From: silicondog WARNING: If you are under eighteen or find explicit sexual references offensive and male to male sexuality, read no further. Even though it was a Sunday, the First Methodist Union Church was quiet; it had yet to open. Under the leadership of Father Kimball, the church would be built around the restoration of a house that had laid vacant for years. With prayer (and volunteer labor) the church would soon open, the first to open in this particular neighborhood in years. Father Kimball smiled as he climbed down the stairs from his bedroom. The young lad cleaning the backyard of the church could provide all the volunteer labor one could ever require. "Be quieter, Franklin" Kimball said. "It's still Sunday morning and there are neighbors trying to sleep." Franklin (ROTC, Private; CalTech, suspended sophomore) stood in the back yard with a shovel held in his massive hands like a toothpick. "Good morning, Father" he said, nodding. "I only have a few more things to clean up; they won't take long." "Like that?" the father motioned towards the burned corpse of a car that lay in the yard, a Ford Pinto perhaps, that had been abandoned and then stripped of anything of value. "Yep. I just have to move that out of here next. I have the truck" --Franklin motioned to a flatbed truck parked next to the hulk -- "and that car is going to be a slow haul to the junkyard." "Won't that be risky?" Kimball frowned. The truck was on loan from a church member and was sturdy and new, but even stripped the Pinto wouldn't fit on top of it. Franklin flashed a confident grin at the father. "I'll make it fit" he promised. With those words, he walked over to the hulk, running his hands over the dead metal, almost gauging its strength. Then, digging his boots into the cracked concrete of the yard, he gave a few tentative pushes. The car scraped forward, tires and wheels gone, until he had nosed it up, hood against a thick stone wall, the rear bumper in his arms. Planting his legs behind the bumper, he wrapped his arms across the car=s hatch back and breathed deep, once, and then twice. With the third breath, the veins in his shoulders and arms tried to blow out through the skin. The metal under the swelling teak of his arms began to buckle. With another gasp, the rest of the car, trapped between the stone wall and the crushing of Franklin's arms, popped and crackled as Franklin's thighs, each as wide as Father Kimball, braced his legs on the ground. With one screech, the backbone of the car began to twist and Franklin's arms grew even bigger, his fingers digging into the metal frame. With another snarl, the car ground further into itself, a few pieces of glass dropping out of the corpse of the car as it crumpled down under Franklin's power. The iron of the car bending under the heavier steel of Franklin's arms and hands, it finally folded around the engine. Sweat dripping off the shelves of his pecs onto the ground, Franklin then rolled the crumpled mass of car towards the truck. Then, bracing his legs and back, he grasped the mangled ton of steel. With one last snarl, he lifted the car and swung its mass over onto the top of the truck, the metal of the car's body crushing under his thick fingers and its frame bending around his biceps. Gauging its weight, he shoved the car onto the flat bed of the truck, its shocks groaning under the weight of the car. Satisfied it wouldn't roll off or slide, he stood back and wiped a handkerchief across his hands and then across his shaved head. Franklin could see an outline of his own chest on the bumper where he had crushed it, two pec-shaped curves in the crumpled hood. Bare-chested and wearing only painters pants with suspenders over boots, Franklin stood one inch over of seven feet. The only hair that showed on his body were his eyelashes and a trimmed goatee. Pumped from the car, his shoulders and lats were criss-crossed with veins that fought for space with tendons down his biceps and into thick forearms. The gold ring piercing his left nipple only emphasized his bulk and power, a shining tiny piece of jewelry in an ocean of heavy muscle. Father Kimball, watching, could merely shake his head. "I remember when you sang in the choir as a child and you were the skinniest lad in the group with the finest voice." He shook his head again. "It was the saddest day for the choir when we lost you, but we couldn't afford fitting you with those new frocks month after month." Franklin nodded. "When I was interviewed by the ROTC and asked how I learned to take care of myself early, I could only say that when I started to grow I was going to eat my own family out of our house, otherwise. It only figures that when you weigh the size of three you eat the size of three, with their food bills right?" "How is your mother?" Father Kimball asked. "And your lovely sister?" "She's been promoted to senior nurse on her shift at the MLK Hospital" Franklin answered with pride. And Tasha" Franklin's sister "begins at USC next September." Both knew better than to ask about Franklin's father. "Well, I had better get going if I'm to return the truck by --" Franklin's attention suddenly shifted to the street. In front of the church, an apple-red Porsche had stopped in front of the church. Two were inside. The passenger's window was open and a stranger was leaning towards the open window. Franklin could see a flash of cash one way, a plastic envelope going the other way. "Those bastards --" muscles that had just begun to relax in his arms swelled against his skin. "Franklin" He turned. "Just settle down, here." Franklin did not settle down. He glared at the driver of the Porsche who didn't even return the stare. "You know what they're doing, Father, don't you?" Franklin answered his own question. "They're staking out this street, right across from the church, because it's the church, right in your face, and --" "Franklin" Kimball said again, reproachfully. Franklin turned and looked down (two feet down) at Kimball's older gray eyes. "Just drive that car back down to the scrap yard and return that truck. We'll talk about this later. I'll call the station house and talk to somebody I know there." A beat. "All right?" Franklin relaxed. "Yes sir." He walked over to the truck and turned over its engine. And, just before he put the truck into gear, he glanced (and thereby memorized) the car, its plates, its make, and especially its owner. Several hours later, the owner of that car lay in his own bed, guarded as always. His dream broken by a fly that tried to land on his nose, he groggily tried to swat it away. He snapped instantly awake when his hand felt it had been stepped on by an elephant. His eyes opened wide to the sight of a bare- chested giant crouching by his bed, a bald head shining in the moonlight from an open window. "Good evening" the giant purred. His own fingers clamped against the drug dealer's fist like a vise, the man swung his feet across and down, lying down on the bed on top. Feeling the heavy bed sag under his weight, the dealer felt as if three men were climbing into the bed with him. Eyes adjusting to the light, he could see a tiny sliver of metal against a chest as bare and hard as a shield. "You recognize me?" Franklin asked? Of course the doper had; the bodybuilder he had seen lingering around his new location today. He kept his mouth shut, and with his other hand, began to slowly reach behind his pillow. "Maybe I was wrong about what you were doing today" the voice continued. "Maybe you were trying to find a church. But don't worry, If you were trying to find the good lord this afternoon, right now, my friend, you are so close to the good lord you can smell what he had for breakfast." The doper's fingers started to close under the pillow on where he kept his gun; his fingers closed on air. His eyes opened wide, and the giant revealed in his other hand, the Army issue .45 which he had meant to use on the bastard. "Is this a registered handgun?" The giant's voice was still cool, his grip on the doper's fingers tight but not painful. In his other hand the fingers were wrapped around the pistol, its clip pulled. Holding the gun a few inches from the pusher's nose, the hand squeezed around the gun. Muscles ran from the thick pad of his wrist, across the pencil-sized tendons of his forearms up his 28-inch arms into shoulders broader than the door. The revolver's heavy metal crackled and crushed under coal-dark and coal-hard fingers, and the metal vanished into the man's closed fist. Opening his fist, the doper saw his gun, now a softball- shaped clump of steel. "Not anymore." Franklin took the lump of gun and gently tucked it down the dealer's boxers where it lay on top of his cock, now limp with fear. "Now, I respect a man who seeks spiritual guidance." The giant's fingers casually reached up to scratch the doper's hair. "And I am willing to guide you towards that worthy goal." The fingers gently wrapping across the skull, he leaned closer. "Do you eat omelets?" The dealer thought, what the hell? But he still said nothing. A flash later, the fingers clamped over his skull with pain flaring across his scalp. "My friend, you saw how much trouble I had with your gun, maybe you should answer my question. Do you eat omelets?" "No" in a whisper. His first words. "Well now," said Franklin, I think that your spiritual search is well under way. I think that you should enter that church you were parked outside today, and I think you should do it every Sunday. I also think" the giant purred, "that the Sunday you don't, I will visit you with a reminder. "And the second time you miss," the fingers now massaged the dealer's skull, "I will educate you on how that egg feels on its way to being an omelet. Do you understand?" The metal of his crushed gun cool against his cock, the dealer nodded slowly, the heavy fingers nodding with him.