of him before Percy's voice dirtied the air. He couldn't just let it go without a threat, fainter each word as he kept right on walking. "Have all the sick fun y' please, Nancy! Make it last!!" He whirled a 360 just to have arms-up middle-fingers-out during. Too graceful for a bumpkin.

Coach had his own shutdown. "Go home, Steve!" He had it up to here with the walking abortions, every damn year. This one felt a little different but there was no regard for it, caught up in the claps and guffaws from half his kids out here today. So they knew what sitcom he liked, anyway. Percy simply walked faster; the tiny mop between his ears could have combusted from inner heat.

The ape just let that assface walk away, with that ass. Too bad, that there were supple curls buried there to be fished for with sausage... Scars up his waist's front from a past where thresher blades had barely missed his valuables. The ape wished he might have laid into him, pressed fingers over rhino's collar while he clubbed that cornfed bitch in the hole. Farmboy inherited a bunch from his mover dad, where it came to hateful dipwads who were steady if they'd just open that hall to prostate. A better life could have Percy cough and sputter jizz as Will exited his mouth. He may earn the drink, and pant in wait for the moist trunk to want more favours while it pendulated, meat AND softballs. A cooler head could've had his silver maleness tent a pair of shorts, leaking hot pre while they went mudding, shirtless in the swamp, smokin' fuckin' and steamin' a Jeep's windshield.

Will directed thoughts away from rhino's better traits, the hips he urged to straddle and the bush he'd reach around and give good yanks, if they'd linked up in the rightest means. He'd have to settle for the musk and Ed Hardy combined on the male rack he'd explored. The redneck that got away.

He felt a rough hand on his wrist: Coach had his focus closer again. For the first time, seeing purpose in those older eyes, Will felt the slightest creep of fear. The expression tended to bring bad news. His gut curdled, he made a few extra blinks. If he was off the team for fighting, before it even bore fruit... He didn't know what he'd do to that rhino.

He wouldn't have to learn, however, dragon wiles were on his side. "It's my job to say I could kick you out on the spot. I've seen self-defense and I've saw extra shit come out of that, you tell me what I saw." This all came by a wink and some extra dimension in those wrinkles at his temple. Will's mouth became mirth. Smarmy bullshitting swole his cream globes that much better, and he heard the drake's parting wisdom. "You'll be here to work 'til you pay for me leavin' it off the notes. Look forward to game day." Dicker slapped him, with tail not arm. On butt not back. The coach's tail reverbed; his eyebrow bushes rose when it hit him how firm the drum he'd beaten.

And he had work still to do. Coach went into an immediate hunker, close by the next 'applicant' at the one 'living' dummy. Will scratched chin, the most exquisite smile on him; part of this was thought patterns, but another was the oblong ball lying under the bleachers. Might have been missed by the assistants in prep. While Dicker yelled suggestions in form of command, the ape stuck his hand up to point. "Mind if I examine that?"

He got Dicker's attention that easy. Even this betrayed that it'd be a fine year... And the dragon gave a solitary nod, with conditions. "Eh, go ahead. You, uh, won't find deflation if that's your worry, we're not the Pats training camp." Will showed teeth in a snicker, and one schlubby gecko grumbled. What would they do when the day comes that he's wearing a Superbowl ring for New England?... Ordinary thoughts in this masculine troupe.

Dicker had his own fantasies to plot out... Most were altogether realistic, though. Televised interviews, hopeful questions by impressed papparazzos. Hands stuck under the table, full of greenbacks. Making fortunes hand-over-fist on the shoulders of the broadest tank of primate. He'd accept Will and take in that risky punk, with intents not fully selfless. Whatever else his job did took a backseat. Again, nothing abnormal. Will was far too busy kneeling, snatching up the ball that lay half-on its center and half-one-pointed-end. It always squeezed and gave in his fingers so plush; the feel was second nature. He stood straight, put his eyes to the sky. Right, he'd forgot there'd be a bowl in every direction, welcome to the new house. But he recalled which direction he came in by. Casually he shifted weight, felt his inner thermostat go warmer. One elbow went up, and the arm that rocked Diane Fossey High with distance now took a gulp of the stagnant air, created wind by rearing back, and launched it.

60 yards, 70, 80. In a blink up to 90. Bison had seen the most of his windup, and responded to the ball's goddamn liftoff with a jaw low as his chins. "Chriiist!!" yelled the gecko. "Fuck it's gone, man!!" proclaimed hippo on the bench, who stood up from its surprising him. Will had sent it clear out of the seating. There's no crying in baseball but there ARE home runs in football, this act proved.

Will relaxed and put his hand up in a sign. No gang allegiance or deafspeak, but something Jerr would do every day when the unbelievable happened. A pang in his heart hit, but he simply remembered how soon he'd get to see his fuckbro again, and rode the wave of cheers. Loud even for the ten or so present... Then came imaginings in Will of how it would be with ten thousand and their blood pumping Miller... Or Nattie Light, the period blood of brews... Whatever locals sipped in this dome. Dicker had a new, second reason to drop everything and show the simian a childlike glee. He'd been helping up a fennec who struggled after whopping the metal... This fox fell hard as he could, as even Dicker's ambitions were silent for now. His mouth was anything but. "I-I gotta get this down but you got a starting spot. FUCK do you ever!" He reached and shook Will's hand. The size difference was palpable, gorilla's new boss to the boss's new first-string; Will's observant self knew Dicker's minor taildance for what it was.

Meantime the fennec wobbled as he pushed up off the dirt with both arms. Bison helped by pulling at an arm, which wasn't doing him one better. Hippo's adjustment of himself said plenty.

Will conveyed high-minded thoughts in the teeth he bared, and the butch scream. He flexed in a virile storm and blood rushed through his forearms. Ooks were peppered through this chant, he repped his own.

He'd bring this team every win and fluid, each type of spiced progress. He felt thicker in his throat; wiped his brow just to hide wiping his eye. Overjoyed didn't start to say everything about a man who'd waited for life to begin, here and now.

The ball had to land somewhere, though. It cleared the stadium EASILY, and to the sidewalk outside it headed. Less lucky than Will with his new throne was a pangolin: always expedient, carrying all he'd ever need to his second pharmacy class. His eyes were contented, set on a good day.

They went crossed when a brown ball beaned him straight in the orbital bone. It slugged hard enough that the stitches warped. Down he went in a heap, books everywhere. A passing sparrow girl saw this K.O. from the air, and spun in like mayday, laughing too hard to fly. She was scuffed. He was out cold in a pile of his own research trove.

..... Things back at Sigma Ki were unrestful. Bird bro, tortoise and monkey stood or leaned, in the shellhaver's case solo at the kitchen sink washing, all others in the now-furnished den. Jerr had scoffed at the offer made by Omar and his plans after Will left their sides; now he became the man who held his own tail up, for a change. He twirled it idly and Quentin walked in to behind, drying his hands in the fan action. They were out of paper towels. Rod noticed; he looked off into nothing and mentally compiled a store run list. Factors went into why they were bored: Omar had unpacked his recent book purchase and was busy for the next hour. The chimp was too discombobulated to chat nor game nor anything. Quentin was on bottle two of his best friend Jack; he swore he'd whoop someone on splitscreen Forza 4 if his feet would ever make it to the TV or console. Rod was susceptible to awkwardness, when the room was quiet it came on stuffy. He stationed himself at the weed 'depot', getting all the THC that remnants hold. From his beak blew clouds of tar-heavy smoke.

By this group's standard you could hear a pin drop, or a pindick scratch his hair under his cap.

But among them Omar was moderating, improved with the fresh magazine, stock cars on crisp pages. He licked his finger to smooth the flipturn, another plate of Mazdas. Whistling now, and he could carry most of a tune. Jerr's tail was in his sights above the top of the mag... Its swing swath seemed to grow in radius so he put down the book. In fact Jerr'd been closing in; he'd turned down the gift earlier, but nothing lasts forever. 'Roo boy fought off smiling and asked. "Yyyuh?"

"Man I ain't... Proud, heh. Not of what y' can see anyway..." He jostled, tapped his fingers together. The thirst for an absent man was real. "An' hell I don't hold to walls either, I'm not brick glue. Mortar. There's mortar me than stayin' goody-goody." There was almost an audible *thud*. Quentin still flinched at it somehow.

"Good save." Omar shut the book with a *clap*. He faked impatience, which was too close to his default to tell. "Spit it out. I-... Oh, so you're thinking the 'maybe' is a 'yay'?"

"Looks that way, hah. Dude it's dense w' the nothing goin' on in here, never been a better time!"

Rod nodded slight, pulling a last hit of resin through his beak; his mind swam with the unspoken. It was good he didn't engage either at present since eye contact would be difficult. Quentin looked dejected, only half-done blowdrying his hands before the monkey cut the distance to a 'roo. Neither butted in here, and Jerr's tail went limp, his twirling stopped. This, because he let it drop and went to gripping his left asscheek; a hard spank from last night still welled up random ache.

Omar milked the position even more. "Well I figured you'd be open then, I'm not grampa with a bowl of Werther's. You want a tab, you get busy and nab, or do without." He looked back down to the racers; one sweet topaz RX-7 glimmered in headlights like it flirted at him. Too bad it couldn't be olive or kelly, or like the happy huge jades in Will's head... Alright. Enough muckin' around. He lowered the book with teeth out, not coy. Jerr was right before him and they had plenty of basis to stare on one another. Jerr didn't wear him down, it was a choice, but he and his bare twinkness could have with any more time. Omar spoke animatedly. "You're used to no schlomo turnin' you away with a face like that, huh?" He flattered the broad adorable chimp features, but that flat core could hold any weight pressed on it, and the more male the better. This monkeyboy hid other strengths, two holes that took 500 PSI. Each.

Jerr's giggle brought screechy whine through bombast. His trademark, his joy and a tool to get his way. "I put it to work, G'! Can't be blamed if they get into that..." He affirmed with sway and the way he crept up on Omar, a toe's length at a time.

Quent' did fling an "Oh yeah-" in a better turn of mood, but he came out wrong about its point, this time. Omar dug in his pants pockets and what should be produced but an orange tab; looked like thin cardboard, had a colourful design, like sugar-art on a wafer. It showed an old man cooking in a warlock's black cauldron, with pointed hat and charicatured wart; an homage to paintings of magic and practitioners.

Rod knew loaded things, and for this most of all he was silent. Not his place to be interloper. He did watch the look Jerr put on; quizzical but smart, visibly torn about it. The monkey tapped foot, but this too was from nerves, being one man when his heart beat as two. "I mean saddle me up, if I don't try I'll never know right?"

This was ear-candy to Omar, who didn't even try pulling a fast one with his beaming will to provide. All put-on irritation fell away. "Oh you've known more than any man's got rights to." Without another word, he leaned forward, held out the acid tab, and Jerr reenacted the fresco of God and David with it.

Not a moment too early also. Jerr's tail had picked itself up and circled around with half its length, it made a loop of sorts. He held the 'top' of it to his own ass - right where that fifth limb sprouted from his musk crevice - and rubbed. The spot Will had worn down, the selfsame dot of bald skin where hot ape shaft used him with rumbles, rough abuse, hot booming love and laughs. Memory archives ignited like his tail was a match struck on himself. He was suffering.

He took the tab in his hand, turned it side-to-side for a sec. Studied. He confronted Rod, airy in speech at the scruffy bird. "If I go crazy y'all gonna lock me in a closet? Gimme a plastic aid to play on?"

Rod chuckled, but a portion of his eyebrows showed fretting. "I... Doubt you need it, heh, you'll see dick kaleidescopes!"

Omar didn't share his issues, naturally. So the roo sat low, arm up on the sofaback, and waited. Lips firm, pit hair fanned out, pink nipples at rest, blue coif frozen in place. Waiting.

Rod preempted what the monkey might do, either way, with a truth. "Look I kinda meant to hit the market with Will out and us between classes. We need Brawny but lots else. This resin's not hot shit besides, soooo, I'm heading by to get good too."

Jerr barely looked halfway back, now captivated. "Well Brawny'll be back soon, he's gettin' his legend on. Hahah!..." He had just about seen all there was to see about this pop art on the microdot. One last thing to say, back in the present and assuaging Rod. "Don't stay on account o' me. I got two tall chiefs to block me in." He flashed glad welcomes to both too; even just his hat in the shadow of Quentin brought tingles hemmed in by his legs.

"Yeah, ya sure do." Rod smiled but he was no actor... And honestly cared none. If the monkey caught his drift, all the better. He manoevered around bottles on the floor, made it to the flecked paint of the door. "Hey Q'-zee-Q', get these in the recycle bin before I'm back, please? 99 of a hundred are yours."

The tortoise just held his mouth straight and displayed the whiskey bottle, a 'yes' by way of mock-toast. The albatross grabbed keys from a hanging hook. "I know you'll handle him on this eldridge ride of... Insert outcome here." He undid the latches, and hoped Jerr saw that a glance back was the last he did before departing.

Once the door was back closed, Jerr whipped head over to Quentin who approached. Monkey howled. "Yeah, I'm gon' drop. You best be on cool-ass behaviour, I'm friend to a bro but still got a chimp's claws. Heheh." He put up dukes, but a boxing stance ended in his finger *thwip*-ing out, its nail bared. The jokey threat pertained to people harshing the high by fucking with him; no dude their age was unfamiliar with tropes about tripping. He knew who had the best chance to bother him.

The shellback put hands up, one still toting his J.D. joy juice. His slur was just ... Blossoming. "'Ey easy, pitbull! I've been around hippies, aaaaan' hippies with gun c'llections. You don't rock the consc'ness expantschn boat." The whack he took at saying 'consciousness expansion' was a college try alright.

Omar looked down, the short-statured monkey was anxious. Some for wanting it, some for the tiniest jitters; first-time syndrome. Kangaroo leaned forward and locked his hands together, very professorial. "What can I do to help this treebaby pop his Leary cherry?"

Jerr's motion stopped for a sec. He juked with a quip back. "For starters, y' can never say that again. Really though, nah! Park it... Word, stay just like that..." He flashed twinkles in those blues, and Omar did as asked, now a statue in pose. Jerr hadn't ate it yet. He made fingers hold on tight, as his knees buckled, landed him on the couch, and he crawled up with the bigger 'roo. Curled into his core, spine-to-dyed-chest-puff. They faced out the same, for now, except Jerr looked up by the bastard's Adam's apple. Warm breath, new scents wrapped in male parcel throughout. Jerr's head lay with purpose on the soft tan fur around the pec strands of a man who turned him out. He'd found an avenue.

Quentin traipsed over, kicked cans and bottles away to make it to their spot; not for being sober where he remembered the li'l guy's words, just convenient urge. Jerr reached and shocked him a bit by grabbing his arm, pulling in. Jerr put his face sideways; his lower lip, tongue, chin fuzz were all touching chest hair. His eye socket leaned straight on where neck met rich-scented torso. He didn't know what made this hombre such a wealth of draws... No, in truth he did, and it's why his knees bent straight up to lodge his feet at the giver's bulge. Another shade of 'fuck yeah' informed Omar's grin. Soft footpads tumbled the meat and healthy sack. Jerr was in the rightest place for the big moment. Not hesitating a milligram, he popped the orange blot inside cheek and onto gum.

It sat dissolving. Omar did him one better by rubbing the top of feet whose insoles rubbed him. Comfort, a man's odors, sounds of want and positivity from strong lungs... Jerr cackled and motorboated his new pal, got deep in the dealer's blue strands. Every one was there because Omar was a man. Quentin's belch from behind was proud and thundered, because he was XY. And Jerr's own short-yet-able bliss pipe was standing up in pulse after pulse, because HE was-

• Jerr's eyes dilated. His heart's thump felt as the beat of a snare drum; this he could suddenly taste. He kept face in Omar's upper mancarpet, until it was tentacles and they grew suction cups. He recalled the who where and why, kept that much clarity, and thus steadily pulled his head out from the kraken on 'roo's ribcage faux-strangling him.

First he saw was the much darker scales of Quentin, or a pile of freckles and melty eyes passing each other, never-ending, a stirred soup. Jerr said one thing to Q', voice crackly. "You look good as gumbo, party animal."

The lacrosse addict stared at Omar, who stared back far more 'guilty'. Their inner thoughts matched up: 'Yeah he's gone, it's as done as can be '. And Quentin spoke out after, with an idea not inherently bad. "You got rope or something yuh packed? If we need to tie him down, should shit go... Y'know. I'll check real fast." His drunken ways forgot the part of manners where you hear a 'yes' before going.

Omar's bark stopped him in his tracks. He had to catch it after a careless "NO YOU DON'T-", feeling Jerr shake a bit. Stroking the dude's back fur got it mellow again, and his hand went full down to the ass and back. Indulgence, and if Quentin started to feel odd for the retort, it went to where forgotten notions die.

But the glimpse had been that, a simple peer at beginnings; Jerr rolled around and climbed on Omar. Didn't hurt the dawg of a dealer, even jabbing elbow into collarbone one good time. Colours were weirding out; reality glitched. The blue turned orange to Jerr. What had been tan was green. He looked around, found more than just anomalies on 'roo chest. What the room showed, he never predicted.

The TV high-fived the weight bench. It crumpled into nothing before he could figure how. Tiny gremlin things climbed the DVD case and basejumped. They didn't need parachutes, since they phazed through the floor. Scattered cans were making a concerto; the golden mouths of the poptops sang a Sublime track. Wild shit drowned out the smoothness by sight, however, when popcorn bits rained from the ceiling. Looked like the dots of the rough surface had given up on being plasticine, and just wanted to live as strings around a Christmas tree... That is, the ones sprouting out of dust and chip crumbs back in unmodified reality.

The swirly-faced Quentin held onto his legs, and this was true in his mind and intoxication outside it. He'd come back to tether down the munk' on a journey, forgetting he didn't actually get rope. Stumbles got him back to putting a hold on Jerr's sides. Omar looked down on and over him, still peeved. "You think you're really doin' something right now?"

"Nah, but I... 'Mready and shit if he freaks."

The tripup in his voice soothed Omar's humours to a point. "Tch. Fair enough. Y'know you got free reign on him if you were more of a jackass, or firmer."

Q' was toasted, but not so badly he'd pass by the slight. "What'chu tryin'a say about Q' Two?"

"Nothi-*snrk*" Omar started then stopped; okay, that was a pretty cool nickname for the dong. He made the rest brief. "Whiskey dick joke, movin' on. Get this little squirmer, he's wow right now."

Jerr was exactly why he went for brevity. Orange backfur and its curves and pitches swam in a sea of marsupial bareness, decked with that male chestpiece. His eyes lolled, tongue felt cool in the air as it caught a breeze he cuddled so hard. Even if the monkey ever half-assed anything, the newest guy had style and traits to make his tail quiver. Speaking of the peach it hooked into, each pink cheek had its heat on an inner thigh, Omar's engines. What a fuckin' pair they were, gams that could break a sumo with one legpress and a mouth full of asshole grin... Jerr's nips beaded sweat, his face was on fire. The darkest of wigout-fuel he 'saw' were the ONLY items of regret for him; not taking the dot, and sure-as-wet-sheets not cradling on that hot stallion of a leaper beneath. His heart wasn't all that stunned but found needs. Snakelike pecker was up to his center spinal disks, shaped to feel like few he'd ever experienced. He cried out in wimpy howl, his least chill yet. Omar put his arms tighter around, made him a pet and pal in pose. He didn't know the hubbub was a pang for him to slip it in, from a fuckbro. The hallucinator whose stiff 4 never took a vake.

Jerr flipped over, tired of looking out to the walls bleeding grape jam and guys dressed in swimtrunks stretching their necks instead of taking the trunks off and dwarf cats chasing mice around the checkerboard that replaced the ground. In the real world chest met chest, lean muscle to a deeper specimen. Jerr's coo drifted through the fold of dudecleavage... It was nicer now. Finer. He felt the met of soft dyed blue as silk, toyed by way of his nose through its locks. From this close, he could swear it was growing... In fact the sprigs towered, like beanstalks, scented but going green in unique ways...

... He chuckled as he burned up. This was gonna go on a while. All nerves in his lean self relished Omar's touch and Quentin's, no matter if the turtle was so clumsy he knew through this mindhaze. Reptile mitts had the hind of his legs in a deathgrip. He perceived only good, straddling the thickest of an unsmall squeeze, as with his pink inches. Jerr let his grip fail while the brain flashed green-to-yellow behind his lids, and he slipped down.

Omar never had a tongue wick from his tip past inch after inch that steady. Jerr's lungs didn't miss an accent in the wail of want, either, acid be damned.

"Shhhiiit... Think we oughto take a shared advantage?" Omar sent out to Quentin's ears, giving it some thought but with reservations. Jerr had his own state right now, and besides, seemed like he was conducting it just fine on his own. He nestled at the sack, gave it kiss and lip service that turned into suction, soft intake, feeling globes by taste. He could see the pleasure, Omar's, but this too came artificial. He dragged mouth up the length, and shut gaze against the pillow of abs and tall thin member, long maleness in a python on a 'roo. Substance drove his trance and two men whet his parched gay soul... He could hear thoughts they had, he was convinced. He had brows and cheek twitch; come to think of it, he could hear this infernal tapping, too.

His turnabout was a sad change, leaving Omar's rod for now. He had to find out what that noise giving his ears flack was about. There, at the windowsill, past some remarkably normal shit in his foreground - A matchbook and Pabst can with dried white spots - there were popcorny shapes, there, too. Yet again it made sense here, aged treated wood and temp changes warped the edges. But they won't normally blister while you watch. Or burst, like pustules, which Jerr saw pretty vivid, launching dots with legs...

Oral fun was finished now, decisively. Panic fuel was manifesting. Omar reached and worked his own meat, groaning more than average since that monkey prepped him to be sensitive. While he ran a fist up and down its taper - spread the leak of a real tip right down the span - Jerr tried not to let things get horrifying. 'It's cool, I'm here. Q' and O' got me cozy. S'all good. I'm square." He said it in his racing mind... It cemented, held well by his ego. Good that it did, with the spiders coming. They marched down the sill and the wall as they seemed to sense him. They were coming. They were growing. The next while could be bleak.

Every eight-legger which sprouted out doubled in mass, quintupled, too too fast. Jerr's skin was cold, his dick hair stood on end with this fright. There were changes to each spiderdude, too... They were men, a discovery made the taller they got. Like they'd been biped, and broke some stupid curse to go and be shapely again, and these shapes... Jerr's head spun but he got plenty of variety, these all became diverse, one became defined, cut, a real swimmer in the fully-formed six-pack with six arms around it. Another had his changes put him low to the ground, short and bulked up, a real bouncer in build and how he carried his bug self. Third man to transmogrify had height like the first, and mutton chops, but swung something below so ginormous the room's air felt thicker. Compacted for space. Jerr wiped his forehead and let Omar's hand cruise right by him. His head next buried in the cool left pit; licking by the man with skinniest core and pre-drenched trippin' cock. Omar let it happen even if it meant his tool was solo now; he loved jacking it with dudes anyway, so he could get off on just an open flog with this naked high sucktoy. Sober Quentin didn't exist, but if he did he'd never have followed monkey's butt as it whipped him back out for air, or his eyes' loose darting, same with kangaroo. Jerr lay and took in so much of which they knew nothing.

"Hey there." A buff arachnid guy broke the ice. "Know how to get to the quad from here? Wanna throw you down and split you open on it." Fear had no say here; Jerr perceived it go distant, and falter. He knew a come-on, and the type that comes from real hard fucks. "Like a walnut", the handsome lad continued. No question and even less bad vibes.

Spidermonkey ogled up and down. They were getting hairy too, the ubercoarse kind on a real webspinner's butt, though in whorls like only guys get, up frontal zones and at the foot of engorged, fat units, even down bags that hung to hell and back with balls inside them bigger than his eyes.

He slid the rest of the way off Omar. His stark stagger and spins, light on feet, made the walking off more okay to two horny 'guards'. Their sensations he left behind for a multilegged heartthrob who smiled down. Grabbed his head like you would a basketball. Didn't lift it but pulled in, getting Jerr's face all up in manhood... It whipped his nose and he nearly coughed it was so much. From hitting him, not a taste yet.

Quentin stepped back and marvelled. Jerr did plenty of that in his dimension, flanked by the burly and the cut spiders. A thinner dude rounded them out and he was a rug with all that hair, like his dad was an otter. The one who held him, hand on cap, smacked his right shoulder. Thiccest spiderboy then caught it and held. The hairy fuck dropped low, looked like he'd be submitting to that short chimp shrimpdick.

Their moves were otherworldly but this was home: Groups of men screwing with him, getting handsy. Pecker owners assuming a stance to use his little bod 'til their dicks shot every sperm they brewed.

Jerr watched them colourshift, and brown guys went to yellow, but brushing at him, no open space while he rode his nose up spider cock to the bulbous head and down. Behind, Omar went to feeling rather pissy, seeing what his visions got. Karma for snapping on Q', it could be argued. Jerr's throat tightened; it felt SO real, such a damn masterpiece of dick he felt jam up his gullet, this early. Taking over for his duty. They were pushing at his bare shoulders, forcing it. These fuckin' hot bastards were doing what rhymed with nape, the tiny part of his neck he felt a sandpaper-scrub on, hunky male carapace assaulting him. Invigorated, safe and sound, he let it ride.

Ten inches put pure need in his throat. Veins on it were like the stuff they shot to make houses, ribbed in his gums. Beating up his lips. He tried to whine but that pipe plugged the hole, salted up his every nook inside hungry acceptance. His ass hurt as something felt like it wrenched him open wide. Shoved his buns to either extreme and tore into his chute. It had to be the fattest one. All men were growling, trills like a row of chimes under every breath, calls of an insect predator. Jerr tasted copper, the idea of economics AND one succulent stick of tough rowdy man with oozing shroomcap, together. Quentin had stepped over to near Omar, stumbling once. 'Roo didn't give a fuck that he started choking the chicken too, nor that he couldn't get it up that intoxicated. They were in it for themselves and Jerr was on that altered-state cock for their grubby hands and violent, sweaty action. Even the ottery spider who sucked him nibbled lots. They were feasting on him, ramming his asshole, cocking chimp's head to let that huge tool snake in and out and raw his gums. They beat on his leanness while feeding his comely mouth and ass. He gasped, foamed at the chops, hankered for every centimeter pushed in him. A man among men. Omar did a mood-180 with the little guy's talents; he snarled he was so aroused, watching Jerr get wacked out while unclothed and damp in perspiration. His part of this tableaux showed his roomies everything of him. Assaulted in his mind by thug knockouts with manliness unfiltered. He could barely feel closer to heaven, stretched out and used like a gym sock.

Quentin huffed, cranking that rope. "He's maintainin'! The guzzl'r. He goddamn breathes it." Simple ways to say what Omar saw the same. Q' glided thumb as his dick moved at his whims right to the very pad it sprung from. He moved like a song was in his head, and blood made it to his second one no matter the status. Jerr felt the studs pull free of him, jam back in, pull out, dipping in him. They railed even his sweatsoaked skin, dried on his bod' fuzz.

The turtle and 'roo spied on the Jerr they chaperoned as he swam in air and the orgy he perceived. They were getting tuned to each other too; Omar didn't look away from Q's flog of the flimsy log. The latest male to belong here tolerated Q's stagger in legs and speech, leaned in to brighten the show a bit, enjoy two shameless men and be a third for them.

Jerr blinked and reacted; in his mind's eyes the first load landed, worked its trembling bug stud to a jitter, full facial. Pornstar spiders rode out the bliss but Jerr's mouthbasher's cock recoiled, a shotgun; its ammo scoured monkey face, the spray didn't stop. Texture so real, Jerr used swallow muscles, ate his protein like a good broboi. Other spidermen had two knees knock and six hands grope Jerr's spindle of a self, per varied top. Their arm wool scratched at him, abrasive, demeaning; it didn't matter they were violet now after a minute or two of red-and-brown stripes. Their greed for him matched his need of rogue power. They held him by the crown, checked his teeth, treated him like property. More hot, thick cream hit his back from its direction, they were flinging it with how they fucked the fur on him. Crowded for their own chunk of Jerr to sully. Loved his soft texture to the point they were randomly going off. Jerr didn't know the last time he'd been totally made an object, or had so much hot seed pour down him from this many brutes. The one sucking him clamped down on his feet, stimulated toes. He shivered in undying zen, his undersized pistol shot line after line of pearl. Raked by all sizes of dick, at the mercy of rough busters who pulled him every compass-way, grinded meat in his orange coat and shot white heat to bury it, barely a word exchanged, just pleasure. Plowing his bare holes and furry acres. Elite release.

No part of Jerr wasn't slogged in jizz. Unborn soldiers by the billions showered him, gave his twink limbs storm surge. Gulps became desperate for more. Every square inch of him lay wet. He noted changes in the spider lug when he popped that shooter back in his maw, the size was diff. They shot at random and morphed dickshape. Cum rained on him, and the instruments went new and explorable. He felt long cylinders shrink to fat gourds, blow up to dragon shapes, pummel him with imprints never the same. Jerr's very real hum in squeal's tone drove any roach in the walls out and screaming for the hills.

Omar's teeth had glare, his smile so big and sopped with drool. No drug could overcome the monkey bitch's level head, or his spirit's normal bend. O's snakelike cock throbbed and wobbled with petting, his nuts bounced either side of the mass they hung high on. He saw Jerr hallucinate a group tackling, rubbing him, even tickling his pits. Jerr felt the gourdish guy, the buff swimmer and the donkey-dicked webslinger gush on him. Tidal crashes of white. Laughs and rolls, hungry dives, shrill cooing moans while Jerr rode stick that wasn't there, and... Omar could take no more sitting. He stood from the couch. Stepped up to where the primate worked, where Jerr dangled his gear, hollered for them to blow wads, took all he felt like a hardy slut.

Against all odds Omar did this alone; by the time it occurred to him Quent' wasn't there to join him, he'd already held his junk high and straight. Jerr was to find this pliable rod and get a real man's action... The owner of it looked back, however, saw the door swinging shut to just-cracked, and all chance evaporated.

Omar jumped, in one bound, to the way into his room. Where Quentin's stumbly ass had blazed a trail. Turtleman could have done this on accident, either heading for his next to it or being blackout-stage where space meant as much as control did. Omar broke the hinges coming in, and the door would forever be unshuttable. For now, he sighted Q', and he snooped in the box Omar had carted.

"'S-sssup bum? I just wanted'a find cord orrr somethin', I w'nnnted uh tie him up like I-... I think I said-"

He was right. He was also blindsided by a fist, a hard left hook suckerpunch to the nose. He toppled, and the way his head hit the floor he was out like a light.

It had no bearing on Omar, who screamed as he spat vengeance and veins thumped in his neck. "You EVER pull this stunt again and THEY WON'T FIND YOU!! I'll BEAT your FUCKIN' ASS you BOOZE VAT!!"

Quentin absorbed nothing in unconsciousness. Omar's chest puffed as he fumed, and depth only gradually relented. He looked at his hand, then plain-down as the fire in him smoldered. He restrained it just like always, when it wouldn't matter anymore.

He turned, by learned-habit thinking of bystanders. Huge feet rushed him to the door, yet stopping once. He looked back to Quent' snoring, with any luck undamaged, and then pushed open the door half as quick as coming in, still putting it in the wall.

He wouldn't have to worry about scaring the monkey sub. Or he had, and this was quick evidence... Either case it was an empty den. Chimp was messed up, and gone.

The word "Fuck..." dribbled from his noiseless flaccid lips. His pupils were never tinier.

...... Will had room to revel, inside a ring of chunkheads who invited every brag he made from high school. Motions where he swept the air with an arm, showing how he knocked down Pruegger High's defense like they were bowling pins. Boasts of games that went 45-3 with him never on the side of single digits. Turf-brothers jostled for him, starting to revere the aura. He chestbumped bison then heard a chime in his pocket; he knew the custom ringtone and who it told him he'd get.

"Hold on menfolk, it's the one who brought you me. Excuse this." He rubbed the vibration in his trousers - halfway on it and halfway to the front, there was room in that hand for both - and slipped through to open air. The fennec blurted behind him "Well tell 'im to send you with donuts next time, shit can always be better!" He chuckled like half of them, while the phone was taken from his warm hip to his face.

He was all-smiles to the greatest extent. "Hi pop!... Oh, phenomenal. I came in on waves of destiny and surfed to the golden shore!... Hah, you could say they're getting friendly. I'll chuck a lot more than goals over their backs." He laughed even harder just to rub this truth in; a father like his seldom complained. He then heard where William Sr. was presently, straight from the source. It had altitude. "... Wow, sweet! Outstanding, you're there already then?... No, I won't guess how high, as a matter of course, heh. Which camp?" Upon getting the answer he wore instant shock, impressed. "... Goddamn. I knew you could climb that one, dad, I don't hold onto doubt. Make the rest of Mount Logan your bitch!... No, I shouldn't use his name that way, you're right. I'll do five hail-Marys just for you." He had a smile wise and secure, lying through his teeth. It wasn't 'Logan' he'd used incorrectly, rather the slur that used holy name... But tomorrow was one Wednesday in particular, so maybe the fib he'd turn into righteous honesty, soon. He got asked over the phone how they're setting it up, the schedule for the next while. "... They said it's a few days oncoming, I'll be getting the jersey, they'll put me in my role... Exactly! They just streamline it more than in your day. Short turnaround." He felt a swell in all four limbs by positivity; telling his dad made him think of all the priveleges and star-moments he headed for, knocking punks and throwing 6 points a minute at this higher tier. The word 'punk' jogged his memory to mention it. "... Would it give you a jolt if I ran into a hater or three?... Haahaha!! Yes actually, a hick cornpone who dropped in after wrecking a truck, and then didn't even calm the tempest to get a try!... Oh he threw conniptions. I put him down easy, it's like the most he's gotten scrappy is when he goes cow-tipping. Good riddance to bad cubs... Jerr's fine, yessir, and he's doing well! He and our frat are close as sand grains! They're all working out to be good stock, they're in the family... I'm thinking tonight I'll take us out, Yelp shows me there's 5-star gelato cafè on the river walk, Jerr can bring his bike. And all the rest that's mine to know... Heheh... True, but I'm careful. I learned from the best. Who's still king of the surefooted up there?... Ah c'mon, you fathom that I don't say it to butter up..."

What his mountainclimbing forebear said took the call in close directions. Genuine and glowing. Will didn't choke on a throat lump, but it encroached on him. "... Yeah I'm proud of you too. That's underselling it, but, you know... I won't ever forget it, pop. Love forever. Peace out."

He hit the button to hang up, and looked above the arena's rim. The blue sky was haze-free today in dark warm complexion; apparently zero diff at the Canadian Rockies. No one could scale a peak like his dad, and body-majesty was in the genes. All did not stay haughty though; once the phone went pack in his pants, his knee touched the ground. Paying worship to Mary, respect that a monkey never showed the most immaculate of women. Of no consequence for a chimp that wasn't Catholic; but neither for the man who loved him for him. Will finished veneration, and stood back at the height and thick stature that enlivened a room, a stadium, anywhere.

"Will, you think we'll start off with a shutout?" The hippo threw out before a hiccup, as his turkey club from earlier sat heavy as him. They all nodded and 'yeah'-'d, picking up on the optimism. Shared belief in their new XY QB whose TLC was never AWOL.

They got just what they'd want from a gorilla. "I'll give you this to chew on: if we don't keep their asses free of points, I'll shave my fucking meat forest. It'll be clear of curls. Shit I'll groom my backside too, or my boi will."

There were "Phh-hh" and "Yeah sure!" replies, they were all the less-faithful there. But they'd grow to take him for his word, right down to what he claimed to do at the lockers for his K-12... Jockstraps that stayed tight on bare guys he bearhugged while he wrecked. Numbered shirts that got reordered every month for the stains, never shielded by bottomless wearers, hairy damn subs. The strings of dried snack they couldn't make a mop erase. Protein threads that crossed over cheeks like sneaker laces.

Everything was time. In it, through it, he had each one of them by the sweet, pungeant sacks.

The day closed on this practice. There were 'later's and 'see ya then's inside babble by male after male. Will saw them all wave or holler hopeful plans to crush skulls with him; he waved back with a salute, full-military, and they dug that also. He had more than a bounce in his step, by the minute he headed out for new home and hot limber bro's... He had two pogo sticks he walked on, girthed up to his wealthy proportions.

The win streak he'd embark on making mockeries of wuss teams from downstate and the swamplands, the guys built with sheer superior brawn he'd be cockpunching in dingy holes 'til every man had sparkling asscave, they meant one and the same to him.

Light in the archway played on him, shined up his shoulders and shirt in wobbles as he walked to it. He was outdoors but could taste the air from outside this outside, fewer lawn-and-rubber notes on the palate. Every pro player had a first day at college; since this was his, he didn't know if there should be one man sitting in the stands, allowed in. But lo, three seat-lengths away from his incipient way out, a man of quietness sat whittling. Not wood but plastic, with his Swiss blade. Not animal but human. Red was his hair and the hue of his sunburnt forelegs, in white tee and a kilt... No, a skort, Will came to realize, plaid but not tartan. In a shift the ape went from stopped on a path out to facing this chap with leg bent casually.

Will broke the ice. "Doesn't seem like I've seen you in the crowd, and I stay brushed up on the games they syndicate."

The man had smile lines adjoining his moustache, yet no smile, by the grey-and-orange hairs and by speckles on the skin. A shine came from his ear and was done instantly: the smallest diamond stud had caught the sun then lost it. Whosoever this fine aged ginger turned out to be, it didn't slay him to have attention. He carved on and spoke with gaze never straying from work. "Isn't that something. So I'm not Waldo and your television's not a picture book."

That alone tore Will from his curiosity, and he swung back to leaving, not another word. But he might have guessed this homo sapien had other ideas, and these the stocky 40-something launched straight into. "Nice show, C'thulhu. I'll be thinking of it tomorrow and for a while, and I don't spook easy. You're an industrial hazard." This didn't translate sarcastically, and it wasn't meant to.

For the praise, Will could throw him a bone-slash-second-chance. "Thank you kindly. We all get our foot in the door, some of us just break it wide open."

The human watched him lift his pants by the waistband, defy the sag of loose fit pulling south with help from bulge. This was the first stead of eye contact. Redhead asked him something, rhetorically. "And the ones who have to tote in a toolbox to fix it? Well they're the underclass, in so many words. You and I stand aware of that together." Though he didn't stand, it was symbolic. He got the plastic somewhere close to a point; meanwhile at his brown loafers, sliver and slice piled up, spirals of plastic that were straight until the knife began their new lives, made rubbish. His tone danced between droll and snotty; Will's mind compelled his feet to stay.

The quarterback was deadpan. "To whom do I have the pleasure?" He went a tick less level with an addendum. "... Whose hot air am I hearing?"

The man didn't move, for all of two seconds. He went right back whittling. Something told Will a mistake had been made, and not a redhead's. What he heard went along those lines. "Owing to respect I hold, I'll be nice. You can call me a social engineer. Most kids refer to me as the Dean."

It was just then, the firecoloured elder polished up his work. Stuck his pink, freckly hand under shirt and clutched the sticklike tube, cleaned all the dust and jetsam. Now it was clearer to see the black speck inside, as if a tiny wire where the hunks he'd peeled away were insulation. But he stuck it up higher, in his lips, and blew.

The black dot was in reality the tiniest hole. Into it his breath flew, and out of this came no sound for Will, except a shriek from two men back at the benches. Dicker and the guys who didn't have boys or chicks to come back to had stayed congregated. The two who suffered were jackal and great dane. Talk and ribbing and joy there all ceased while the rest saw them hold their ears, pained. Confusion from every bruiser. That is, save for the ape who'd seen enough Tom & Jerry to connect the dots.

Now this spurred Will to step forward, demand the whistle with an open mitt. Deanship doesn't drop the spectre of abuse. But this was an unprofessional player, against administrator who acted unprofessional. It could only have one victor. The human gave him nothing, and a skort moved when the feet did, stretching out to be even idler. The older man twitched, in his nose. Then his hand.

... Will knew how many silver hairs were on the back of his neck, as every one went erect. Air drifted in and out of the space at his lips, mouth unclosed. The Dean filled in the speech gap. "You liked feeling out your new team. Or the part that's not incumbent. Simple thrills, right?" He grew to sound reflective, and patronizing. "To be a freshman again."

Will wasn't big on the word 'kids' from anyone; however a faculty man had his rights. To remind Will what he was, this needlessly, the jig was up. "Alright, I'm more ears than anything now. What'll you have of me."

... The Dean snapped to focus and the stance of instructing, counseling, like he waited the whole day to fling it. A drama king. "That's part of your whole gap, Silverback. You truly think I speak of my contentment or what's good for me." He didn't let up a micron. "I know when a man assigns others his nature. And it helps to operate on how Herbert Lyon doesn't need your or anyone's humouring."

"Whoa, calm your steeds, I didn't mean for condescension-" Will's palms went up, the size of some guys' chest.

No change was obtained. "Except it wasn't condescending, it was humouring. Your vocabulary lapped you. While you let it rest - through shutting up - your mind will build bridges. They can be self-centered here since I'll tell you aaaall about you."

He stuck the pipe behind his ear; it was like a pen to a bookeeper, as he read Will. Pink lips fluttered. A flower petal landed on his knee from a breeze, and he mashed it into the skin as he didn't look, certain it was a bug. "Any fan of this, the pinnacle of sport that IS your calling from the looks of it, would know your name. Coaches aren't allowed to be partial, not here. I'm part of why. Tell me what order it preserves if I leave it up to favoritism."

Will wanted to rebut, but his heart told him to cage it for now. He merely thought with lips closed, 'That's entirely not how a team is built, or functions, but fine sir chieftain.'

"But don't. I don't seek order. I need continuity. This alma mater has what no other college in the state has. Something no school any closer than Iowa can say. Care to guess, Butchelor #2?"

"... Negative."

"Expected. Here, I'll help you out..." He leaned forward and mocked whispering, even though Will was three feet away and on the ground. Decibels still carried it; the human had a golden throat. "We're profitable to the point of funding-independent." Back to normie tones. "And that's every year, when enrollment peaks, when it dips, through audits, when regulatory blah-blah. Even faculty bloat won't nick us. Precious few things win that for a landmark this size. You protect them, or you're permitted the looong walk and take your airheads with you."

"I... Appreciate the crash course on ways the school gets fucked with." Will stood incredulous, awkward at this heaping helping of what-the-fuck. He scratched his leg, mosquitos were still out this early in fall. "Oh and how you see your talent, that's generous intel."

Herbert had no chill for a mouth that wasn't his. He took the mini-dog whistle, tiny fife that it was, and drove its end hard into the seat. The shrill thump made metallic wobbles. Will's ears recovered; they'd work harder now.

"I will write your epitaph the minute you try that again. And I may be the ONLY one, because now we circle back to my point. In your trajectory, here, you'll run into the word 'yes' a lot. On life's straightaways, at curves in the road. If I also said you're accustomed to that, I don't expect to be struck by lightning. I value lots about you, kid, but it centers on your drive. None of your action. And when I think about the shit they barely hid on camera, the smalltown games you headlined... Yeah, 'action' isn't just what this school doesn't need, it's what it won't see." The A-word had air quotes put around it. "Cash buys many things, William. You've seen it can pay off a municipal board, it can get new named halls built out... One thing it never does is sway the scouts. If a PR black-hole they spot, you don't have to lose sleep over if they'll tank the man's name. It's plan A."

This language was the ape's native tongue. He'd accounted for the price of horseplay; exactly why he was here with no monkey on his Greek-goddish back. Herb' dealt with more than first impressions, though, by the longest shot. Will wouldn't protest those examples, his buying silence when younger; why fight the truth, or how, when so scared he felt salty drip down his spinal column. He'd never listened more intently.

"You're not a few corn dogs shy of a festival, Silverback. From how you whirled around Bennett in the face-off with Creek County Charter last year, you're made of insight. The immediate kind. Yet you have a future that's currently at a bus stop, with clean socks and its backpack on. You can decide to keep the bus going, OR you can blow its tires, gut the engine block and spit on the gearshift." Will felt a stir from association on the metaphors. It went cold and expired. There was focus paid to Lyon alone...Matter of fact, Lyon, he thought as one word before the Dean could get going again...

"Don't misunderstand. I'm a fan here, first. I want your success. I want you hoisted up on the arms of your peers as they share a trophy and do that godawful tradition of Gatorade showers, giving Dicker hypothermia. It's good for all of us if you make it out there. Doom that, and you make your future a crazy regret. We're of interest but unaffected, while you fall. And you know what crazy means, I'm sure; mentally snapped." He lost all emotion in his voice, or banished it, likely. Lyon leaned his lowest, outward at Will, but to merely clasp hands as their color fled in a rush, pale as moonlight. "It can be too much for one man to take, Silverback. Finding out a great many things he sins against forgive him but remember it. I say this to men who have brains that discern the ripples left."

He winked. It was terse and judgemental, not loaded. Will wished it had been instead, for what it wound up saying.

"Is it an uncharted mood for you, a scold when it's not principals, the figurehead across desks? I hope you don't feel homesick for a PTA mug and a cuck's power."

The Dean had slipped away from constructive terms. He had safety to do as much of it as desired. Now it wasn't Will's turn persay, as he was owed nothing and had a handle on that. But he made his own. Certain things needed closure. "I am flattered, I sense when someone doesn't dole out tolerance. Or compliments. Yours have weight."

"And yours have none. Don't try my patience, boy."

"I wouldn't dream of it." The nervous smile on Will's face was hidden in shadows from pigmented fur. "You don't feel the same as other deans I've sidestepped when I checked out institutions, before I knew the fit this was for me. I hate I missed you the first go. Your prestige lifts you."

This could have been the bus-burner, he knew. He was sweating rifle bullets. One bad interpretation spelled disaster, getting chucked, everything that meant for him. He ran a hand up his scalp back-to-front as a hobo's comb, and kept the daddy of all panic attacks out of sight. His heart raced, critical, paining his chest, as he kept straight and tall for Lyon

... The human responded. "It's a fault to deal with when you leave Stanford for a slow, simpler year. No resentment to my former title, it's thanks to traffic and the geniuses really made of demands. Don't mistake that, this isn't small talk; I enjoy bitching about them. And the better commute."

"Your carbon footprint thanks you if the drive's shorter. But forget all that, I want you to know, I was all-soul earlier, I do wanna find how else I can earn your time spent on me." Again, the ulteriors in mind made his manhood rise partway. Tight jeans kept it clamped. "After modeling a good player and student and a fine Catholic poindexter."

'Twas a lucky choice of words toward the human palookah, whose face appeared in mass every week. With skin going pinker on the minute, Herbert held his fife close again, not poised to jab it down a second time. "Nothing. If you cover those bases you're set. I'll keep you on the docket, and no NFL rep in the nation will overlook you. I think they'd have to hire the blind for one to miss that throw. I should keep my camera phone aimed." Will detected an amused fun in spark form. He felt warm inside, not even carnally; two men on common ground kicked ass by bond alone.

And Will stood eased to the point of meddlesome... One thing still caught his fancy, about the man in drastic style festooned with carrot-red beard. "Do you think Adam wants this as his school? I recall hearing when the five of us hung out, he knows how proud his father would be."

It was such a gamble. Last name and resemblance aren't everything, and from the flag gone up on Herbert, it might have hit the dandy wrong 'n' hard. Will's sweatflash came back. But the Dean held neutral. "It could very well be. We're not the closest uncle and nephew, if he wants his education here we'll throw a family cotillion, whatever. It's our business."

The accentuated word shut down this topic. Will went on stifling the greatest smile, he'd been off the mark but succeeded in seeing how. The human's shirt was thin, and when ape eyes weren't obediently upward, they traced every curve and ounce of the Irishman. Lyon's speckled skin turned darker and darker on arms but it was nothing aloe can't fix. Will thought of someone absent at the moment, how that orange nut would swoop on this sapien like a horned-up hawk... Sit on it with lust no matter the size... Take his pipe strong, never throw in the towel if his asshole didn't burn yet... Used, chattering, his smooth G' with a lovehole like foam rubber...

... Old habits die hard or not at all. Herbert moved in a jiffy; cultured in speech and more, he showed no unmentionables as he raked hands over the skort to point edges down. Adjusted his tiny earring. Made leaving a statement. "You get what's germane for you. I must go and deal with a prima donna who was fighting in the lab area. Call it a ritual, my day's not done until her clan threatens to shut off investing. Go on your way, and never envy me. Bye now." He toted the flute, walked down the grey stairs at bleachers' edge and held his head triumphant. Lifting the woodwind to his lips, he blew an audible tune this time, which Will recognized as Gaelic and from an old folk ditty. Dearest God how could that be, if it was handicapping dogs and got no adapting... No clear explanation. Not another look or letter given to Will, and that 'bye' brought with it a knife of a tone, slicing into any plots of showing out. If Will did his job, he would never see the Dean again, not from half this close.

And that's perhaps what sunk him, as the human leader stepped with form and poise - and sashay - out the stadium's floodway. Will's eyes were as green as the turf they lowered to stare at, motionless. A man who could not be had, drummed up facts on those who can't be bought. It's not as if it never occurred to Will; these games were the big stages, lamps that brought out every talent-scout bug and marketing mogul to flit around. They were paid to be the arms for the league; but as much as he paid mind to being his best as man and athlete, the daily stumbling blocks are where his 'payment' ended, and would have been the same with precautions took or none. Would the NFL draft a guy who ruined gear by making punch in a bucket with Crown Royal and Mr. Pibb and sweaty uniforms, then got every teammate at Fossey High to throw in their cups and chug?

What highlight reel did he expect to make, if his touchdown dance includes reaching in his pants and licking that hand clean? Or leaning on the cute guy who wrangles the first-down marker, pantomiming prison sex?

Would the Colts be proud to have his face on the graphics when Fox Sports scrolls the roster for Sunday Night, if they're busy paying off the girlfriend of a pizza boy? Or with the courtroom drama, 'I thought I was delivering three pies' before he got held off the ground by a five-way of players who sent him home limping, hair mussed, unable to sit 'til surgery?

Who had worse tendencies, his monkey love or the heart in his own ribcage?

Herbert had scratched the surface of himself. The man downplayed prestige, and would never bring it up without Will's query. Confidence that had gelded Will used only the most offhand hard facts. All while in that getup, which for most men of an older gen was out of the question. Gorilla noticed those husky legs looked that good, two wide roads from the feminine flair down to men's crew socks with red fuzz the full way. But Will's balls felt separate, an out-of-junk experience.

He wiped not just his brow but his whole face, then down to collar and larynx. He felt repelled by thoughts of scandal. The man was good... Sounded like he was on the way to threaten Faith, if Will was right in assuming here as he'd been close about the Lyon family. She was reported, but they, Jerr and he, spared... Or Lyon cared who started what, which in academia's unheard of. That only went as far as showing his best point, a lack of bias. This very much mattered but Will couldn't be happy now to think of it, too much he didn't miss. Accentuation from Herbert, shifting at the right points. Squiggly mouth placement when subjects of gay deeds came close to words. The contempt was for copious mansex, while the sir sat unconformed to every dress rule from the straightest of old guards. There was honest thought among fucky, fight-happy fools, in Will's case alone. Scared. Educated.

He wouldn't be able to pluck a hair from his grapefruits without Lyon knowing where and whether it wound up on the tongue of his defense.

The primate held his heaviness high, and burned an image of the next day's timeframe into planning. No sense in looking at doubts, only missions. Face what's ahead, and whatever he does, do right by the waiting emissaries. To be controlled, of good standing and with tireless discretion, were the only ways that bus kept running.

In fact, fuck a bus, he was on a Harley in this race to be selected. He thought of owning a leather jacket, crankin' the accelerator, exhaust booms as it backfired on open highway. He'd cruise to the next milestone, sunspecs on, trees and houses and half-assers and jealous losers livid as he buzzes them. He'd hock a loogie sideways and catch the chick who dared try and hurt his main boi; her mouth would be open.

Will was walking out, and instead of to the fratpad or the office where Herbert confessed his not-having-this-shit to a brat with streaky hair, the ape had other thoughts. And their substance would be off school property.

...... Rod stepped up on a threaded rug, the first square of inside space at the market. Frizzy were bunches of shaggy polymers under the feet, made to clean with the slightest shampoo or spritz. He turned right and grabbed a cart from the caddy; rare that he went for one, but just as sparingly did the needs number this dense.

Not much changed at this business, which helped the comfort levels. Rattling growl flowed eternal from the Coke machine; sweet young Cathy at the register was attentive yet still dotted with craters, paid insufficiently to buy Clearasil. Ceiling tiles were discoloured by rain leak stains. But the staples of class were there equally.

To Rod, class meant all the toothpaste arranged right and a stand of luxury chocolate bars.

As he pushed the wheeled basket and ignored the squeak, a first item was picked up and dropped in. Paper towel six-pack, simple and done. Two heads poked above the aisle, however, next one over; while he tarried in paper goods, two smokey-faced macaques argued over soda sales. They were 14 feet combined, and resembled the fuck out of each other. Similar voice suggested they were brothers. Rod walked a little further, attained some red Solo cups in a value pack, but his eyes were up as it dropped down in. They made a figure-S coming out from that aisle, faced away from him but right in front now, back of their necks at his eyeline. Their barber did great with a fade. They sassed, but chuckled with the charm of guys who might fish for fun, in Rod's associative mind. He had a wild hair, but it was a familiar one...

No one else on the paper goods aisle so he was clear to reach down, while viewing their loose XL tees, their cracks rising out of black corduroys, and flash them. His reservedness went dormant; breaths jumping and tongue flaps from his beak spelled out lust. "Yeh boys, if you whipped around," He said incompletely, the dark-wooled meat hung out his waistband. He wiggled hand and made it swing. Sweat cooled his face in a flash, the thrill of danger. They had no idea he showed 'em his dick and balls, and it would be SO easy for them to whip a 180, discover his tool's shape... They rotated left, argued soft about some picture frames. One thought the light wood rectangle was 'gay'... Rod's fishing pole still shook and lay low in exposure. They inspired why he had a million-mile stare: a mere 90 degrees of turn now would make them see his endowment.

It started to rise and pinken up. He was so close to being had, and a possible arrest. His mouth went dry, hands trembled as adrenaline pumped. At long last he went to pull the waistband fast out and back up, conceal his carryon. They moved back his way less than a second later; did the same s-curve to pass him and go for the counter. He sighed outward and throbbed inward but the swell would soon go down.

He ambled on, uncaught by man nor camera. A display earned his eye. It was only twelve-pack bottled Coors, not the first choice but a damn-cheap one after a great markdown, so in the buggy it went. He couldn't shake thoughts of the pair while their chat lit up the checkout area. Sure they were primates, and he was more than likely biased with two godsend sleazeballs he could rub on and shoot with. But as the cart filled he thought of them sprawled low, all that height spread out. Tending him, maybe. He had to adjust himself at a corner. What if he were an emperor and they his concubines. Licking feet, giving neck massage, before serving with bended knee and soft throat. He reached in the trousers, fiddled with a bunched-up cobra. It was about to be much easier to deal with, though not for any cause he wanted. As the two loud brothers toted purchases out the front door, who should pop in after but a walrus. Rod heard Cathy's musical greeting, and then he heard Garver thank her. He coughed and it wasn't dry. Bird hormones and rigidity went limp.

Garver took a small basket and walked like a gourd would shuffle, up the personal care aisles. He was a grump on a mission, and Rod's haul was still in-process. He walked on, down the shaving section then meandering back; he'd forgot the next place to check for a moment, and part was the professor, part wasn't. He didn't want the coarse words of a 'fancy seeing you here' or similar clouding thoughts.

Rod's memory of the past few nights resurged... The unwitting dudes he exhibited to placed those images back in him. He opened a stand-up freezer door and plucked some pizza rolls, but steamed the door's glass when he sighed about Jerr. Relishing what the dude did while in the present this bag's icy crinkle flopped in the cart. Everything the monkey touched was better for it, the coddling and loving he did to Rod's shaft, his dark nipples, his tuft down the seam of a ballbag.

Rod walked on, but didn't leave the frozen food area. First he pulled another door, as an impulse item jumped out in his vision. A box of 'monkey' pullapart bread, around which his feathered hand went. He would smile now even without the pink, supple cheeks he'd broke it off in. Cinnamon and sugar do things to people.

Garver coughed again, and Rod declined to dwell on what the sounds resembled. Birdboy'd learned this store well, so he knew where the walrus stood was where stomach meds were stocked. 'It's not crazy to think that blowhard needs Pepto', thought the albatross. 'He fights his own temper the whole class through.' Still, he knew what Jerr was getting at about him when they quipped over the guy. A good pear shape is still a good shape... He might not be the type Rod ached to show his manhood when they're not aware, but... Nah, no matter how close they came, he'd keep it in his pants.

Will's pull on his heart was deeper. Fuller than a twink chimp's. The memories paused hitting notes of Jerr, went into a full symphony of 'rilla. Bastard's giant schlong glistened in any light, room bulb, gaming TV, phone cam flash. And there were stills took that first night. Rod drifted by a shelf with some smoked bottles, Hennessy and Ligand's rum on alternate shelves. They were one container lighter when he passed. In his nostalgia lay the hang of a true anaconda. Will's cocoa-furred trunk was so mighty it could snuff J.Lo and Ice-T inbetween the male ass it atom-bombed.

Garver let out a grouse and fussed to no one. "Damned package gets smaller, and the price goes the wrong direction for it."

Rod successfully didn't snicker, trying not to. He passed an aisle 'wing' holding Chex mix, presto, in the cart it went. He sped into a turn down the aisle for cereal and snagged a box of fiber bars. Necessity handled, end of tangent. Rod's walk went on, then slowed; his gangly legs had wobble, as goosebumps rose. Will's breath had hit his neck that first night. What else hit him as well but the heat off an ape's taint... He'd had to earn his first fuck from the turf beast. Licked the wide sweaty cove of manskin, topped with nut hair. Then he was destroyed, by two piston-legs and the pressure of a skewering. Jerr had cheered him on, the true munk' on Will's back announcing the action, narrating shove and slide and howl and burn, leakin' pre on Will's back hair with a nondryhump...

The Latin bird adjusted it. Then moved it. Then, behind the history-tutor he gave up. Couldn't take it anymore.

Garver fiddled with the box of Prilosec he read, cursing astigmatism. Rod's hard dick came out behind him. The young male addict froze every muscle but the one flaunting his tool. Rod's black pubes caught breeze. He helicoptered the firm plank, every side of his goods went in open air. Garver's basket held sanitary wipes, in a canister, and Rod's mind guesstimated - for the slightest stint - how close that thick can was to the size of Garver. What he hid in the ironed-and-pressed slacks, that could make a guy-next-door sing opera.

Sudden noise. There was a piercing hoot. A single voice, heralding calamity. One long note that made Rod's arm reflexively snap it back into fabric. His forehead instantly drenched itself. Was this the first time he'd been caught? Who would he see when he looked behind him, where the tone had blown in to his ear?

... Garver said only "Well hi" from a ways away. Rod's startled neck had him see the walrus once, uninvolved with the weird yell, who couldn't tell if what he'd also heard was this wing owner's fault or no. The professor went straight back to reading, or attempting it. Rod had bigger fish to fry, his face close to crimson, seeing if a customer, supervisor, anyone had him dead-to-rights. He yanked a bag of beef jerky off a peg so hard it tore half-open; strips littered the buggy. He was made, he knew this for a fact, and when he finally saw the one who spotted him... He went calm as a sleeping babe. At first.

Above the ground. Outside the store. Two tan hands swung on the rafters, just clear of the cone where Cathy could have looked out and learned of them. Jerr's eyes were open as the cosmos. He laughed, gritted teeth, seemed to gawk at ghosts but sent the message his pleasure was for Rod. He winked, and it was acted up. Legs twitched, but he was 'here' enough to work them into 'treading water' as a sight gag. His mouth moved; no one in the market heard anything, but Rod could read lips. A stanza from "Mountain Song", his best Jane's Addiction pick.

The bird lad donated equal mindspace to joy and paranoia. He knew how long a typical dot of acid that thick would last, and take to wind down. And how behind that time today was.

Jerr saw, and knew, a set of treasures now. He hung by one hand to make the other's finger a 'shush' gesture. And what a smile he wore, letting the other hand drop him. Like a platoon in the jungle, he was goin' in, cock out.

Rod grabbed a tub of creme horns, foreseeing a night of stress-eating. The pal who came to call was halfway in our world, half out, and Rod didn't doubt if shit would get manful. Prankcentric. He accepted it, mind skeptical, dick willing. He became the second man of Sigma Ki that uttered prayers.

To be continued...