Date: Sat, 2 Mar 2002 12:17:19 -0500
From: XH4M <xhuge4muscl@hotmail.com>
Subject: BIG IS BETTER 18

BIG IS BETTER

By XH4M

This story is a fantasy.  All characters in this story are fictional with
no resemblance to any real persons implied.  Any reader with objections to
graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males, who may not have
reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or
national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should NOT read
further.  Copyright (c) 2002 XH4M.  All rights, implicit or implied, except
for distribution by this archive and personal use by the individual
downloading the file, are reserved.  Inquiries regarding publishing rights
for this story should be directed to: xhuge4muscl@hotmail.com


PART 18 - DANCIN' TO THE JAIL HOUSE ROCK


"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping - rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -

              Only this and nothing more...."


And it seemed every bit like the most foreboding, pitch-black midnight hour
as I sat staring out the living room bay window down at the street below -
but it was broad daylight - and an otherwise picture-perfect New England
Autumn day outside.  Big amber, red and bright-orange leaves occasionally
coaxed from their branches by a breeze caught my fleeting attention as they
gently floated down past the window on their annual journey back to Mother
Earth.  But at best I was only transiently aware of the beautiful Fall
weather, as if only passing through the deceptively calm eye of a killer
hurricane.  Inside I felt no tranquility - no peace whatsoever.  I was
caught up in a hellish maelstrom - adrift on chaotic seas - without a
concept of what time or even what day it was.

The opened college textbooks and the papers strewn about my desk next
caught my eye only for a moment.  They were exactly as I'd left them the
day before.  I remembered I'd been cramming for a mid-semester exam -
American poets, to fill a Freshman course requirement in Humanities - when
I'd first heard that frantic knocking on the door.

Reaching up, I removed the pencil I'd been holding tightly clenched in my
teeth.  I stared blankly at the end of it a moment before it dawned on me
I'd cleanly bitten off the eraser, then summarily chewed and swallowed it
as well.  I absent-mindedly flipped it on top of the mounting pile of other
pencils I'd similarly destroyed in the past several minutes, then promptly
yanked the last virgin-pencil out of the box, stuck the new one in my mouth
and started chomping on it like a beaver.

As I tossed the empty box into the wastebasket, I spotted a dumbbell lying
beside it on the floor and immediately thought of Sam again.  It occurred
to me that Sam fiddled with dumbbells in exactly the same way that I often
twiddled with paperclips or pencils.  Normally it wasn't my habit however
to be annihilating whole boxes of pencils, as I was doing uncontrollably at
the moment.  Sam 'twiddled' weights all the time.  He was constantly
lifting something, even while he was watching TV or cooking over the stove;
sometimes, even while brushing his teeth.

The big guy always seemed to have a dumbbell in his hands.  Sam was born to
lift weights.  It was what he lived for - well, eating and sex were close
runner-ups.  However, I'd gradually noticed over time another side to Sam's
avid enthusiasm for 'lifting things'.  It was more as if he actually HAD to
lift.  I wasn't so sure anymore that he was even fully conscious of it.  He
seemed involuntarily compelled by something inside of him at times -
something more like a physical 'demand,' not unlike the need to eat and
sleep.  Certainly I enjoyed eating and sleeping - and the latter a lot -
but I also had to sleep.  At some point, I simply had no choice in the
matter.  That same thing seemed oddly like it might also apply to Sam's
constant lifting, as well.  For him it wasn't an option.

There were dumbbells of all sizes scattered around every room of the
apartment like dust bunnies.  As I panned across the living room floor, it
occurred to me that a better description would be dust buffaloes.  I
critically surveyed with some disdain the present state of dishevel, making
a mental note to clean up the place.  Well, sometime soon - maybe.

I jumped up from the desk and began nervously pacing through the rest of
the apartment, eventually finding myself back in the kitchen.  There sat
the usual mountain of unwashed dishes covering every available inch of
counter space, looking more like a restaurant's kitchen after a busy night
than a private residence; big pots and pans, mounds of dirty utensils, and
stacks of glasses and large oval platters piled everywhere.  Sam didn't
even own a normal-sized dinner plate!

I anxiously scanned over every inch of the table, counters and other flat
surfaces in the kitchen thoroughly one more time.

"Jesus Christ! Of all the DAMN times to lose my keys!" I shouted aloud,
severely chastising myself again.  "Where the fuck ARE they, Pete?"

I'd never felt more scared-out-of-my-wits than I did at that very moment,
aimlessly roaming around Sam's apartment.  Well, I guess
technically-speaking it really was our apartment.  I'd been calling this
place my home for quite some time now.

I yanked a chair out from under the kitchen table and collapsed on it hard.
I had no choice.  My legs were shaking uncontrollably and barely able to
hold me upright.  I held my hands out in front of me and tried to mentally
'command' them to cease their violent trembling - and a hopeless waste of
time, I quickly discovered.

I was becoming more unglued with each passing minute and rapidly
approaching the brink of genuine hysteria.  And worse, my brain was only
firing on one cylinder.  At the moment I had no idea of what I could do, or
even should be doing for that matter.  I desperately needed to talk with
someone but had no idea of who to call.  That sudden realization just
panicked me more.  Then I had a sudden powerful urge to talk with my
mother.  I needed some fixing fast, and I definitely wanted my Mommy - and
NOW!  But my folks didn't have a telephone, of course, nor would they
likely ever have one.  There was no way to get in touch with them quickly.
Next I thought of Zec.... but ditto - Zec and his new wife had no phone
either.  But that gave me another idea - and temporarily, some hope as
well.

Jumping up, I grabbed for the telephone to call my old roommate John,
almost ripping it off the wall in the process.  I let the phone ring for
minutes but there was no answer.  Only then I remembered John told me he
was taking off for the weekend somewhere with his girlfriend.

My hopes sank as fast as a torpedoed ship - and I physically sank back down
on the kitchen chair once more.  I couldn't remember ever feeling so
completely alone - cut off and totally isolated.

It was almost a year ago that I'd first met Sam, and already it was Autumn
again.  It felt like I'd abandoned living in the college dormitory long
ago.  John had replaced me with Cindy, a beautiful and very buxom young
coed, almost before my old dorm bed was even cold.  That wasn't at all
unexpected for John either, being the hetero-stud that he was.  They were
even 'an item' now.  John seemed seriously smitten by the love-bug,
considering the 'always play the field, Pete' advice he used to give me
constantly.  Frankly, I don't think Cindy's mega-boobs were any particular
deterrent to their relationship either.

But John and I had remained close friends after I'd moved out.  I'd also
come out to him later in the Spring.  Not too surprisingly, John had been
admittedly a bit confused at first.  He had his memories of me and that
night at the whore house to reconcile initially, at least until I explained
a few things about myself to him, though nothing more than he absolutely
needed to know.  Afterwards, he was completely nonplussed about having this
new personal information concerning my sexual orientation.  John was always
too comfortable with who he was to have been at all uncomfortable with who
I was.  That seems to be more and more the way it works with most people, I
thought.  Those at peace with themselves generally are at peace with
others.  In fact, John was genuinely happy for me that I'd met Sam.  In
retrospect, our meeting had worked out very well for John, too.  There were
obvious side-benefits.  First and foremost, he got to shag Cindy nightly.
Although Sam had been initially a little suspicious of John, he'd
nevertheless warmed up to him quickly.  John had one of those magnetic,
dynamic personalities that even Sam couldn't resist for too long.
Eventually, Sam even extended John the offer to come over and use the gym
whenever he liked.  John, being a perpetually poor college student,
immediately accepted Sam's offer and used the gym regularly to keep his
hetero sex-appeal intact.  Ironically, Sam probably saw John more
frequently now than I did, due to my new course schedule.

I stared at the phone for awhile, desperate for it to magically ring, and
yet terrified that it might.  All the while I was turning over the horrors
of past 24 hours in my mind, taking them for yet one more spin around the
'ol block.

It all started to head south when I heard a loud, anxious knock on the door
yesterday evening around suppertime.  When I'd opened the door, I found
Gary, one of Sam's football players from the college, standing there - and
looking alarmingly upset.  Sam still worked part-time at the college, more
so in the Fall during the football season.  Gary knew I was a close friend
of Sam's, as well as his 'roommate,' so he'd come over to personally tell
me that Sam had just been taken into custody by the police with no
explanations given.

"Pete, they just put him in handcuffs and hauled him away!"

Gary was probably reacting sympathetically to the shocked look on my face,
but he offered to give me a ride over to the local police station right
there on the spot - and I accepted instantly, not even pausing to grab my
jacket or cap, otherwise normally a constant fixture on top of my head.

The police station was a modest-sized building standing adjacent to an
equally modest Town Hall opposite the town common - or 'the green,' as that
characteristic feature of small New England towns might be known elsewhere.

As soon as Gary dropped me off, I bolted into the station and right up to
the front desk - and then waited an eternity for the on-duty desk officer
to leisurely finish his two doughnuts, cup of coffee and some paperwork
before he finally looked up to acknowledge me.  I quickly explained to him
that I was Sam's friend and that he'd apparently just been arrested.

"What's the guy's name again?" he asked.

When I told him, he referred to a list on the desk.

"Yep, we have him in custody...."

I immediately asked why Sam had been arrested and what the charges were.

"That's police business," was his swift and final reply.

When I asked if I could see Sam myself, the cop was initially very
reluctant.  He finally relented as I continued to press the issue,
insisting repeatedly that I was Sam's closest 'bud.'

"You need to pick your friends better then, kid," he replied sternly, but
added, "O.K.  I'll let you talk to the guy, but only for a couple of
minutes."

As he lead me out to the small cellblock behind the station, he offered yet
another unsolicited piece of advice.  "You stand away from the bars when
you talk with this guy, O.K.?  This guy seems really agitated - and he's a
real monster."

Trying to reassure the cop, I replied, "I know what he looks like.  I'm his
friend, remember?  Sam's not a mean person at all."

The cop seemed at best very skeptical.  "You stand away from those bars
anyway.  You hear me, kid?"

The desk officer was in no particular rush either.  As he lead me back to
the cellblock, his pace was so excruciatingly slow that I nearly tripped
over him several times.

And the jail was full.  I hadn't expected that in this laid-back, peaceful
little town.  There were two or three men in every adjacent cell. "Gee,
maybe there's a full moon or something," I remember thinking to myself.
Most of the detainees seemed to be passed out.  Some were sprawled on their
beds and others directly on the floor and I assumed they were mostly
drunks.  But there was no doubt that this was a jail.  The cellblock looked
dreary; all the walls were painted in that ugly, drab institutional green.

Then I spotted Sam.  Let's face it - he's not really easy to miss.  He was
more than just passively occupying his cell, however.  Sam was moving
around inside the cell like a newly-caged tiger, his massy pectorals
conspicuously heaving under his sweatshirt at regular intervals, like the
flaring nostrils of an enraged bull.  The desk cop was still sauntering
along in front of me, walking with his head down.  As Sam spotted the cop,
I saw him release something inconspicuously from his hand which silently
fell on top of the bed.

And Sam also had a cellmate - kind of a nasty-looking dude, and not by any
means a particularly small guy either.  He didn't appear to be all that
comfortable sharing that cell with Sam though.  He was sitting on the
floor, knees pulled up, with his body wedged tightly between the
free-standing toilet and the corner.  It looked obviously to me that he was
attempting to maintain as low and unobtrusive a profile as possible.

"Hey you.  You got a visitor," the cop announced without so much as looking
at Sam, and then turning to me, he said, "And you - you make it quick now!"
Turning around, he slowly meandered back out to the front desk.

As soon as the officer was out of sight, I saw Sam bending down to pick up
the object he'd clandestinely dropped on the mattress moments before.  To
see Sam with something in his hands, in itself, certainly wasn't unusual to
me.  But somehow inside a jail cell, this wasn't something I expected to
see.  But then again, why would I naively think Sam would behave any
differently even if he was in jail.  And what Sam was holding was a piece
of slightly-bowed heavy metal channel about 3 feet long.  It didn't take me
long to spot where he'd acquired it either.  The end of one of the cast
iron bed frames was missing - and snapped off pretty neatly.

Sam shot me only the briefest of glances, but the look on his face
instantly told me that, if Sam was maybe a little scared, he was a LOT
angry - almost in a wild rage.  Now this was definitely something
completely out of the norm.  I'd never seen Sam looking so riled!  Come to
think of it, I'd never even seem him get worked up over anything at all.

Sam had always been easy-going and absolutely unflappable.  Nothing ever
bothered him.  Things that upset a terrier commonly pass virtually
unnoticed by a Great Dane.  And on occasion, I'd gotten pissed off at him
before for exactly that reason - simply because he would NOT getting upset
about something when I thought he should!  But merely saying that he looked
'pissed off' didn't begin to capture his crazed demeanor.  Honestly, what I
saw made every hair on my body suddenly stand up straight.  This man sure
looked like Sam, but that was where any recognizable similarity ended.
This 'Sam' appeared to be right on the edge of going completely berserk.

"Sam, are you O.K.?" I blurted out, despite seeing that he clearly was not.
"Just what the HELL is this all about anyway?"

Sam didn't answer and just continued circling like a wild man.  I waited a
long time before I asked him again.  Eventually he started to rant, but
what came out of his mouth was neither useful nor enlightening.  At best it
was just fragmented thoughts muttered in cryptic phrases delivered with an
angry snarl.

"They says everything'd be OK.... Weren't even nothin' to worry
about.... This here ain't right," Sam growled as he circled the cell.
"Nobody'd ever know, they says... the PO-lice got it all wrong, they does.
I just wanted 'em to leave us alone... this is all wrong... all wrong...."

"Got what wrong?  Did what?  Who are 'they,' Sam?" I hollered back, trying
to get him to stand still and talk to me.  Sam continued storming around
wildly, slashing at the air occasionally with that nasty piece of iron
casting.  He began pounding the cement wall in the rear of the cell with
his caveman's club of a forearm every time he circled past it, and the
chunks of concrete that kept falling to the floor demonstrated
unequivocally his emotional state - not to mention the amount of force he
was putting behind those blows.

Then suddenly Sam just halted - and began g-l-a-r-i-n-g down at his
cellmate with a look that not only could kill, but WOULD kill, too.

Sam roared out, "And YOU - Don't ya stare at me NO MORE!"

The way Sam waved that nasty piece of iron at the guy indicated
decapitation would be the swift penalty for disobeying. At least now I
could understand why the desk cop thought that I needed to be warned to
stand well back from the cell.

Sam's cellmate was so stunned that he unfortunately didn't immediately
avert his eyes from Sam.  That was a definite mistake.  A moment later, Sam
was standing on top of the man leering down at him.  With a hand on each
end of the cast iron rail, he leaned over and held out level only inches in
front of the guy's face.

In a menacingly slow and deliberate monotone voice, Sam repeated through
clenched teeth, "I - SAID - DON'T - STARE...."

I saw the sleeping soldiers awaken in Sam's sleeves, briefly jumping to
full attention.  In one stunningly quick motion, Sam folded the iron rail
like a piece of licorice between his hands.  The scream of the metal was
mercifully short-lived, quickly snapping cleanly into two pieces with a
loud crack.  The degree of fear in his cellmate's face said to me that
cardiac arrest was a distinct possibility, but that didn't seem to even
register with Sam.

Tossing the two broken pieces aside, Sam thrust his arm downward and seized
the fellow by his chest in a vice grip, sweeping up half of his jacket with
a single grab of his huge paw.  Then an awful noise started emanating from
Sam; a sustained, very low-pitched, deep throaty rumble that reminded me
more of the stalking Tyrannosaurus in Jurassic Park than a human being.  As
Sam began straightening up, his oversized sweatshirt snapped taunt across
his entire upper torso.  If the sleeping soldiers had only stirred briefly
before, this time the whole battalion was scrambling for duty dressed in
full battle gear, all gun magazines fully-loaded and ready for action.  In
one continuous motion, Sam raised his human prey straight off the floor to
the height of his own chest and then effortlessly suspended him there.
Bulging muscles appeared everywhere like lava domes underneath Sam's
sweatshirt, his sleeve was so taxed it was a shade lighter than the rest of
his sweatshirt and the shape of it suggesting a regulation-sized football
had mysteriously become wedged inside.

The man's mouth hung wide open as he stared at Sam in horror - but he
wasn't uttering a sound.  But I was certain that at any second, I was going
to witness a pair of human eyeballs literally popping right out of their
sockets.  Then as if simply opening a chest drawer, Sam slowly drew the man
into his own body until they were almost nose-to-nose and then held him
there face-to-face with his one arm for the longest time, all-the-while
growling at him like a predacious carnivore.  It was a terrifying, utterly
animal sound.  Apparently now satisfied with his threat display, Sam began
lifting the man even higher.  The broad heads of his deltoid expanded like
an over-inflating dome to accommodate his will - and as a direct result,
his shoulder seams opened up in three directions, giving way all at once.
Sam looked briefly at the shoulder of his sweatshirt, probably distracted
by to the sound of tearing material, and then he immediately returned his
focus back to the man.  Sam continued lifting the man skyward as easily as
if he were raising his hand to answer a teacher's question until he'd
firmly planted the back of his cellmate's shoulders squarely against the
ceiling.  Terrified, I held my breath waiting to see what would happened
next.

But Sam applied no additional pressure.  Instead, he simply held the man
pinned to the ceiling, leering at him disdainfully.  But slowly, Sam's
guttural growls subsided and his expression change from enraged to
something that appeared more inquisitive, as if observing an animal trapped
in a cage.  It was that unmistakably boyish expression I'd seen on him
before on some occasions, as if Sam was now thinking, "Say, how'd you get
up there in this predicament anyway?"  Ultimately, Sam either decided that
this wasn't worth his effort or perhaps he'd just finished venting his
pent-up anger - or maybe he even felt suddenly sorry for the guy.  I really
have no idea of what Sam was feeling.  But whatever his reasons, eventually
Sam just smoothly lowered the terrified guy down again, tucking him back in
his corner between the toilet and the cell bars like he was putting a rag
doll back to bed.  Then Sam awkwardly patted him on the head, as if saying,
"It's O.K. now.  It was just a bad dream, that's all."

As soon as the guy was released from Sam's grasp however, he cowered down
further and pressed his body into the corner like a contortionist, as if
trying to completely disappear into the floor and walls.  I knew somehow
that this incident was done and over with for now, and that Sam wasn't
likely to even notice this guy again, whether or not he stared.  At least
Sam had gotten that - if nothing else - out of his system.

I bent over and, with my hands on my knees, forced myself to take several
deep breaths - not only sighs of relief, but even more to recover at least
partially the wits I'd been frightened out of.  For a moment I had feared
for his cellmate's life.  Sam had come too close to totally losing control.
He seemed every bit capable of seriously maiming - or possibly even murder.
This unnerved me to the bone.  This was NOT the Sam I knew.  But it was
even more bizarre when I became suddenly aware of something else: not only
had this enraged monster just scared the living daylights out of me, but
he'd also oddly given me an enraged boner in the process.

But Samson immediately resumed his distressed pacing, and soon started
mumbling again only minor variations of the same themes as before.  I
wasn't going to get anything more useful out of him in his currently
agitated state.  He was still one very riled-up dude.

I decided my priority at the moment had to be focused only on getting Sam
calmed down - if I could somehow manage that.  I wasn't sure.  This savage
man-mountain needed some extra TLC and soothing but fast.  I also was
paying closer attention now to the growing damage that Sam was
unconsciously causing to that cement wall, too - and this sent up some big
red flags.  His wall-pounding had to be stopped immediately before the
damage became more noticeable than it already was.  So I began talking
non-stop with as soothing a tone of voice as I could muster, hoping to
successfully penetrate that sometimes very thick skull of his.

I babbled that Gary had come over and told me he was in jail; that Gary had
also given me a ride down to the station; that Gary had offered to stay and
close up the gym if I wasn't back in time; that I was going to get hold of
lawyer right away - immediately - as soon as I left.  I told Sam that I'd
go through the student-advocate program at the college; that they'd provide
legal assistance free-of-charge to registered undergraduates or faculty.  I
said that I'd be back in the morning with a lawyer.  I told him that I'd do
whatever was necessary - absolutely whatever - to get him out of jail.  And
repeatedly, I kept telling him to JUST CALM DOWN - to take deep breaths.

"Just breathe, Sam.  Big, deep breaths."

I told him not to worry about anything at all, and that I'd take care of
everything.

Sam continued circling the perimeter of the cell as I rambled on and on.
Gradually, his pacing became less frantic - and certainly less destructive
- than before.  At least now he only slammed the wall on every third or
fourth pass.  But for my own peace of mind, I needed to also be absolutely
sure I was 'in contact' with the big bruiser.  To test the real quality of
this 'communication' I made a clear demand to see how he'd respond.
Actually, I hollered so loudly that I startled even myself.

"Sam, I WILL be back - honest!  Everything's gonna be OK!  DO YOU
UNDERSTAND?  STOP AND LOOK AT ME!"

How I could have been making such unsubstantiated promises though - well, I
simply didn't know.  I didn't know a single useful detail about even the
circumstances concerning his arrest, as yet.  Nevertheless, I promised
anyway.  My immediate goal was only to get Sam settled-down right now,
calming him with repeated reassurances that everything was going to be O.K.

Sam's pacing slowed until he eventually stopped and stood still.  Looking
at me with a sincerely worried expression now, he spoke more deliberately.

"Yeah, O.K.  Thanks.  Thanks, Pete.  Appreciate all that, I does.  A
lot...."

Suddenly having gained his undivided attention, I quickly stepped up to the
cell and grabbed the bars.  Sticking my head between them, I whispered
loudly, "Pssssssstt," clearly indicating that I wanted to speak very
privately with him now.  Sam walked up to the front of the cell and stood
there looking down at me, covering my hands with his own on the bars.

Mimicking me exactly, he whispered back, "Yep. What's up, Pete?"

In a loud whisper, I replied, "Sam - You gotta STOP hitting that wall - or
anything else for that matter!  CALM DOWN!  You STOP it right now!  Do you
hear me?  Stop it.  NO MORE!! Promise me?"

"I hears ya.  O.K., Pete.  I won't hit nothin' no more.  I promise," he
whispered back, grinning as if this was all some kind of game.  When he
brought one arm down and clandestinely reached through the bars and started
unzipping my fly, I knew what game he had in mind, too.

God, the big lug could absolutely annoy the hell out of me to no end
sometimes!

Backing away, I said, "Sam, you just be cool and sit tight now.  I'll get
you out of here - and don't do anything I wouldn't do!"  Then, glancing
back at the crumbling rear wall, I quickly added, "Aahh... or couldn't do
myself, buddy. O.K.?"

Reassuring Sam one final time that I'd be back in the morning, I departed.
I spent the rest of the evening getting the Student Advocate at the
College, professionally a lawyer, involved to help Sam out.  Thank God the
guy seemed both very concerned and extremely competent.  It was well past
midnight however by the time that he had the bail part even arranged.  The
lawyer told me that it couldn't be posted until the morning, and that I
should go home and get some rest.

I was absolutely exhausted and it was already well after midnight.  I took
his advice and headed back home to try to get some sleep.  I was just
beginning to feel a bit better, too - if ever so slightly - when I
eventually turned into bed.  I didn't sleep much though.  It was pretty
weird being alone in that apartment for the very first time since I'd moved
in.  I suddenly missed Sam something awful.  I was also absolutely wildly
horny, which I thought very odd, especially under the circumstances.  I
must have spanked the monkey four times in quick succession.  Even once
would have been a rare event ever since I'd met Sam.  The big guy emptied
my tanks routinely often several times a day!  Lucky, lucky me.

Well that was what had happened the day before, but it all seemed like
ancient history to me now, as I sat there in the kitchen staring
alternately at the dirty dishes and the telephone.

My thoughts now turned to everything that had happened since then.
Yesterday's events paled against the surreal nightmare that today grew
worse with every passing hour.  Someone was walking over my grave.

I glanced at my shaking hands again.  "Yep. Parkinson's," I thought to
myself.  Then to hold back the tears that suddenly welled up in my eyes, I
started to yelling, "Where the fuck are those God-damn truck keys, Peter?
Just what the FUCK is HAPPENING, PETER?"

And that was it - the crux of my whole dilemma.  You see, I didn't really
have a clue.