This choice: Your wariness kicks in. Trust in no one but your own senses. • Go Back... Originally by: H. M.  on Muscle Growth: Go Nuts Guys
You sit on your bed, your sinewy body heaving. You just can't deal with this right now. You slip on a pair of jeans and a shirt and make a trip to the nearest hole-in-the-wall bar.
Maybe it's not the best thing to brag about in polite company, but you could put just about anyone under the table when it came to holding your alcohol. Some men preferred beer, others wine; for you, a straight shot of single-malt scotch or a good mellow bourbon chased the pain away, if but for a little while. These days, you were careful about your drinking, afraid you might find yourself hitting the bottle too often for your own good.
You pass the surly looking ape bartender some money and he hands you two shots of scotch. "One for you, one for those you've lost." 'Course, you'll be drinking them both anyway; why waste good scotch?
You glance at the TV, it's running a re-airing of the evening news. They're still talking 'bout the guy Murphy shot. You down the first shot quickly and without so much as a bat of an eye. You really, really didn't want to put your mind to this, but you begin running through the facts anyway, in your head.
The guy's name was Kendall Virunga. He's 23 years old, same age as Murphy. He had no police file, no prior arrests. College dropout. Last known details prior to the night he was shot, he was working as a cook for a joint in the Cowley-Greene neighborhood in the ninth precinct. That was six months ago, and he was described as squat and overweight. There's no way a guy goes from being your stereotypical fatass hippo to a frickin' Olympic god in six months.
Sure, you had some questions for him. A lot of questions. But right now, he's in a medically-induced coma and hanging by a thread. Flip a coin, dude could go either way.
As for the other guy, he regained his bearings and fled in the commotion after the hippo was shot. You don't think he'd be too hard to find on these streets - muscular doberman, well over six feet, covered in tats and enough bling to open a jewelry store. Certainly, he'd be worth questioning, but he seemed just as confused as you guys. You weren't sure why he shrank, it just didn't make sense. Body mass does not transfer through a guy's jizz, how in the hell did that Virunga guy do that?
Which of course, leads to the creepiest part of it all - those fucking facehugger things. Google doesn't prove to be much help when you don't know what the hell they're actually called. You've had plenty of time to search the past week, you and Murphy were on paid administrative leave. Standard procedure for any case where police officers are forced to use their weapons, gets them out of the public eye and gives them for psychiatric evals. You already had 99 problems in your life, some underpaid hack telling you you're unfit would only be frosting on the shit cake. Luckily, things cleared and you and Murphy should be back in a couple days.
You grunt as you down the second shot. Good thing Murphy didn't shoot a scaly or an avian. Civil rights activists would be having a field day digging through both of your lives, searching for any reason to declare police brutality and an infringement of their rights and all that crap. In your mind, they had two rights; a right to work within the law, and a right to shut the hell up. Society was too politically correct these days anyway, and Murphy was just as guilty of it as the rest of those new-age namby-pamby city boys. Stereotypes would be a lot easier to get rid of if they weren't so true.
You watch as the fur next to you lays his ID on the table to receive his drink. Mesabi state doesn't make enhanced licenses, it's a fake. You turn to look him over. Well if that don't just be one of the biggest pitbulls you've ever seen. Wearing that backwards ball-cap and sleeveless with the cargo shorts, you'd be willing to wager this is some frat boy out with his buds, trying to be edgy by hanging out on the wrong side of town. Maybe they should go back to Rhinecliffe or Greenbriar State, where they belong.
The ape could care less, sale's a sale. But before the pitbull can put the license back in his wallet, you pick it up. "Mesabi doesn't make enhanced licenses, kid. Guy who sold it took you for a fool." The dog growls. "What the fuck are you, a cop?"
You turn and make eye contact with him, flashing your wallet badge. "As a matter of fact, cupcake." The dog's buds panic and flee out the door, leaving him alone and in a dicey situation. He gulps as you stare him down. "By the kiddo, next them you finish with that bong, take a shower. Smell's stickin' to ya like flies on shit. Don't suppose I'm gonna hafta bust ya for that too?"
The pitbull begins to get up, and so do you. "Outside, cupcake, we're gonna have a talk." The dog seems too afraid to run off, now that it is pretty well established he just busted himself in front of a cop.
You two step outside and into the alley next to the bar, damp, dank, and strewn with trash. "What the fuck is this, kid? Do you know how much trouble you're in?"
"Yes, sir". The pitbull's tail is between his legs, he may be bigger but you have the authority. You have him cowering now.
"So why'd you do it?"
"Because I didn't think I'd get caught."
You growl at him. "You didn't think you'd get caught? Let me tell ya somethin'. I've taken down more than enough college kids like you to know that many of them do get caught. And they lose their scholarships, their place on the starting roster, and sometimes, they get expelled. You want that?"
"No, sir. Please don't arrest me, sir, I won't do it again."
You look at the ID still in your hands. You mull it over in your head...if the facesucker thing was responsible for the hippo's growth, now would be a chance to find out. Thing is, you don't even like guys. But cupcake over there might. He also could do fine with losing a few pounds of muscle off that big frame of his. It's...a strange temptation, because you'd much rather go down on a woman, but if it proves your hypothesis, and you get a little muscle out of it, well then there's not a whole lot to be upset about. But, do you really want to stoop that low, and what's to say he won't try something while you're in the middle of sucking him off? A dumb cop is a dead cop walking.
You look the pitbull in the eye. | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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