3 comments/ 57782 views/ 10 favorites Remember the Beavers Ch. 01 By: BushyBeaver To call the local San Mateo football rivalry a "rivalry" meant that the observer was clearly making an assessment from somewhere unsuitably distant; maybe across the bay or perhaps from even as faraway as a set of bleachers on the east coast. The high school gridiron competition between the Aragon Bulls and the Hillsdale Beavers, characterized each year by a match known as "The Battle of The Fleas," was an event which consumed all of San Mateo County. The infamous rivalry left none of its district residents straddling the fence about which team they supported. The Battle of The Fleas had commenced in the 1940s as a friendly affair between the budding youth (fleas) in each community, but during the following decades, any hope that it would bring these two divisions closer was revealed as a fallacy. If anything the notoriety and excessive hoopla only heightened the stakes of the rivalry and turned football into more than just a game of pigskin; it emerged as a way to put San Mateo on the map as something other than a dot com bust. Succesful young football players acquired celebrity-like status which was reinforced by gifts from parents, adoration from peers, and the promise of a future paved in green. The Battle of The Fleas became so important and so highly scrutinized by anyone who hadn't been living in a cave, that players were essentially guaranteed a full-ride with any sports loving school in the country in exchange for a touchdown, interception, blitzing, or proof that he was a big rolling flea. Fleas indeed. 
It was particularly during the previous 20 years which culminated at the approaching season that the two teams adopted different approaches. The Bulls were in it to win it. They had become a talent and recruitment pipeline which caused even college athletic departments to blush. The boys from Aragon were on a roll. "A steamroll," their coach grinned to the press. "That's what we're going to do to the Beavers again this year. Is it any wonder that a beaver has a flat tail?" Aragon had unfailingly clobbered Hillsdale for the past 18 years, creating an historic streak which only served to draw increasingly overzealous fans. "Will they do it again this year? Will they succeed?" It was the question on everyone's mind even if the conclusion seemed forgone. During recent years, Aragon alum who'd gone on to play ball professionally had returned (in private jets, limos) to watch The Battle of The Fleas, and to relive fond high school memories. To them there was nothing as satisfying as stepping on a Beaver's tail, and the match game into a near red carpet event due to the media circus which made its way across the bay. Tickets for the battle became so expensive that the standard issue set given to a player's parents sometimes found their way onto EBay. Of course it was only Beaver parents that would ever sell their seats to the epic event. With the Bulls standing so invincibly tall, their shadow was long enough to eclipse, humiliatingly, an entire generation of fearful Hillsdale footballers. The ferocity of a team like the Bulls created a fecund environment in which their rivals' fears grew fat and ripe on the vine. As for how the Beavers approached the rivalry; terrified; weak-kneed; trembling. It was particularly on a beat-up, yellow team bus that the silent band of young men, setting out for the gates of Aragon, no longer looked like players on their way to a game, but rather like overmatched soldiers headed into the grim business of war. Year after year they faced certain annihilation at the hands of an adversary armed to its proverbial horns.
 Speaking of teeth, the slogans and cheers invented by the Bulls each year became sharper and more incisive. Approaching the 2010 season, "no teeth, all tail," was the early and popular characterization of their competition. If Hillsdale had come up with a retort, it had been washed out to sea in a swell of support for the Bulls. No one wanted the streak to end. This most recent slogan was considered fit to print, and found its way onto bumper stickers, t-shirts, and a local billboard. Each occurrence included a cartoon picture of a silly toothless beaver which seemed concerned by the large hoof print on its tail. Secretly, there was also a subculture of cyber bullying which was only evident to the students. According to some virally perpetuated myth, Beaver Moms were easy targets for the Bulls. The play on words was almost too delicious for those who understood what the term "Bull" meant in sexual parlance. Other less publically appropriate slogans navigated the chasms of Facebook and MySpace like digital phantoms; "I pasted a Beaver today;" "Stick it in that Beaver;" "Mrs. So and So took this Bull by the horns and liked it;" "Bulls go in bare;" etc. Some of the more inspired Bull enthusiasts had even invented nuances to the mythology; a short statistical report demonstrating how the birthrate in Hillsdale (i.e. Beavertown) always spiked slightly but significantly at exactly nine months after The Battle of The Fleas. The reason of course, its Aragon writer opined, was that "Beaver moms, unable to handle the thought that their sons would naturally succumb so easily to the virility of the fellas from across town, couldn't help but to make themselves vulnerable to the Bulls' offensive line. Like mother, like son."
 
 Nobody doubted that Ian Micheals was a natural Bull. He could still remember marveling over newspaper clippings and photographs of his grandfather striding into the Beaver end zone. His father, a respected coach who had retired just before Ian's first year, would laugh and tell the then youngster to keep checking his head for an early set of horns. Before seven years, Ian realized that the old man had just been joking, though the growing youth came to know that he didn't need horns. Bred from the stoutest Bull stock on the team, he was the first tight end in many years to make the varsity grade as a sophomore. He spent the next two seasons solidifying his role in the team's dominant offensive line. Known for his sharp wit almost as much as he was known for his playing abilities, Dozer, short for "Bulldozer," would push the rivalry between the two teams to an entirely new level that year. Perpetually confident, Ian's love of making mischief, "just the natural order of the universe," he'd claim sheepishly, matured into something utterly inconceivable that summer. It happened at Alameda football camp where he'd decided to go for pre-season priming.
 
Ian wasn't exactly looking forward to attending the nationally acclaimed program, even though it received regular visits from members of the San Fran Niners. To the Bulls it was considered a finishing school for guys that wanted to play on the team, and there was an unspoken rule that you didn't see any turf time unless you spent at least one summer practicing with the bruisers in Alameda. What set the camp apart from other camps according to experts, was its discipline, ethos, experience and unconventional training. Somehow, a military vibe from the nearby naval complex seemed to creep out of the base and into the heads of the coaches who ran the show. Participants were expected to "perform," and at the end of the summer there was a little ritual amongst the guys. It was the type of tradition characterized by the clichéd, yet accurate "what happens in Alameda, stays in Alameda." On the final day, after all players had been assessed and ranked, the senior coach, on advice of his juniors, handed a pair of scissors to the lowest third of the class. Nothing was said, but the guys all knew what it meant. "Cut the umbilical cord and stop being such a momma's boy." True to form that bottom third rarely went on to play ball in college or professionally.
 
Such traditions seemed to fit perfectly with the myths surrounding a team like the Bulls, and the camp environment was highly conducive to crude jokes and quips. A Bull knew, long before he arrived, that there was a team reputation to uphold. He was almost expected to offer something like "your mom felt that one," each time he put an opponent onto his back. It was entirely remiss to forgo the opportunity when the opposing player was a Beaver. Such communication was the norm in polite Alameda football society.
 
 Ian, because his brothers had attended the same camp during their high school years at the advice of their father, was well acquainted with the etiquette of things up north. While he wasn't looking forward to a summer of being cooped up at the sausage factory, he knew that the benefits would be worth it. To clarify, he never worried that he wouldn't play tight end for USC, after all he had been the first sophomore recruited to his high school's varsity team in over a decade. It was more accurate to say that he realized that there were some requisite steps to ensure his path. Alameda was one of them. It wouldn't have been so intolerable if only the camp would have let them bring laptops or mobile phones with them. Each player was permitted to use the internet for two hours each week from a publicly domiciled stone-age computer. The session went for ten weeks, meaning that each player had less than one full day of internet use for the entire summer. Alameda camp living conditions and regime were known to be utterly Spartan, and he tried not to think about the long and productive summer ahead. In his generation of digital devices and instant gratification, 24 hours of being unplugged may as well have been a lifetime of living on the moon. Fortunately he knew of two friends that would also attend that summer, seniors who played varsity for the Bulls.
 
"Jugs," short for Juggernaut was the nickname that Ian preferred for the team's starting fullback, Morris Caufield. Jugs was an imposing young man, and were it not for his bizarre sense of humor, the two might have never become as close as they had. Naturally, Dozer and Jugs, they always called each other by their nicknames on the field or when they meant business, worked closely together in punching holes through the defensive line. They'd actually done so for quite a few scrimmages without much more than terse game-related communication. It was thus one day in the locker room when Ian told Morris that he'd been calling him "Jugs" not so much because no one could stop the moose from breaking through their defensive line, but rather because he thought the fullback had nice tits. Morris assumed a deadpan mask of demure astonishment and lifted a protector cup in each hand (to this day, Ian still didn't know what circumstances caused him to be in possession of two cups at once) to cover the nipples on his exposed chest. Morris' pecs dwarfed the protective cups pinched between the thumb and pointer on each hand, and drew a hilarious picture where the fullback, having been caught in the throes of passion, had raised a dainty tea cup to cover each erect nipple. From there they became close friends. Morris may have been slightly larger than Ian, but what the former had accumulated in muscle, he'd never had in looks. Though the giant had no actual horns nor a large brass ring through his nostrils, Jugs was the spitting image of the Bulls' mascot, Charger, almost down to the steam which terrified opponents thought they saw coming from his mangled snout. The third to their group was Jeron, a starting wide receiver. Where Ian and Morris had come from money, Ronnie had not. He was raised by his father, a Protestant deacon at the church where the young man was instilled, weekly, with Christian values for as long as he could remember. It was heavily embroiled in the young black man's psyche that he'd somehow lost out on life given that he was raised by only one parent. He compensated by focusing on his strengths. The outcome: he managed to break the school's record for the 40-yard dash when he ran it in 4.5 seconds flat. While Dozer and Jugs were both much larger and more muscular than the third and final Bull attending Alameda that summer, neither of them came anywhere near his velocity. Regardless, it still troubled Ronnie that while his position was designed to receive waves of adulation from the fans, something for which the speedy athlete secretly ached, Ian clearly looked as though he was going to steal the show. During their first game together during junior year, Dozer had caught two touchdown passes where each play was more than 10 yards of running. True experts might have blamed the little snafu on a quarterback's poor judgement, but that didn't seem to diminish the swelling popularity for Ian. Even though he wasn't scoring on every play, and sometimes not even during a game, his size (larger than Ronnie) and agility (faster than Jugs) made him difficult to stop when he had his mitts wrapped around the leather. Fortunately, all of Jeron's Christian values, values that he believed were important even if he questioned the deity from which they'd been espoused, prevented him from outward jealousy. He happily worked with Ian in order to put the game into motion, and to pursue the greater good of a Bulls victory. It was no surprise that he won the unsung hero award and received free tuition to Alameda's summer camp. Jeron quickly came to see Ian as a friend, and learned to bite his tongue around the mean and juvenile buffoon in Jugs. The three boys therefore, surprisingly the only Bulls at Alameda that summer, came to be known as the Horns Triumvirate. They were a machine. Long before the Horns had arrived at camp, they'd worked out a solution for the hardships they'd be facing during their ten week stint. First, they'd registered for a triple suite so that they'd all be sharing the same accommodation. Secondly, Jugs, "not just a pretty face," Ian joked, had a gift for computers and the web. He spent three days between the last day of finals and the beginning of football camp burning high-definition, pirated movies onto the new laptop that his parents had purchased for him. Laptops were strictly prohibited, but Ian's brothers had shared stories about teammates who managed to keep such devices secret throughout the summer. Jugs didn't tell Ian or Jeron at first, but he'd also stocked the laptop's memory with a virtual library of pornography, specializing in mature specimens. He reasoned that if the other two ever gave him shit, he could always shrug it off and claim, "I'm a Bull, aren't I? I need at least a mom a week to keep these horns pointy." Ever since the young man had watched a friend's mother preparing for her shower at a 12-year-old's birthday sleep-over, there was nothing Jugs loved more than watching a mommy get naked. He'd heard a lot of talk about the Bull's mythology, but quite disappointingly, he'd never seen any actual evidence to corroborate it. And finally, again on the advice of Ian's all-star brothers, the boys knew of a way to secretly get supplies (beer, cigarettes, etc.) in and out of the camp without the coaches knowing it. The supply line involved a distraction at the pay phone, a go-to pizza delivery guy, and a 20 dollar tip. That summer they'd work hard, but when the day was over and the boys had retired to the privacy of their suite, they'd play hard as well. Everything was lining up in their favor, and though each of them publically bemoaned the idea of spending so much time with one another, underneath the complaints they were looking forward to a season of camaraderie and laughs. If only they'd known... Jason Tuft was the wrench, metaphorically speaking, tossed into the finely timed gears of their plan. AND the means to a year of twisted debaucheries which would give actual purchase to the Bulls myth. * * * "What do you mean we don't have a triple?" Jugs practically exploded at the registrar who confronted the three young men that had just been dropped off by the fullback's mother. Their accompanying bags and trunks, one of which concealing a prohibited laptop lay conspicuously behind them. "I used your online system months ago to make sure that we'd have a triple. We're a unit! You can't split us up! We're the Horns!" He continued to protest with an almost threatening grumble. The junior coach looked up at the largest of the three and quietly opined that "Caufiled comma Morris" must have been the largest and most imposing attendee he could remember admitting in his seven years of working at the camp. "Yes," he responded. "I can see here that you requested a triple suit, but the guidelines clearly state that while we attempt to bunk you with friends and teammates-" "Right," Jugs interrupted. "Bunk us with our friends and teammates because we are a unit that needs to work together." Ian put a calming hand on Jugs' shoulder as Jeron blushed slightly at the increasingly unpleasant scene. At Ian's touch, Jugs calmed himself and tilted backwards. Only then did he realize that his torso had been towering imposingly over the junior coach. It was a little too early to be making enemies, especially with a hard nose like the one signing them in. Who knew? Within a matter of hours he might have been drilling them mercilessly through the tires or into the tackle dummies. "As I was saying," the registrar in his late 20's continued. "We try to honor all requests, but depending on the availability of accommodations and the number of players who've registered for the camp..." He trailed off as he scanned up and down a list that was printed across three pages before pausing. "Ah, Caufiled. Here we are." He gestured to the paper. "Don't worry, you're not going to be alone. It says here we've put you into a double." Jugs sighed loudly. The moron in front of him was missing the point entirely, but that didn't prevent him from continuing to examine the paper which he was now holding aloft. Authoritarian ran his finger across the page until it stopped on the name next to Morris'. His eyes went momentarily wide; the recollection of something; a discussion with the other coaches; an executive decision; pity. He looked behind the boys for a moment and then at the door leading to the living quarters. Realizing that they were the only four there, he leaned slightly forward. The hushed nature of his voice told Ian, an expert on these matters, that he was about to reveal something against his better judgment. "Your roommate is the only guy from his high school who's been registered." While Jugs had been fuming at the situation, an angry beast preparing to charge, then penny dropped for Ian and Jeron. No one came to the camp without at least one teammate. While the training was supposed to be friendly and conducive to lifelong connections, it typically failed to do so between teams which were potential rivals. "Christ," Jugs whined. "You're trying to tell me I'm stuck with the only loser who doesn't have any friends!?" The junior coach, sensing that the explanation had calmed the behemoth enough, once again became rigid disciplinarian. "Look here Caufield. It would do you well to understand that this camp isn't an ice cream social. Yes, you're here to work as a team, though part of it is being able to anticipate the unexpected and navigate the unknown successfully. If you can't nut up and spend two-and-a-half measly months with a stranger, I really don't think this camp is for you. So tell me now if you're going to go with the program or if I should call your mother and have her come back to pick you up. I'd like to remind you that all tuition is non-refundable. I'm sure she'll be pleased about that. You can be our earliest dropout. Less than five minutes." Jugs might have flipped the table and all of its neatly organized paperwork had it not been for Ian's hand which squeezed reassuringly at the back of the giant's shoulder. Their level-headed leader could feel the muscle tensing below and knew that Jugs was about to boil over. If the fury wasn't rapidly redirected, the Horns Triumvirate would fall apart. The task was like getting a bull, in this case repeatedly nettled by a picador-coach, to refocus on the flapping red cape and charge. Remember the Beavers Ch. 01 "Hey coach," Ian interrupted with an amiable expression that served him well with recalcitrants. The coach turned to look at him, callous toward any other complaints. "We get that it can't always go our way and that we need to be able to roll with the punches. Morris is just a little upset because he had a death in the family recently and he wanted to be close to his friends. Right buddy?" Jugs looked at Ian as though Dozer had just stabbed him in the back. The brute nodded almost imperceptibly, and the coach perceived it to be complicity. "I'm sorry to hear that," the man offered. "Thanks," muttered Jugs. "But we still can't break the rules." "Oh, we aren't asking you to break the rules," Jeron chimed in at just the right time, making Ian proud. "Yeah," continued Ian. "I'm just curious though. Who's this poor guy whose team couldn't come and support him at camp?" The look in Ian's eyes feigned an express sympathy for the friendless sap and intimated that he himself couldn't imagine coming to camp alone. The coach, without the slightest bit of hesitation consulted the list. It wasn't as though the identity of Jugs' roommate was going to be secret for very long. He announced "Tuft. Jason Tuft. Looks like he's from Hillsdale." Ta da. Dozer couldn't resist... "He's a Beaver?" After consulting the list again, even though it didn't hold the answer to Ian's question, the registrar responded "I guess that makes sense." He then scratched his head guiltily. The situation felt wildly amiss, and yet he'd done nothing he shouldn't have. Had he? But as he looked at the group of three, he might as well have been looking at a cloud that was failing to hide a naughty and bursting sun. The glow was particularly strong from Jugs and Ian. This was the flapping red cape that the tight end had been waiting for, and already he could feel the muscle in Jug's shoulder relaxing. From the side of his friend's face, he could see the monster's lip curling slightly at its corner. How any of the coaches could have made such an oversight was pleasantly beyond Ian. 'It must have been the universe's doing,' he beamed internally. All of them, except the haplessly blithe coach knew that rooming a Bull with a Beaver was like asking a wolf to guard the chickens. In Jugs' case, a pack of wolves. They took their room assignments and hauled their belongings down the hallway toward the summer quarters. As soon as the door had closed between them and the clueless man sitting at the entrance, there were quiet knuckle punches all around. Jeron's punches were the most hesitant since he was fairly certain he knew what was coming. It was inconceivable that they wouldn't be able to bully this kid out of the program within a week. After that the coaches would have no choice but to award them their triple, "because nobody's allowed to room alone," Jugs mimicked in a humorous falsetto. "No teeth," Ian sang. "All tail," Jugs' voice cracked as he tried to hit the same note. If any of them felt badly about giving a stranger a difficult time, it was Jeron. Still, who could believe such an unexpected coincidence? Had the coaches purposely orchestrated such a volatile arrangement just to push the boys to their best? Jeron started to wonder. As they made their way toward the rooms, Jeron and Jugs deferred to Ian for a game plan. Remember the Beavers Ch. 02 Jugs muttered to himself as he trundled down the hallway to his room. It was bad enough that the registrar had taken him down a notch, but it was even worse that Ian didn't seem to trust him. The fullback could still hear his friend's words ringing as though the popular know-it-all had been addressing a child: "Just intimidate him a little at first. We don't want anymore blow-ups." Jugs lumbered slowly from their double and toward his own, continuing to wonder what Ian, and to a lesser extent Jeron, truly thought of the bruiser's intellect. Even though either of them was 10 times more polite than Jugs, he was curious if the two of them quietly mocked his verbal blundering behind closed doors. He'd show them. He'd show them that he could oust his Beaver roommate in no time. "Lickety-split," he murmured to himself as he turned the corner and counted down the numbers on the doors until he'd reached his double. By that time the giant's temper had cooled off and his composure had returned. The young man might have been able to preserve a degree of level-headedness had he not discovered that his roommate had already arrived... and "decorated." The early bird had already chosen a bed (the one closer to the window); unpacked his suitcase; setup an alarm clock with dated blaring red numbers; hung a pennant with a grinning cartoon beaver on the wall next to his bed; and placed a photograph on the nightstand of what appeared to be his smiling mother and father. Jugs immediately started to lose his cool. No triple, and now he was relegated to the bed that his roommate didn't choose. Aggravating the situation further was the fact that "Jason," Morris recalled the young man's name sarcastically in his head, couldn't have been more than two-thirds the weight of the arriving behemoth. That's when the quiet inhabitant sat-up uncomfortably on the mattress he'd selected, putting aside last month's issue of Sports Illustrated, and blurted out an uneasy "hey." He then swung his feet to the floor so that he could stand up, and Jugs realized that his roommate was also several inches shorter. Fortunately, what calmed the entrant's nerves a second time were not the suggestive words of his tight end cohort, but surprise at his own perceptiveness in being able to detect Jason's discomfort. It was as though he'd walked in to catch the Beaver doing something questionable. "I'm Jason." He awkwardly advanced toward Morris with hand outstretched. Jugs then recalled Ian's words. He bit his lip about not having the first choice of bed and did his best to smile. Large broad white teeth. They almost looked like dentures. "Morris." His tremendous hand engulfed Jason's and he squeezed a little harder than necessary. Jason was surprised by the grip but managed to maintain an unruffled demeanor. "So what position do you play?" Jason's self-consciousness started to ease as he tried to break the ice. He'd asked the question in a way that looked forward to becoming friends. He wanted a friend even before he'd known that Morris was a Bull. It was amicable, but desperate. Morris was pleasantly surprised at his ability to read Jason so well. This kid was chipper, but aching for acquaintance. Without answering right away, Bull looked up at the Beaver pennant hanging on the wall. He had to play it cool. Just intimidate this kid a little bit. No blow-ups. Jugs' really began to strategize, and still riding the wave of self-satisfaction at how he perceived his handling of the situation, avoided divulging that he'd come from Aragon. Jason might have known, but if he hadn't... Jugs could picture himself talking to Ian and Jeron at lunch the next day. "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer," he'd quip. The young fullback was so pleased with himself that his smile achieved a quality which could have been mistaken for genuine kindness. "I play fullback," he offered as he dragged his trunk toward the naked matress. He popped the latch on it and tossed his knapsack onto the bed. "I guess I'm on this one," he added without much emotion. "Oh, yeah... Sorry about that. I mean, we can switch if it's a problem." Jason stepped toward him eagerly. "I'm just kidding. Don't worry about it. After all, you've already unpacked your team spirit and a picture of mommy and daddy." "Are you sure, man?" "Yeah. Don't worry about it." Jugs never turned away from his open trunk as the young man behind him groveled. Jason's willingness was giving him enough information to make another move. "So... Fullback? Cool," Jason continued talking. "An offense man, huh? I play Outside Linebacker." It was all that Jugs could do not to laugh openly. This guy must have weighed 190 lbs... Wet. Was Jason seriously the sort of kid that Jugs was expected to line-up against? So much for the 'challenging scrimmage' opportunities the brochure had advertised. "Nice," Jugs responded disinterestedly as he removed a sleek new laptop from its place in the trunk. "Whoa," Jason marveled. "Is that the new...?" "Toshiba? Yeah. My parents got it for me because I passed chemistry." Jugs flipped open the device, powered it up and walked over to the door which he proceeded to close. "Hey, why'd you close the door? I thought we were getting a nice breeze..." "Well, I'm gonna need a little privacy. You know we aren't supposed to bring any digital technology with us, right?" "Well yeah. I was going to ask about about that when I saw you pull your laptop outta-" "Right," Jugs interrupted. "My point being that I don't want my laptop taken away." He then grinned up at Jason from the comfortable position into which he'd reclined. "I'd become an unbearable grouch if that happened." "Well geeze, I wish I'd known... If I knew my roommate would be as chill as you are, I would have snuck in my-" Jason didn't get to finish his sentence before soft feminine moans started to come from the laptop. Morris pretended not to realize that his roommate had been interrupted. Baffled, the shorter, lighter Jason walked over to discover an explanation for the blatant cries of release. "Is that...?" He hesitated. "Is that porn?" "Yeah, sorry man, but it was a long ride to get here. I just need to relax a little." With that, the keystroking purveyor of filth slipped his right hand under the waistband of his gym shorts and began to manipulate the sizable package. It was the first time that Jason's attention was drawn to his roommate's intimidating crotch. Morris did all of it as though he was in the privacy of his own room back across the bay. Astonished, Jason stood there frozen. Even though Morris was 'right at home,' the gawking defenseman felt utterly out of place. He attempted a lame comment out of his own embarrassment when he saw that the woman making the noise. She was a mature though fit body wearing nothing but some black stockings and a full thatch of brunette pubic hair atop her mound. "She's kinda scraggly down there, isn't she?" He'd stopped looking at the video, and instead at Morris for approval. It was all falling perfectly into place for Jugs. Reclining aficionado was impressed that he'd been able to pull off the porn in front of a total stranger. His hand down his own pants had only been a ploy. An extra. He'd never intended to stroke himself in front of "Jason," he said it again sarcastically in his thoughts. But given that this kid seemed to accept such a brazen act of disrespect, the power was becoming something of a stimulant. He could feel himself growing. If only Ian and Jeron could see how easily he'd wound Jason around his thick finger. Jason would be gone in no time. "Yeah she's definitely got a beaver," the grinning semi-masturbationist replied. Jugs then turned from the screen for just a split-second; long enough to give his over-the-shoulder audience pause. "I love watching a Beaver get pasted. Pretty slick, huh?" Beaming, he turned back to the show. Jason watched the laptop with a funny feeling in his stomach. Indeed, the video short was a close-up of a woman's crotch being sampled first by one, then two foreign fingers. Crudely. Disrespectfully. Almost violently. Pasted? Was that what it was called? Judging from her thick but trimmed bush and the full, plump nature of her labia, it must have certainly been an older woman. It wasn't that Jason had ever pondered such a topic seriously, but his intuition leapt forth like a private instinctive investigator to help him draw the conclusion. "Yeah," he managed softly to Jugs' question. "I guess she's no spring chicken." Each moment seemed like an hour to Jason. He didn't know what to do. He felt stupid continuing to stand in the middle of their room making lame assessments of the porn, but at the same time he also felt wrong and unable to dismiss his roommate's interest. His desire to escape could have been taken as criticism, something Jason desperately wished to avoid. He decided that he would try to step away, but not before proving his worth with a little lie. A little buffer to save face and escape the confusing situation. "Hell, I've never seen a pussy like that. All the girls I've been with are shaved," he fibbed to his roommate; a mistruth in many ways. "Really?" Jugs' sounded entirely puzzled. "I have special tastes when it comes to the ladies," he continued without taking his mesmerized attention from the laptop. "The way I see it, there are three types of cunt. First there're Innies," his expression twisted into one of resentment. "Then Outties," the look of detest mellowed and his free hand, the one not wrapped around his still thickening cock, pivoted in a balanced, neutral way. He took a deep breath. "And then there's roast beef!" He turned the laptop toward Jason so that he could see the full effect of a faceless set of vaginal lips. Admittedly, the way the light hit them, they did look like a rare cut of sandwich meat. "I have a theory that the best roast beef comes from mommies," Jugs insisted. That's when Jason realized that his roommate had used the word "mommy" a second time in less than five minutes. It was enough to cause listener to take note. Was "mother" not a part of the grown fullback's vocabulary? The way he said it sounded funny and juvenile. "You know... Mommies?" the proffering pervert interrupted Jason's stream of thought. The Beaver would never forget that as Morris asked his question, he looked distinctly past the object of his query and toward the picture that the linebacker had displayed on his nightstand. Their eyes met briefly again and Jugs laughed in a calming way when he saw Jason's perturbation. "Don't worry buddy. I'm not saying YOUR mommy has roast beef." He paused for effect. "I mean, I'd have to see it to let you know for sure anyway." And just when Jason started to analyze the comment, Jugs added jokingly, "maybe after parents weekend in July." Even though guys made mom jokes to one another all the time as a means of friendship, this one could not have been delivered with anymore sincerity. Morris looked at Jason with the same expression a roommate might have used to tell the other that it was his turn to pickup the toilet paper. Jason was completely flummoxed. The thought of this... practically a stranger, examining his mother's crotch... So casually. As casually as he'd flipped on the porn... It made Jason feel incredibly strange. Odd. The feeling in his stomach started to migrate lower, and he found himself bending slightly forth to hide something. "Uh, everything OK there buddy?" Jason responded, vigorously, "yeah, just don't talk shit about my mom!" His words trembled with a slight nervousness which rang deliciously in Jugs' ear. "Don't get upset, bud. I'm sure your mommy has uber-nice cuts. The only thing I'm wondering..." He managed another perfect deadpan, "does she use one of those red number dispensers you see at the deli, or do I just walk up to the counter and-." "Shut up! If you are going to be an asshole, do it by yourself." Jason spun around and beetled toward his bed. Before he laid down, he opened the top drawer of his nightstand and placed the framed photograph of his parents inside. On the mattress, he faced away from Jugs who never once bothered to apologize. Instead, the only sounds which could be heard were that of the gruff Bull encouraging the feminine exploitation. * * * When the video had finished, Jugs began to queue up another classic. He pressed play and watched, even if his attention was elsewhere. He looked at the back of Jason's head. With his roommate facing the opposite wall, the images of a mature woman being pleasured were nothing but ambience. A satisfied smirk crossed his face, but the gloating was interrupted by an overhead speaker in their room. It roared to life with the dry whip-crack of a Drill Sergent's voice. The fullback watched Jason jerk upright on his bed as though he'd been awoken from a disconcerting dream. "Alright ladies! Drop your cocks and grab your socks!" It demanded. "All players will report to the center practice field in five minutes! I repeat! Center field in five!" Jason looked at Jugs sprawled on his bunk, ironically with his hand still in his pants. It wasn't possible to distinguish between digits and dick, but the outline appeared tremendous. The startled young man's disgust was unmistakable. The mental image of Jugs' hand encircling his cock was made crystal clear by the voice on the speaker. Jugs just smiled back, closed his laptop, and stowed it in the bottom of his trunk. "Come on roomie, don't want to be late," he said with jolly cheerfulness as he walked out the door. Jason sighed. The field was already teaming with players when the nervous linebacker stepped onto the turf. He saw his roommate off to the left, talking and laughing with two people he assumed were his friends. Jason scanned a loose line of faces, wondering where he should stand. He was already beginning to regret his decision to attend Alameda. A rough, commanding voice boomed out from behind, making him jump. It must have been the voice from the speaker. "Line up ladies! Offense center! Special teams left! Defense right! Move it!" It commanded. Players quickly rearranged themselves into the correct groupings. Jason scurried over to the right side of the field with the rest of the defensive players. At least he wasn't in the same group as Morris and the other boys with whom the jerk seemed so comfortable. Of course, Jason realized, Morris seemed pretty much comfortable with anybody. They'd known each other less than five minutes before the asshole had put on porn and started stroking himself. "Alright, quiet down! My name is Coach Smith. This is my camp. Don't forget that! While you are here, you will do what I say, when I say, and ask for seconds! Is that clear?" "Yes coach!" The players called back in unison. "What? I didn't hear you!" "YES COACH!" "Better. The next ten weeks are going to be the most grueling, demanding seventy days of your miserable little lives. By day seventy, five percent of you will have already run home to your mother." Christ. So many mentions of mothers in such a short period. Jason had to shake his head at the coincidence. It felt like an error with his hearing as opposed to the likelihood that two crude men would use the word in such quick, derogatory succession. Coach Smith was pacing back and forth down the line of players, his voice echoing off the bleachers. "This camp is designed to separate the men from the boys, the stars from the pine jockeys." Making another attempt at friendship, Jason turned to a guy that was shorter but far stockier than him. The first thing that Jason noticed was the impossibly square angle of his jaw. When the coach had passed them, Jason asked in a desperately know-nothing tone, "hey man. What the hell's a pine jockey?" He smiled vaguely as the question passed his lips, but was almost instantly crushed when square-jaw responded with a fraction of a shrug and an inaudible grunt. No eye contact or willingness to truly acknowledge the young man standing next to him. The coach reached the end of his walk and spun around. "You will report to this field every morning at oh-seven-hundred hours sharp! Practices will be three-a-days for the duration of your stay here. Mornings will be position and skill drills, after lunch you will group into your respective units for drills. The last practice will be full team drills. Today will be your only light-duty day, a single practice since it's already after four. Full contact drills will start next week, and you will scrimmage every day from then on." The coach stopped in the center of the line and faced his students. "Listen and listen close." "He should have said 'closely,'" Jason thought to himself as the militant pigskin warrior continued. "I'm only going to say this once. Miss one practice and you'll spend an extra hour running bleachers. Two practices, two hours on the track. Miss three and you're out. No excuses. Now everyone get geared up and report to your respective areas which you will see marked out behind you. Practice starts in fifteen minutes. Move!" Coach Smith's definition of "light-duty" was abstract to say the least. By the end of that first practice Jason was spent. Three hours of blocking drills, tackling exercises, strength and agility training, and a few other things the young man had never seen before. He was utterly worn out. Fortunately, most of the practices would only be two or two-and-a-half hours long, but because this was to be their first, the coach had wanted to set a precedent. The other boys on the defense, none of whom seemed smaller than Jason in terms of weight, were also visibly exhausted. He could see that they were struggling as they walked off the field, but none of them was as shattered as Jason. He had been sitting on the bleachers alone for nearly twenty minutes, trying to regain his breath, and hoping that the showers would clear out. He wanted to avoid his roommate at all costs. Eventually, by pure force of will, he dragged his body into the dormitory to grab his shower kit. He found the door to his room locked. "Shit!" He cursed to himself. At first he thought Morris was watching more porn, and he stood for a moment just staring at the door before timidly knocking. "Hey Morris, you in there?" He could hear voices from the other side of the door but couldn't make out what was being said. He knocked a little louder. "Hey can I come in?" Laughter from inside the room. Jason glowered at the closed door. Morris had other guys in there. "Assholes." He muttered under his breath as he turned and trudged down the hall toward the communal shower. * * * Inside the room, Jugs and Ian had looked at each other and tried to stifle their laughter. The fullback had just finished telling his friends about the exchange with Jason over his mother when the knock came, accompanied by Jason's timid voice. It was too perfect. Jeron pressed his ear to the door, listening as Jason knocked for a second time. When no one answered he could hear the young man mumbling something, followed by the sound of his footsteps heading down the hall. The wide receiver popped his head out the door just in time to see Jason turning left into the locker room. "He's going to the showers." Jeron reported dutifully, closing the door again. Ian and Jugs looked at each other knowingly. "Uh-oh, there's going to be a wet beaver in the locker room!" Jugs fretted in mock panic. It sent Ian and himself into another fit of laughter. Jeron felt poorly laughing at the stranger, but he didn't want to be left out. His reservations gave way and he grinned broadly at Jugs' brash sounding huffaww. "I'm only laughing at your laugh, not at your wit." Jeron insisted. "Whatever dude." Jugs replied. "Come on." Ian said at last, "Let's go keep him company." As Jeron watched the two heading toward the shower, he felt compelled to follow. Remember the Beavers Ch. 02 * * * Jason stood in the far corner of the room, under the spray of the shower head. He let the hot water wash over his aching muscles. Being the only one in the showers, he was relishing the silence and had just reached for a communal soap bottle, one that was rarely used, when Morris' unmistakable voice echoed in from the locker area. It became louder and louder until Jason realized that he was coming into the showers... And he wasn't alone. "...yeah, and then I told him I'd have to actually see it to make sure." Male voices laughed. "Judging from the picture I saw, his mom's OK... I mean, I've definitely bagged hotter than that. I'm not even sure I'd call her a MILF." Morris went on in the casually frustrating way with which Jason was becoming familiar. The trapped player had made the mistake of putting out a picture of his mother at football camp, and now he was going to pay for it all summer. "You don't think she's a MILF?" A puzzlingly heroic voice asked, but not in an argumentative way. "Nah. Judging from looks, I don't think there'd be much resistance left down there. If you know what I'm saying." It was quiet for a moment. "But that doesn't mean I couldn't at least have a look and let her know how she rates." It was accompanied by deafeningly raucous laughter, amplified by the fully tiled enclosure. Jason stared at the entrance, trying to will them away. He glanced around. There was nowhere to run. He hadn't even washed under his arms yet but he decided to cut the shower short. He could always come back later to finish up. "How did he react?" A third, different voice asked. Jason turned off the water and reached for a towel he'd grabbed from the rack near the entrance. He'd covered himself just as Morris and two other young men turned the corner. The intimidated creature immediately noticed Morris' friend. His striking features were in contrast to the wide and harsh face of the fullback. Whereas Morris had something of a mean baby face, the other guy next to him, the white one, was hollywood handsome. Sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. Almost as large as Jugs, though noticeably more toned. He looked like an ancient bust from idyllic days come to life. None of the three seemed to notice Jason standing there. Frozen. "He got pissed!" Morris exclaimed emphatically. Each of the trio stepped under a different shower head. They were within a mere meter of Jason who couldn't help but notice their muscular bodies. It was when Morris turned to say something else to the handsome companion that Jason saw how fully equipped the fullback was. It literally dangled. Wobbled. Swayed. The thick tube must have been nearly a foot in its flaccid state. And most stunning of all was that at its base were only the thinnest wispy traces of pubic hair. It suggested to Jason that maybe Morris wasn't fully developed yet... That he'd only continue to... get bigger. Christ! In Jason's head, his roommate's tool was nearly as large as the rest of his body. "...I'll show her the meat cleaver and that'll be the end of it. Hello Mrs. Beaver!" Morris grabbed his considerable package, giving it a good shake and knocking Jason out of his daze. The young man in the corner was furious at the thought of this neanderthal with the sledgehammer between his legs even speaking to his mother, let alone showing her his cock. And yet, looking down at his own penis, average at best, he felt that is was starting to swell beneath the towel. He had to get out. That was when they acknowledged him. "Hey! Jason!" Morris cried. "I didn't see you over there roomie! Jackin' off in the shower?" They all laughed, even Jeron. "I was just telling my friends here about you and your mommy. What's her name? I feel silly calling her "Jason's Mommy' all the time." The young man's face went beet red and he scowled at Morris. "You're an asshole!" He spat and hurried out of the shower, not even bothering to turn off the water. As he raced past the three men, he heard one of them, the black one he thought, trying to calm him down. "It's OK bro, he's just messin' with ya." Regardless, Jason never slowed. He sprinted down the hall to his room. He immediately realized that the drawer where he'd hidden the picture of his mother and father was slightly ajar. On the glass frame was a fat, greasy thumbprint. Remember the Beavers Ch. 03 What would his mother think? How would she react? He'd seen it in the way that her dainty fingers had curled apprehensively around the pen. He could still recall her glossy French manicure; its semi-shine so feminine and polished; entirely opposite to everything up in Alameda. It was no secret that pressuring her into signing his consent form, while it had given Jason a great degree of satisfaction, had also abraded every fiber of his mother's delicate being for essentially the same reason. While most outsiders were blind to the crudely rivalrous football subculture sprawling unstoppably through cyber space, all ages in San Mateo knew that Alameda had an explicit reputation. In addition to being a proving ground, it was a spectacular setting for punishment. The two extremes created a natural power vacuum in which eager bullies thrived. At the very least, his mother would have had an inkling as to the hardships that her son was likely to endure. But this? As Jason now sat in the uncomfortable chair and looked with hindsight back at so many opportunities to have avoided the catastrophic situation, he couldn't help but to curse his flagrant naivete. Obtaining his father's signature had been cake. All he'd needed to do was insert the form amidst a pile of business papers which required Mr. Tuft's signature. Purchase orders. Contracts. Checks. His old man was a well-oiled machine when it came to scribbling out the necessary John Hancock: Bradley Travis Tuft. First, middle and last were always written out in immaculately proud script. In fact, Mr. Tuft actually enjoyed the act. Even though money was flowing outward, to him his stamp was a sign of importance and prudent economy; it was the territory which came with running his own consulting firm. The man was blind to the possibility that his brash eagerness could have propelled him headlong into a speculative real estate bubble, or that by signing his son's consent form, he was subsequently approving a sentence of unimaginable torture. Regardless, Brad could never deviate from his hubristic self. Victoria had developed sense enough to avoid questioning her husband's decisions. She knew that as soon as the ink had been scratched out onto the paper, the matter was for all purposes closed. Instead of trying to gain her husband's support and use strength in numbers, she had attempted to dissuade her son directly. Her dissent hadn't been just because of the sport's increasingly violent nature Jason now realized, but also because of the... interesting characters he was certain to meet at camp. As he'd looked at his mother on the day of her acquiescence, she'd been wearing her favorite red and orange sundress. It was a vibrant pattern of large flower petals which hugged her figuresque waistline by dint of an expensive white leather belt. It was a belt that she simply had to have when they'd visited - "it matches my sandals perfectly" - Rodeo. She never wore the belt without the sandals, and that day had been no exception. The vision of her white footwear against such naturally tanned skin was admittedly chic. Oddly, he could now recall that her toenails had also been condition-polish-shined. From his presently dark place, Jason had a momentary realization. It seemed that as he got older, his mother put gradually less effort into being a 'mom', and redirected her energy into being a woman. He knew that he could have proved her wrong about the camp. At least, he'd believed that he could have won over the competition at Alameda and made the lifelong bonds of which he'd dreamed. How many times had his father insisted, "it's not what you know. It's who you know." Even though none of his friends or teammates would attend camp with him that summer, it was still something Jason knew he just had to do. His mother's pleas and begging for him to reconsider had only made him want it that much more. It was the perpetually spiteful little twist inside of him which had ached to prove her wrong. In his mind's eye he could see her almost ceremonial surrender. The signature was accompanied by an anguished sigh as her slight frame leaned over the consent form. From where he'd been standing, victorious, the position of her bust eclipsed the scrawl coming rigidly from her hand. When finished, her hazel eyes had stared directly into his with a worried shimmer. Now he understood why she's been so reluctant to sign. Sitting in the room without any windows he again wondered how it had come to this. He wasn't there by choice; he was locked in a cell made of metal. Dumbfounded on one side of a nondescript table with his hands securely cuffed. The light hanging just above him cast a lurid pallor over the trembling young man. It barely revealed his interrogator to be sitting on the opposite side of the table. Jason wasn't a part of the armed services. He never had been, and judging from the incident which he was about to endure, he never would be. Not only was he unaffiliated with the military in every way, he'd done nothing that he could think of to warrant his inclusion in this most serious matter. Maybe his mother had been so anti-football because she knew how unfair the world could be. Maybe she'd merely tried to warn him, but regardless, it would have broken her heart to know that he had become the subject of a frighteningly informal court-martial. Locked in a room that was purposefully unknown to the rest of the world. Bumbling sap anxiously listened to the figure across from him. Apparently attending a camp which borrowed its facilities from the naval base meant that any of the players who had enrolled could be subjected to disciplinary protocol if they stepped out of line. It was a loophole, the officer had explained. And given that they'd suspected Jason of doing something incredibly grave, something which had been taken as a threat to the security of the United States and its armed services, he could have easily surmised that this session was only the beginning. "But it wasn't my laptop!" Jason cried out. Terror gripped every syllable in his protest. The debrief about naval procedure and the accusation of using a personal laptop on a secure military network had come from the cool-tempered and quietly sardonic man standing motionless on the other side of the table. He'd introduced himself as Admiral Ellis, but something about the foreword felt highly incongruous and intimidating. The man's figure paced back and forth in short circuits whose completion took an emotional eternity for Jason. The Admiral allowed his black leather shoes to squeak noisily between sentences. It was an erie and disconcerting form of punctuation. Ellis was clean-shaven from his neck to the crown of his exposed head, a style shared by all the sailors at Alameda, apparently even an Admiral. An immediately peculiar thing about him was that instead of a uniform, he wore pleat-less khaki slacks, a black leather belt (it matched his shoes entirely out of protocol vs. style), and a tucked-in though not entirely buttoned seersucker shirt which showed that he too could have attended the football camp if he'd wanted. Of course he was a little old for that now, but maybe his parents hadn't been as supportive as Jason's had... and at the same time hadn't. Maybe he'd been shown the ropes much earlier in life. In any case, it was doubtful that he'd show any mercy to the the silver spoon quivering before him. Something about the casual dress cried out in warning to Jason. It told him that nobody, no one else on the planet knew that he was inside of a cold metal cell hidden within a military base. "Not yours? Well... It must belong to someone." He paused half-step and allowed Jason to see a grin forming at the corner of his thin inward-facing lips. Then a squeak came from under his shiny black shoe. Jason had been so terrified that he'd forgotten Morris was sitting next to him. He remembered that they'd both been seated at the table and could sense the buffoonish presence without looking at the jerk who'd gotten them into such a mess. He let his eyes wander to the left where they saw the tanker's tremendous mitts, also cuffed, and closed peacefully on the tabletop. "It... It belongs to Morris." He stuttered in response to the tiger's terrible purr. "He's right." Jugs practically chuckled as he admitted to the crime. "She belongs to me. The new Toshiba. Great piece of technology." Jason couldn't believe it. As he turned to look at Morris, the young man's face appeared as it always had; a pleased smirk saturated in its own self-contentment. The look of a perpetual bully. Admiral turned to face grinning moron. "So you admit to being the sole user of the device?" "Sure do! You think I'd let Wobbles here play with it?" 'Wobbles' had been a name that Morris had given to Jason based on the linebacker's inability to stay upright when Jugs and Dozer charged. "It's true!" Jason added emphatically. Anything to exonerate himself. Even the Admiral couldn't help but wince internally at the prissy confession. "What's true? You haven't touched his laptop, or that you're a wobbly OLB?" Jason was confused. How had the man known what position he played? He immediately chided himself for being stupid. Ellis was an Admiral, and when it came to top secret business, certainly there was no fucking around. The man had clearly done his homework. "Both, sir. I mean, both those statements are true." Jason blushed. "Let him loose Marks." The Admiral gestured with his head toward two men in white uniforms that had been standing behind Jason and Morris. One of them approached with a key. "I wouldn't be too hasty," Jugs piped-up. "What do you mean?" The Admiral regarded Morris with impudent scrutiny. It was the first time that the man's countenance showed any sign of ruffling or annoyance at being second-guessed. "I wouldn't say that Wobbles is entirely uninvolved in the matter..." "And how do you presume to know the specifics involved in this matter?" Ellis leaned forward on the table. Each of his hands fanned out to show long thick fingers which were only a facile clench away from a black eye. "You're right." Jugs smiled. "I don't like to be too presumptuous, but I can only guess that the matter has something to do with a certain... How can I put this..." His showboating was unbearable. "Well, I suppose I shouldn't beat around the bush." He snorted at his own joke. "Obviously this has to do with the liaison between myself and a certain Bushy Beaver." Jason watched the Admiral's face become outraged for a moment before he forced it into a relaxed look. With his hand, he gestured for the approaching sailor to step back. Jason wasn't going anywhere just yet. "So you admit to passing sensitive state secrets to a Canadian operative?" When Morris didn't answer immediately, Ellis continued with sneering sarcasm. "Not very bright Mr. Caufield. I have to tell you that if you're going to compromise national security or sell proprietary naval information, you should at least ask your partner to choose a moniker which isn't so obviously Canadian. Seriously... He's probably about as dim as you are." The man leaned backwards, folding his arms across his chest, a smug look spreading unstoppably across his face. "Admiral!" Morris feigned embarrassment. "I think you've got the wrong idea here. First of all, Bushy Beaver isn't a he." "He's not?" The officer's triumphant grimace yielded slightly. "No way. Certainly you must have read the messages going between us. Didn't you?" The detainee managed a look of mock incredulity which caused the Admiral to double-guess himself a second time. "Well, yes... We did. We had a number of cryptographers analyze them before we detained you." The Admiral insisted this point quite authoritatively, but still Morris shook his head. "Look, it makes sense. Don't feel bad... I've read the stories about you guys spending $5,000 for a toilet seat at the Pentagon. But seriously... Do you really think I'd have a filthy conversation like that with a dude?" Rebuffed, interrogator quickly responded "we wouldn't put that conversation past anyone if we thought it was a cover to sell national secrets." "Admiral! Please..." The cuffed giant smiled dotingly at the officer. He didn't seem threatened in the slightest. Jason couldn't believe that someone as stupid as Morris was capable of running a high-ranking authority figure around in circles so easily. "Baker, go ahead and read him the transcript so that they both can hear it." The other man in a white uniform which matched his twin's saluted the Admiral. "Sir. Yes sir!" He produced a thin ream of paper from behind his back and began his task. "This is a transcript captured by one of our cyber warfare specialists on June 20th 2010. Communication between one Jugs and one BushyBeaver commenced at 22:35:06 hours and was initiated by BushyBeaver: BushyBeaver: Hey there stud. How are you? Jugs: I'm doing well Mrs. T. Just relaxin' after a long day of practice. About to watch some porn." Even though Jason had been trembling in his seat, the militant role-call way in which the man read the conversation sounded hilarious. Hearing anyone refer to 'Jugs' as a stud was simply too funny. That's when Jugs interjected a quick note. "See, I called her Mrs. T. Not Mr. T." "Shut up," instructed Ellis. "Continue reading Baker." "Sir! Yes sir. BushyBeaver: Oh! You won't chat with me? Jugs: Sorry Mrs. T. Time's limited tonight, and I haven't had a roast beef sandwich yet. BushyBeaver: Well, what if I had a little surprise for you? Jugs: Ha. Are you going to send some more football shaped cookies to your son so that I can eat them?" "Wait! What?" Jason exploded, causing every head other than Morris' to turn in his direction. "This is bullshit! There's no fucking way!" "Mr. Tuft. Do you have something to add?" The Admiral gestured for the sailor to cease his reading. He approached the simultaneously angry yet simpering detainee. "He pulls this shit all the time! He makes jokes about getting with my mom and-" "Oh come on roomie," Morris interrupted. "I don't want to get with her. I just wanted to slap her roast beef around a little bit. Maybe even nibble on it." Jason was astonished at the wink which Morris passed him. Simper intensified to simmer. Even though the crude 'mommy' terms and joking were all too familiar to Jason, he had to admit, the transcript did sound a little bit cryptic. He started to let his anger come out. "Sir! Don't believe him. He has this thing about my mom, and he just won't leave me alone about it. There's no possible way that he could have been talking to her. He doesn't even know her. You should lock him up! He must be selling national secrets to foreign spies. He-" Just then the sailor who'd been reading the transcript interjected. "Sir. There's more here. Including a discussion about roast beef and a possible weapon." "I think that we'd better hear it," insisted the Admiral. Jason tried to cross his arms indignantly over his chest but discovered that the handcuffs pinched his skin and it took a great deal of effort to stifle a yelp. Jugs continued to smirk, every bit the jolly Bull. "BushyBeaver: Don't tell me about how you took my son's cookies away you brute! Jugs: But I thought you said you liked that, Mrs. T. BushyBeaver: Well, in a kinky fantastic sort of way... But in reality it's kind of mean." The Admiral looked between Jason and Morris with puzzlement. It' true that Jugs had eaten a care package full of cookies that Jason's Mom had sent to the camp. If Jugs was communicating in some secret code, he'd done his best to make it reflect reality... Apart from this Bushy Beaver being his mother of course. There was just no possible way. "Jugs: Alright. I just won't tell you about it. BushyBeaver: *grins* Well, I suppose that if you're going to do it... Jugs: OK, enough small talk Mommy. What's my surprise? I'm a busy man. **BushyBeaver has invited you to view her webcam** Jugs: Ah! I see that Jason's Mommy took me up on that suggestion to do a little broadcasting. **Accept**" There was silence in the cell. "The conversation ended there, sir. It terminated on the same day at 22:42:08 hours. There are numerous other conversations between the two users, however, there was information passed from user BushyBeaver to user Jugs via webcam. It could have been proprietary. We've recovered it from the user's laptop." The Admiral nodded to the men. Marks disappeared from the cell. Ellis then looked at Morris. "Well Mr. Caufield. This is your last chance. Do you want to tell us what was shared during that webcam exchange, or shall we find out for ourselves?" As Jason turned to look at Morris, he was stunned. For the first time since he'd met the callous Bull about a week earlier, the smile had cracked and his roommate actually seemed nervous. "Look Admiral... I'm sorry about this... It was just a little joke. I didn't even get paid for it. It was a bet amongst friends to see if I could hack into the navy's network." Jason couldn't believe it. Not only had he been living with a spy, it sounded like the fullback-operative was about to start blubbering. Just then Marks returned with the infamous Toshiba laptop. Jason leaned back as far as he could in the uncomfortable wooden chair and began gloating at Goliath's defeat. Finally, he'd be able to get a new roommate who wasn't a vicious predatory jerk. It didn't even register with Jason that Morris would most likely spend the rest of his life in a federal prison with his fat thumb hooked through the belt loop of his new protector. Justice would be served and the bully would get what had been coming to him. "You should have come clean sooner Mr. Caufield," the Admiral stated with matter-of-fact success. He walked behind the two boys and flipped open the laptop which Marks had placed on the table. It started to power-up. "And trying to incriminate an innocent," he continued. "That's certainly not going to weigh in your favor... Even if he is a little wobbly." Jason was too relieved at escaping the Admiral's watchful eye to argue with the man. If he wanted to tell Jason that he was the wobbliest son-of-a-bitch in the northern hemisphere, the young man would have happily nodded and wobbled right out the door. Jason looked at Morris with triumphant priss as the Admiral performed a few expert keystrokes on the laptop's keyboard. He stopped for a moment to look at his fingertips. His countenance became disgusted, as if to say he could feel something sticky on the keys. He queued up what was presumably the saved webcam transmission. Beaver looked excitedly at the screen, imagining classified documents concerning nuclear warheads or admissions of a Philadelphia Project to appear. The man pretending to be an Admiral must have been far more senior than that. He must have been a secret federal operative. FBI? CIA? Maybe he was the sort whose fingerprints had been erased from every repository in the world. It was too much to consider. Seriously, what Admiral wore khakis? "Any final words Mr. Caufield?" the keyboard operator asked as a video flashed onto the screen. It took Jason's eyes a moment to adjust. There was none of the fine print or diagrams that he'd expected. It wasn't anything of the sort! The image appeared as though it had been taken from between the spread kneecaps of a woman. It's angle had been focused inwardly upon an obviously female crotch! What was this? What the hell had Morris done? The subject was wearing a pair of pink cotton panties. Her skin was a gentle tan. She seemed to curve in all the correct places. Most surprising of all, however, was a declaration written in black block letters just above and below her navel: "PROPERTY OF MORRIS CAUFIELD." A black line then trailed from the end of the statement and disappeared beneath the waistband of the delicate pink material covering her crotch. Remember the Beavers Ch. 03 Morris' sniveling had been nothing but a sham. That asshole! "Final words?" He responded in an unbearably debonair tone. "I guess I'm just astonished that Jason's Mommy could do the mirror-writing so legibly!" The Admiral and two sailors were silent. Even though Jason wasn't looking at them, he knew that they'd all come closer to watch the screen. "This is horse shit!" Jason practically screamed. "That is not my mother! Don't believe him!" And then Morris responded, but oddly, his voice hadn't come from where he was sitting. It had come from the laptop. "Well Jason's Mommy, that's quite the handiwork. I see you've spelled everything correctly. Good for you!" Jason was about to explode once again in protest when another softer, but deafeningly familiar voice cut him off. "I can't believe that I actually did it for you. I don't know how to describe the effect you have on me, Morris. Do you think you'd show me a picture of the cleaver now?" "Not yet Mrs. T. You've got to earn that..." "The cleaver?" A confused Admiral asked. "Are you going to tell me that that's not code for some weapon?" "Shhhhh." Jugs admonished. "You're going to miss the best part." Computer Jugs picked up where his biological counterpart left off. "You know that I only use my cleaver on the finest cuts of roast beef. Go ahead. Just like we discussed." The camera jiggled a little bit and from the top of the screen a pair of gleaming sheers needled their way toward the waistband of the panties. Their jaws opened so that the blunt bottom-half slid all the way underneath and came out of the left leg hole. It was the left side at least from the audience's perspective. "Look," Jason interrupted. "I don't know how you found a woman with a voice like my mom's but there's absolutely no way-" His mind raced for an explanation, but then he saw something that made him stop. His mother's wedding ring. It shone indisputably and intensely in the light, similar as to how it had glittered when he'd made her sign the form. It shone like the twinkle in Morris' eye. How could this jack-hole possibly know what type of wedding ring his mother wore, let alone have the means to purchase an exact replica!? Jason's jaw nearly hit the keyboard as the four other men "sh'd" him simultaneously. Computer Jugs continued with absolute calm. "Now on the count of three, you know what to do... One... Two..." It was silent except for the crystal clear snip of the scissors which cut easily through the delicate fabric and its two elastic bands. The panties drooped lifelessly down the woman's right leg. At least it was right in terms of the audience's perspective. The downward-headed Sharpie line which had come from the written declaration on her lower abdomen plummeted toward the faceless woman's thick and lustrous brunette bush. The shape of the bush was a near-oval; no scraggly hairs on its outer perimeter, only the distinction between that which was tan skin and that through which none of the 10 eyes could see. "Now that's a beaver!" Jugs and his computer twin cracked simultaneously. Jason could hear one of the sailors, either Baker or Marks, stifling a laugh. Though it was evolution which taught that pubic hair's purpose was to conceal and protect the genitals, this woman's patch stopped just short of the details, giving perfect purview of her pudendal cleft, and its promise not to obscure anything which lay even further south. At best, no more than a few errant follicles could be seen as the audience looked further and further toward the bottom of the screen via the camera's high resolution lens. As if on cue, the fleshy version of Jugs added, "I see she got that camera I recommended." Their eyes all followed the Sharpie line. Jason could even smell its toxic and industrial scent through the laptop's monitor. The squiggly path had accidentally bumped into the border of her mound, bounced backwards, and continued unperturbed on its way to warmer and more humid climes. The marker, with a simple one-track mind, had terminated contact with the woman's body less than a few centimeter's from her half-visible, highly engorged clitoral hood, but before it had disappeared entirely, it had marked the terminus by shading in a small pointy arrow. "Nice," computer Jugs quipped. And then doing his best Jerry Maguire impression, "show me the roast beef! Show me the roast beef!" "I can't believe I'm doing this," the feminine voice offered with unbelievable modesty. But even at Jason's mental pleading for her to stop, her thighs, one at a time, raised up over the arms of the chair in which she was sitting. She was now showing off every detail of Jugs' property. Her puffy and intricate lips dangled slightly for the five men to see. There was no doubting that it was the pussy of a mature woman. The excitement from exhibiting herself to the young man was demonstrated in a number of ways. The dusky rose colored labia had swelled enough to be noticed, and therefore started to sag under their own weight. Jason came to realize this fact almost as though Jugs had been highlighting it to the audience with a pointer. The cold hard black rubber tip at the end of a scholastic pointer demonstrating his... mother's(?) lewd naivete. 'A delicious pear-shape,' he imagined the bully's annotation. 'And you can see from the glazed outer flaps of the labia minora, that Mrs. T is producing mommy nectar in abundance. I can't imagine why. Can you, Jason?' Jason shook his head to thwart the terrible image that mocked him. Even worse, it confounded him to the core that such exhibitionism also provided a sense of excitement. His loins began to stir as they did the first time Jugs had joked about seeing his mother's cunt. "You can see," the real Jugs explained. "That like a cut of roast beef, she's still rare right in the center." Jason watched as an awful fat finger lifted toward the laptop's monitor and pressed directly into his mother. Directly into her 'rare' exposed cut. It was too much for Jason. As he listened to her voice again asking about seeing the cleaver, and computer Jugs responding something about waiting until parents weekend, he realized that he'd become fully erect. Watching Morris' disgusting, cuffed, fat pointer finger gently coax the pixeled representation of his mother was like receiving a jolt of electricity. The linebacker gasped. All four heads turned toward him. "I can't... I won't..." He tried to fight it, but he was certain that they all knew what would come next. * * * To call it a 'nocturnal emission' would have been grossly polite. The dream caused its dreamer to explode in a way that he'd never previously experienced while sleeping or awake. Sitting there, bolt upright, the sticky substance had leaked through his shorts and onto his sheets. There was no disputing what had happened. It had all been so real. The laptop. The nickname. The eaten care package his mother had sent him. And worst of all... The most detailed part... He'd never admit it to Morris, but he had actually seen his mother's bush on accident just a few months before coming to camp. He hadn't realized anyone had been home as he'd barged into his parents' shower one weekend. Fortunately she'd had a towel over her head to dry her hair. He'd been able to escape by claiming he'd seen nothing, but the all-consuming, self-consuming truth was that her beaver was exactly like Morris made it out to be in all his Beaver jokes. Damnit. He couldn't imagine what Morris would do if he actually discovered the truth. Jason took a deep breath and sighed loudly. The most fucked up thing was that a small part of him wanted Morris to know the truth. The masochist in him wanted to hear the stupid and crude one-liners which the macho simpleton would inevitably make. Fuck! That's what had made Jason cum. A bitter, bitter pill for him to swallow. Every detail in the dream had been so lifelike. So accurate. It drove him mad! And unexpectedly, surprisingly, he could feel himself stiffening again. Coming from the other side of the room, Morris' snore startled him from his thoughts. It was a blaring, noisy, horn of a snore. It was an overly masculine sound which Jason had never heard before he'd roomed with the Bull. With Morris. No. Not Morris... Jugs. He wasn't the innocent name his parents had named him, he was an indisputable bully of a Bull. And as Jason listened to the snore, he couldn't help but to imagine... To fantasize... In a bizarre twist, he pictured his desperate mother, desperate to see the cleaver. There she was, without panties, depraved, pulling up her favorite red and orange sundress above Jugs' snoring slabbed face. Maybe it *would* happen at parents weekend. Was there really even a parents weekend or had Jugs made that up? He didn't know. He didn't care. The motherly apparition, in its absence of any true aid, used the snores like some low frequency vibrator, like some penetrating presence, like a sinister Bull's horn, piercing up inside of her pelt and cascading over her exposed mommy-like intimacy. Jugs just continued to make Zs with a little grin on his face, almost like he knew what Jason was thinking. Jason thrust himself back onto the mattress. His face contorted into a most intensely twisted orgasm. As he beat at his pud of a cock, he pictured it alongside the cleaver. Dwarfed by the massive tube which nature had so unfairly bequeathed to Jugs. He came a second time, but just before he did, he'd slipped his already sticky shorts down just enough to watch as a tiny spurt of white fired onto his hairless belly. Then, as quickly as he'd awakened, he attempted to go back to sleep. His face burned red with the shame of what he'd just done, and yet, he knew that he could have easily done it again. Fuck. * * * When Jason awoke, it was as he'd done for the past couple of days; exhausted, unhappy, and to the sounds of the tireless women on Morris' laptop. The bullish encouragement was as energetic as always, especially since Jugs had discovered a way to further twist the thorn in his roommate's side. "That's it Beaver mommy... Let it all hang out! Yeah! You want this, don't you?" Jason groaned in frustration and pulled the pillow over his head. As he looked at the blaring red "6:58" on his alarm clock, he knew he couldn't take it anymore. It was two minutes before his alarm would go off, and already his roommate was going full speed. The final straw was the fact that Jugs had taken to calling all of the different women 'Beaver mommy," implying, Jason was certain, that they were meant to be his mother. The recollection of the dream caused him to stir for just a moment, but then his anger flared up violently and he hurled his pillow at the idiot on the other side of the room. "What the fuck!?" Jason roared. The pillow missed Morris by a mile and its thrower was thankful that the target had no idea it had been aimed at him. With his characteristic and reprehensible grin, Jugs turned to Jason. "What's wrong roomie?" "I've had it!" Jason exploded. Before the linebacker knew what he was doing, anger had taken control of him and he was firing complaints at a surprised Morris. "Whenever I come back to our room, you are here watching porn! You snore like a freaking animal! You leave filthy, used cum socks all over our floor! You have these sick delusions that you know my mom!" Jason paused to take a breath. The grin on his roommate's face had disappeared. In its place was a stony, expressionless gaze. "I can't take it anymore. I won't take it anymore. If things don't change, consider your laptop gone. I'll go right to coach and tell him what you've been doing. And don't think I'm afraid of how 'unbearable' you'll become." The tortured soul had snapped and poked fun a the word which Morris had used by repeating it in a mocking and whiny voice. "Nothing... I repeat NOTHING is more unbearable than it is now." Jason threw the sheets off of his body. Morris didn't respond, but judging from the look on the fullback's face, Jason knew that his threat wasn't being taken lightly. The lighter shorter roommate grabbed his shower kit and departed down the hall. When he returned from his shower, nervous that he'd gone too far, Morris had thankfully disappeared. * * * "I don't want to lose my laptop!" Jugs pounded the breakfast table with both fists. It caused the two bowls of oatmeal in front of him to espouse a gentle clatter from under their weighted ceramic bases. The other two boys could tell that their teammate was seething even before he'd revealed his dilemma. The telltale anger was obvious to them when he didn't immediately begin shoveling food down his throat. "If that little fucker squeals on me," he continued deeply in his own thoughts. "They'll probably kick me out of camp! My dad will take my new laptop away!" It was rare that Morris found himself in this position, but he knew it well enough to avoid it at all costs. It was a situation where he'd dug himself so deeply into a hole that he needed help getting out. To clarify... He needed Ian's help getting out. As he looked with frustration across the table, to his handsome friend casually dabbing either corner of his mouth with a folded napkin, the fullback already knew what Dozer was thinking. 'The idiot played with fire and he got burned.' It frustrated Morris to feel like the group moron, but on that morning it was a badge he'd have to wear if he didn't want to risk expulsion and the loss of his beloved new Toshiba. Ian had patiently listened to the ranting, and when there was uncomfortable silence, Jugs began to repeat himself. "Can you fucking believe him? Threatening me? He's nothing compared to me! If there were ten of him and I had two broken legs, he still couldn't block me!" As dramatic as the situation must have sounded to those within earshot of their table, Ian maintained calm. The tight end was accustomed to dealing with muck-ups. "He's not going to report you," Ian finally spoke. It was with an insistence that comforted but also annoyed Morris. "How the fuck do you know that? You should have seen him. He snapped! Maybe I should just tell coach now and we can hide the laptop in your room. They'll think he's gone crazy or something. Maybe we can-" Jugs stopped short. Ian was shaking his head with slow, deliberate condescension. Morris had to bite his lip. It infuriated him when Ian took the reins so smartly and began to dismantle a perfectly logical plan. He could always do it one better. Sometimes he just wanted to smash Ian, especially when the highbrow elitist treated Morris as he was now in front of Jeron. At that moment Jugs recalled the repressed hatred he felt when being made to listen to one of Ian's lectures. He just as quickly remembered that it was because his friend's solutions were nothing short of genius. "Haven't you noticed anything about the kid you've been living with for almost a week now?" Ian's question was insulting at best. His confidence walked the proverbially thin line bordering arrogance. "Of course I have. Why do you think-" "Then perhaps you've noticed how long it's taken him to retaliate? I don't know anybody with two working nuts that wouldn't have reported you before the sun had set on day one." Jugs blushed a little bit at this. He wasn't sure whether to take it as a compliment or an insult; that he was effective at what he did, or that he was an intolerable beast. "There's something funny about Tuft," Ian grinned. "I can't quite put my finger on it yet, but it's almost like a part of him enjoys the abuse. All the excuses. The way he puts up such a fight against it." Jeron had stopped eating his cereal long enough to catch the wicked look on Ian's face. It frightened him slightly, causing him to discover an uneaten piece of cereal floating in the milk. "So what am I supposed to do? Keep bullying him and telling him that he actually likes it, but he just doesn't realize that?" Jugs asked the question with defeated sarcasm. "On the contrary," the tight end responded. "You're going to become his friend." Jeron, without looking up from his bowl muttered, "keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." Jugs was furious. It was as though the lightweight wide receiver had stolen the words right out of his mouth. He'd taken the same thought which Jugs had a few days before and now used it to gain extra points from Ian. Ian nodded appreciatively at Jeron. "Exactly," he encouraged. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." Jugs knew it was pointless to try to explain that that was what he'd been doing all along... At least he'd started by trying to do that... He got lost in his own puzzlement at where the wheels had fallen off his plan. His thinking was interrupted by Ian. "So you are going to apologize to Jason," Ian said with a confident knowingness. "You're going to become his best friend here at camp. In fact..." He paused to make sure that he had Morris' full attention. "You're even going to let him use your laptop." "Let him use Tanya!?" It was the name with which Morris had christened the collection of keys and circuits. Tanya the Toshiba. There was complete silence other than Jeron's spoon clattering into his bowl. It had taken him a few seconds to realize what Ian was asking of Jugs. Both Jeron and Ian could see the fabled steam coming from the angry Bull's snout. "Are you fucking looney?" the enraged fullback fulminated. "Again, quite the contrary. You've seen the line of guys that have to wait to use the public computers, haven't you?" "That's why I smuggled my fucking laptop into camp! So that the three of us could use the net whenever we wanted to!" Jeron winced a little bit at the thought of touching the keys on Morris' keyboard. "I'm not going to let Wobbles anywhere near it. He'd probably trip and break it with his soft head." "Precisely," Ian continued. "It would be the ultimate peace offering." His smile curled into its most sly repose yet, as if being devious for him took absolutely zero effort. "It would be the perfect trojan horse." He leaned in closer to explain the logistics of his plan. Morris and Jeron listened to the idea, skepticism growing into wonderment. Despite its involvement and lack of ethics, it was a plan which they all knew would work. Jugs wondered jealously for how long it had taken Ian to come up with something so inspired. * * * By the time that Jugs burst into their room later that evening, all jealousy had disappeared. His face was that of a scientist who'd discovered something revolutionary. He slammed the door, startling Jeron from the pages of the novel he'd been reading. Ian appeared characteristically unfazed. "It worked!" the fullback practically leapt up and down like a giddy schoolgirl. "It really worked!" "Where is he?" Ian asked calmly. "Don't worry. I waited until he went off for his run like you said. He doesn't suspect a thing!" Jugs lumbered toward Ian who'd been sitting at his desk writing something. "He really wants to be friends with me! He said he doesn't even mind if I watch my porn as long as I keep the room tidy and I stop taking jabs at his mommy." Jugs was entirely elated. "Oh, and he said that I should stop saying 'mommy'." "OK, that's great Jugs... But did he sign into your laptop to check his email?" Ian regarded the laptop which had been placed in front of him with a high degree of insouciance. Clearly he had no expectation of touching the keyboard either. Jugs just grinned, ever the oversized idiot, and opened an application that he'd hidden in a folder labeled 'packet grab.' It was part of a software program which Morris had revealed to Ian about a year ago when the electronics enthusiast had found it online. When initiated, it captured every keystroke made by an unsuspecting user and then reported all likely usernames and passwords. It was a piece of code every bit as malicious as the technocrat now using it. Remember the Beavers Ch. 03 "Ta da!" he practically sang as he produced a document containing the information they'd hoped to obtain. There at the top of the screen, highlighted in bold format by Jugs was the most laughably delicious juxtaposition that Ian could recall... Username: StudlyOLBGuy@mail.com Password: thoughtsnfeelings55 Laughter erupted loudly from the two larger boys as Jeron put down the copy of 'American Psycho' and made his way towards the source of their amusement. "Christ," Ian commented to no one in particular. The irreverent word caused Jeron to wince. "This is going to be easier than I thought. Go ahead," he insisted to Jugs. "Log in." Within less than 15 seconds, all of Jason's e-mail's scrolled availably before their horns. There were advertisements to get buff within two weeks, a registration e-mail linking to a site for erotic literature, distributions from Sports Illustrated, a few messages from unrecognizable e-mails, possibly friends, and then something which appeared far too good to ignore. Naturally it caught Ian's eye first. "Who do you think Mrs. Victoria Tuft could be?" he asked with numbing sarcasm. "Shut up! Where?" Jugs responded hastily as the cursor moved in frantic jittering paths across the screen. Ian just grinned, letting his friend find it for himself. * * * Hi Honey, I'm sorry to hear that the camp is more challenging than you had first anticipated and that you're having thoughts about dropping out. You know that your father and I will support you regardless of your decision. Of course we don't want you to get hurt or to be ashamed of yourself for attempting what we all thought was a pretty high bar. I'm glad to hear that you and your roommate enjoyed those cookies I baked. I found the recipe online and thought it fitting for your camp. It's no problem for me to send some more. Your father's been his usual self. Nose buried in the business, keeping the money coming in. This weekend it's your Aunt Linda's birthday and we are planning to go visit her. Let me know what you decide to do about football camp. Please don't feel bad about the cost. I can look into getting a refund for your tuition, but the most important thing is that you are happy (and safe). If you decide to come home early, just tell the camp to give me a call and I'll be there within a few hours to get you. Chin up. Keep smiling. Love, Mom * * * "My god! I think that gave me a cavity," Ian insisted as he finished reading. Jeron had finished first, and Jugs was still making his way through it, laughing at the fact that Jason had told her they'd 'shared' the cookies. "It's working!" Jugs cheered as he reached the end. "He's gonna leave!" "But maybe we don't want him to leave just yet," Ian responded thoughtfully. "But I thought you said..." "Sh. Too much thinking is no good for anyone... Especially you."