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Jocking, The: Third Quarter
|10:00: Back from Timeout
Chloe sat, pouting in a corner. A long strand of blonde hair fell in front of her face as she stared continually at the body on the table. The strange boy, who seemed to have thought she was a boy, was still unconscious. Silently debating the merits of electroshock therapy, Chloe seemed content to just sit and wait. It wasn’t actually any form of contentment, it was some tiny voice in her head, a rather annoying one at that, which told her it was wrong to abandon the poor thing. After all, he looked rather pathetic, so sickly and white.
It was only a split second later that he sat straight up, wisps of multi-colored hair flopping in front of his eyes, wide with shock.
Kai was unsure of what exactly has happened. Given the nearly toxic doses of chemicals being fed into his body, it wasn’t surprising that he should be a little woozy. And more confused by seeing a tiny blonde girl staring at him. Her looked with such pity and disgust, he hardly knew whether to be afraid or relieved. But she wasn’t Briggs. Or any man for that matter. And as they say, my enemies enemy....
“Chloe,” the girl announced indignantly. “What?” The confusion in Kai’s face clearly apparent. “My name...is Chloe. Not Adam. And no matter how effeminate your boyfriend may be, it’s always an insult to confuse a woman with a man.” “What? Boyfriend? But, I’m not... my head hurts,” Kai moaned, grabbing his head in frustration and falling back against the table. Before his head hit the table; however, a great smack landed against his forehead. “What the fuck was that for?” Kai yelled. “Do NOT pass out again! I simply cannot handle babysitting some over dramatic queen.” “Not gay. Not into men. And at this rate, your nagging is going to outright kill me.” “Not gay, sweetie have you looked in a mirror. I don’t care, just toughen up, okay?” “Fuck you. I like the way I look!” “Yeah, I had those jeans in high school.” “Bitch. Who are you anyway?” “Chloe, as I’ve said....five times now.” “Uh huh, and I’m....” “Chi....like the Greek letter?” “Umm, not quite. Pronounced the same....but K-A-I. Kai!” “Why the fuck would your parents spell your name that way?” “Why the fuck would anyone name a kid Chloe?”
The stared in silence a moment longer. Kai was panting heavily, and seriously contemplating strangling the obnoxious woman where she stood. Chloe meanwhile was quite smitten with a boy who would actually talk back to her.
“I rescued you,” she stated simply. “From Maxwell Moore and the other demented men who are completely ruining my research!” “Maxwell....Moore? Who the hell is that? ....And..... what research?” “Oh, I’m sorry...I’m the head chemical researcher for ChemCorp. Project 11AF45...codename SAVIOR. And Maxwell Moore would be my supervisor. He’s apparently been using my research for a little side project.” “The Jocking?” “What? Umm, maybe. All I know is that I got fired and lost all access to my brilliant research, and then these freaky muscle guys showed up.” “Briggs and company, I’m sure.” “Briggs?” “Oh, he’s the principle of my high school, I think that’s where they started this little side project.” “That would make sense, SAVIOR has a tendency to create attention.” “SAVIOR...is that XAP?” “XAP? What the fuck is XAP?” “XAP is the chemical that Briggs has been using to turn the guys into football players.” “Football players? That’s what you meant by the Jocking? Man, my life has got to get some writers.” “How long have I been asleep.” “Since two July's ago....oh. In terms of the plot, you’ve only been unconscious an hour.” “It feels a lot longer.” “It was.”
“So, wait. My parents were the researchers with XAP. And TAN1.” “What’s that?” “It prevents the effects of XAP. And it makes your hair funky colors.” “Nifty. Wait, so, XAP does the whole chemical realignment and carbon reactions?”
Kai just stared at her a moment. “It was documented as ‘bending reality’ if that means the same thing.” “It works. Technically it’s kinda correct. Our reality is based on carbon bonding, so I suppose altering the basic structure of the carbon bonds that affect our reality and perception could in fact be called bending our reality.” “Yeah, I didn’t get much of that. But I guess that means XAP is the same thing as SAVIOR?” “Looks like it.” “But my parents were researching XAP at ChemCorp. Plant 5.” “Oh, the one that blew up.” “Yeah.” “Oh... did your parents get killed?” “Yeah.” “Okay. You know there were weird things about that explosion.” “Yeah, Briggs killed my parents.” “Really?” “Yeah he worked there some years ago. I’m sure he blew it up to cover his tracks.” “Sounds like you’ve go some personal issues to work out there.” “What?” “Aside from Briggs trying to take over the world, not so much evidence there. In fact, the evidence our people found would seem to confirm it wasn’t him.” “What the hell not?” “The fire wasn’t natural. It was caused by ... basically a bend in reality.” “What?” “Umm, someone spontaneously created the fire. Most likely someone inside the building.” “Huh, that’s...different.” “You know, we should really get out of here.” “Wait, we should help Adam.” “Who?” “Umm, this guy who rescued me once already.” “Damn, you are the damsel in distress. Such a queen.” “I like girls! Deal with it!” “Cocksucker.” “Suck my dick, bitch!” “Eat me!” And so they proceeded into the hallway, a continuous train of insults blaring from their mouths.
“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” Adam said as a burly man walked into his cell. Briggs smiled brightly at Adam’s recognition. “Wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.” “How could I forget that face?” “How can I forget your eyes?” “What’s happening?” “Kai’s meeting his end. Soon, he’ll be happy and obedient, and I will be ever so excited.” “Huh, that so.” “You sound doubtful.” “I don’t think Kai has it in him to be happy. He’ll just bring the team down.” “Adam, I know you haven’t gotten to experience the wonders of my powers, but trust me, I control everything.” “Kai’s just unhappy and self-centered. And nothing can probably change that.” “Kai will be dead, long live Rock.” “Such dumb fucking names. Can’t they be called...something normal?” “You obviously never played sports.” “I spent most of my teenage years hooked up to machines that breathed for me.” “Seems you’ve turned out alright.” “Yeah, I willed myself to get healthy.” “Such is the power of the mind. You’d be amazed what I can do to a mind.” “I’m amazed you haven’t met any minds you can’t affect. Or maybe it’s the heart that really matters here.” “So you don’t like Kai?” “I hate him. I hate Kai Cole.” “That’s harsh.” “He’s not a real person. He’s basically a giant facade. A figurehead created to control his international career. And in turn, it’s basically destroyed his ability to be a normal person.” “I can give him a normal life.” “He’s damaged goods. The only way he can ever be happy is to deal with his problems, rather than moping around forever.” “What do you mean?” “He has...to come of age. He has to take control of his life and realize that he makes his own opportunities.” “Or?” “Or....he’ll find himself drone number ten billion in your army. Or dead, but that hardly solves anything.” “You’re a curious boy.” “You’re a megalomaniac who’s trying to take over the world. You really don’t have any ground to judge me on.” “I hate Kai because he never walks a mile in anyone else’s life. He just assumes that he wins the ‘it sucks to be me’ competition.” Everyone has problems.” “And what, you’re trying to help everyone deal with their problems in a constructive manner?” “No, I want world peace.” “Whatever. You know that you are trying to take over the world. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” “Knowing that I’m gonna win either way.” “Brock’s a fun fellow himself.” “A little rambunctious, but nothing I can’t handle.” “Got some confidence there.” “Might as well, I made him.” “Dare I ask, is James around?” “James? Oh, you’re little dark haired friend. Yeah, we got him in another cell.” “Haven’t fucked with him? “Never kill your ransom.” “Bribing me now? Why sir, I am a cheap whore. All I needed was dinner.” “Oh Brock will be happy to hear that. I know he’s been dying to get in you.” “Wow. Wow. That is so not tempting.”
It was a town in Northern California. The school district was large enough, with just a few thousand students in all grades. Until recently, the town was largely unnoticed, producing few star athletes or geniuses. But then, quite suddenly, that changed. Years of being a mediocre football team ended when four huge studs moved to the district. Instantly, the team began to win. And Brute, Rod, Masher, and Bull were the hottest thing in town. Because, no matter what anyone says, people like winning.
Strangely enough, rather than drowning themselves in the glory and control they had over the school, the boys were friendly and outgoing, well-liked by most everyone, despite their rather foul language. There was really only one thing they wanted- football. Every time they spoke it was about football, each guy was a chance to have a new teammate. And the success of the team had attracted some of the former jocks back to the ranks, eager to participate on the schools most successful team ever.
Indeed, the aura of school spirit was beginning to wake the sleepy little town from years of slumber. Suddenly school colors became popular, and football games were the way to spend Friday night. And that was just one of the changes going on inside the school.
Patrick Gerald had always been obsessed with his body. An amateur bodybuilder, he spent his afternoons in the school gym, which had, until recently, been left to collect dust. Now, the team had weightlifting in the very same room, right after school. At first, it was just an annoyance, being forced to share the space and machine with the boys, but soon they tried to restrict access to athletes only. Patrick had refused, siting his long standing activities at the gym, and the school had conceded. But now, it was him and the football team, nearly everyday after school.
He dealt fairly quickly, after all, he was about the same size as most of the other boys, swooping laterals and bulging biceps. It unnerved him every once and again when he would witnessed the boys being weighed in the lockers, and they topped four hundred pounds. He could hardly understand how they were so much heavier, some near five hundred, and yet be the same size as himself. Naturally, Patrick assumed it was some gimmick by the team to scare opponents. After all, he concluded, no human being could really be that . . . big. And still be mobile.
The only other oddity was that all the players worked out in various states of spandex/lycra constriction. Gold and blue stretched obscenely against ballooning pectorals and trunk-like thighs. He preferred to wear loose sweat pants and long sleeves, and now seemed quite out of place surrounded by spandex jocks. Still, Patrick continued as he had always been, pumping iron by himself. Although, he had made simple jock talk with some of the other guys.
Brian Brute, the incredibly talented linebacker, was one of the jocks who always took a few moments to greet the outsider. Usually it was just simple aimless chatter about weights and sports, of which Patrick was familiar with one. He’d nod quietly as Brute began to blab about football, taking the first opportunity to return to his workouts.
One day; however, while performing pectoral flies, Brute walked up to him and began to give the traditional ‘man’ hello. It was the next part that startled Patrick.
“Fuck dude,” Brute began. “How the fuck can you fucking workout with so much fucking shit on? Ain’t you fucking hot, fucker?”
Patrick had always been fine in the baggy sweats, but the moment the words left Brute’s mouth, Patrick felt the weight of the clothes dragging down on him. The oversized shirt seemed filled with extra weight, making it harder to lift his arms. Walking seemed a bit more difficult in the cotton pants. And suddenly his senses were overcome with the powerfully repugnant smell of his own sweat. He could feel each cold bead on his face, could smell the foul odor coming from under his pits and between his legs. His ass seemed to be soaking in fresh sweat, accumulating faster each moment, threatening to soak the pants.
Dismissing the notion verbally, Patrick tried to continue his workout without thought. But the heavy clothes made it harder to breathe and move. Not to mention the increasingly foul stench chasing him about the room. Finally, he hustled to the shower. Dumping the sweat drench clothes nearby, Patrick fled into the shower, rinsing his polluted body clean. Allowing himself to soak a moment more, he wrapped a towel around his waist, and entered the lockers.
Moments after examining his clothes, Patrick tenderly lifted up a smelly and soaking pair of boxers. Shrugging in disgust, he tossed the wretched pair in the garbage. A deep guttural laugh sounded from behind, and Patrick turned to see Brute. In his left hand, Brute held a small plastic container.
“Hey fucker,” Brute said as he handed the container to Patrick. “This might fuckin’ help. Oh, and it’s new shit, don’t fucking worry, dude.”
Patrick lifted the container to eye level and saw a white jockstrap inside. He let out a small chuckled and stared at Brute.
“Help?” “Fuck yeah! I saw you fucking toss the boxers bitch. This shit’s way better.” “Uh, thanks.” “No fucking problem, fucker! It might help if you wore lighter clothes, you know, not fucking smell life a fucking pig.” “Sure.” Patrick gathered his things quickly and left, putting on his jeans without any underwear.
Patrick didn’t even think about the jockstrap until he went to the gym again. Pulling out his bag, he removed the track shorts and sleeveless muscle shirt he had brought instead. The baggy sweats had to be trashed, after three washes they still smelled like piss. And Brute may be right, with more people in the gym it was bound to be hotter. As he stripped out of his clothes, he spied the jockstrap in the bag. He considered the options for a moment before deciding to give it a try, anything that would get rid of that smell-so disgusting. Pulling the cotton pouch over his dick and balls and feeling the straps encircling his ass, Patrick knew his boxer days were over. There was something about the support of the jockstrap. So crisp and clean and comfortable. The new shorts highlighted his massive calves and chiseled thighs. His laterals swept out of the shirt on both sides, while the edges of each pectoral poked out in front. Massive deltoids stretched the top of the shirt even more. All in all, Patrick resembled a classic gym bunny.
He performed the workout as always, happily noting that no stench radiated from him. Brute walked up to him, grinning widely.
“Yo Rick, fucker! You look fucking built like that.” “Yeah, it does the body good.” “But, fuck dude, ain’t you still fucking hot in here. This fucking place is a fucking shit steam room.”
And there it was. Instantly, Patrick’s sweat glands poured open, drenching his thick body in sweat and foul odor. His face was bright red, and his body began to breathe heavily to accommodate the huge strain. His body was on fire. Once again, his ass was wet inside the shorts, leaving a sweat stain on the rowing machine he was using. Again, he tried to continue but was finally forced to race to the showers to denude his body of the rank smell.
He walked out of the shower holding the towel in front of his crotch, still breathing in deep heavy sighs. Brute was standing outside again, smiling warmly toward the heaving mound of muscle.
“Here,” he said. “I think this is what you need.” With his mouth hanging open like some terrible fly trap, Patrick picked up the items. It was a sleeveless spandex shirt in gold, with blue trim down the sides, and a pair of gold pants with blue trim. Together, they formed a seamless line down the side of the body. The letter JCK were embalmed on the front of the left hip. There was also a pair of gold cleats with blue accents. Nodding his head in an automatic way, Rick took the clothes and left the building.
Patrick came to the gym after school the next day. He threw off his street clothes, aside from the jockstrap, which he had only taken off to shower yesterday. Pulling on the tight clothes, his frame was soon covered in gold and blue spandex. Lacing up the shoes, Patrick ran into the gym. All around him, muscular men in gold and blue lifted heavy weights. A strange sense of belonging whelmed up inside Patrick, who charged off to the dumbbells for arm day.
Brute greeted him on the way, slapping his ass as he sauntered onward. “Yo Rick! How’s it fucking going? This shit makes you look tough, dude. Fucking won’t stink now, bitch.” Rick could barely manage a word as he walked by, nodding his head quickly as he hoisted up the two heaviest weights he could find. For some strange reason, his head felt really heavy, making it hard to talk or even nod. He stood in place and slowly curled on heavy dumbbell. There was a heavy strain against his muscle, which struggled to lift the insane weight. There was also a strange crunching sound in his head. Like someone breaking pencils inside his brains. He lifted the left arm this time to a symphony of snapping. The curious noise almost broke Rick’s form, but he persevered on, curling away the dumbbells.
The strange noises seemed to make his head lighter, causing him to release deep grunts each time he would thrust the bar upwards. The more he lifted, the lighter and softer the crunching got. Three set at twelve reps later, Rick was grunting like some wild beast each time he lifted the bar, and the heaviness in his head had faded with the snapping. He lumbered back into the main room and noticed that most of the other guys were heading out.
“Fucking gotta get to practice,” Brute said as he ran past Rick. Rick waved good-bye, causing Brute to spin around to face him.
“What the fuck you fucking waiving for fucker! We gotta get to practice.” “Umm,” Rick grunted back. “I’m not a fucking football player.” “Fuck dude! You’re wearing our fucking lifting shit!” It was true. Rick was covered from head to toe in gold and blue spandex, just like all the other jocks. And reasoning as well as he could, Rick realized he must be on the team. And suddenly it was gone. All the memories of the silent years of working out alone, now replaced with team workouts and weighings. Fighting so hard to break four hundred pounds. Rick Gerald was a starting fullback on the football team. A 6'6 450 pounds monster. He smiled stupidly and followed Brute to the locker rooms and out onto the field.
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