Fragments Fiction

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Dave Fragments

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June 18, 2007

"I wore Jolene and Muffy Martin's homemade buckskins back in 2000. The cheapness of that costume embarrassed me. They used turkey feathers for the headdress and a bow and arrow from their little brother's toys. We couldn't get sponsors. All I could do was act dignified." Wyatt Schaeffer said, introducing himself to Chris Running Deer.

"I saw your videos. You made a good Indian," said Chris, trying to remain all sweetness and light.

"I'm glad that the district is finally changing mascots. Did I read your letter correctly? You want me to be the Indian Chief one more time?" Wyatt asked. Chris' hands shook at the image.

"No, not here you ain't. Some fool on the Board of Education wrote the letter and said that. I think they forgot the new gym is on the Reservation. You wanna be a white man dressed as an Indian surrounded by Indians?" Chris and Wyatt laughed.

"That would that make me, what, the first scalping in 150 years?" Chris wanted to swoon at the thought. He dared not.

"Me keep scalps in secret subbasement of teepee, next to wine cellar."

"Stocked with merlot, I hope. By the way, the letter said two mascots, who else is coming here?"

"Look behind you," Chris pointed.

"Elvis, is in the building," Jeb Dowler entered like an untamed lion, tearing his t-shirt off his six foot ten inches tall frame. His muscles oozed steroids and growth hormones. "I have brought my scintillating presence into your lives, once again. Bask in my glory," He grabbed Chris against his massive arms and chest.

"Why I'd bet my dirty jockstrap that's Jeb Dowler, the scourge of wrasslers everywhere," Chris gasped out the wrestler's tag line.

"I've been waiting five minutes for my big entrance. I never thought you two would finish yapping about the good old days. I'll have you two know, when I was mascot, I only wore a loincloth, moccasins and beaded headdress. It was mighty cold in the winter, but hell, I like showing bare skin. There are people that say that I was personally responsible for Principal Carlton's retirement and Coach Kressge's stroke." Jeb released him, letting him land with a thud.

"You're too modest. Principal Carlton retired because of a heart attack. And Coach Kressge's wife caught him in bed with the town trollop. He stroked out facing her shotgun." Chris wagged his finger at Jeb.

"It's great that people are nostalgic enough about my days as mascot to invite me out of mascot retirement. I'm guessing you're the new coach and not the senior class representative. I'm bringin' a message from Garcia; Heap big white man says, howdy, young Red-Skin."

"Jeb, my tribal name is Running-Deer. It's not a show name. Both my Mother and Father were full-blood Lakota Sioux. Please don't call me red-skin ever again." Chris bristled. So it's true, This man has more muscle on his body than any man on Earth and yet, he only has single, offbeat brain cell controlling his behavior, he thought.

"I'll bet as a young-un, you wore a hand-made loincloth and played with a bow and arrow too," Jeb said.

"That's not very funny Mister Dowler, I used to run around my yard with a bow and arrow my Father made for me."

"Tell me Jeb," Wyatt asked trying to change the subject. "Is it true that they didn't just retire your loincloth, they burnt it, ceremonially?" Wyatt pushed a fist against Jeb's shoulder. Jeb faked tears. His lip quivered.

"You guys burned it? I thought you'd bronze it and put it on display for all to see." His expression changed from a serious grimace to a goofy grin. "I deliberately made that loincloth so small that it hide nothing. I wanted to be as close to naked as I could get. Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' bare-chested or displaying my butt-cheeks, or, in my mind, being bare-ass nekkid," Jeb said.

"You had the brains, the moves and the muscle. It's a shame you couldn't play ball sports," Wyatt said.

"Muscles weren't my problem. The doctors never did restore movement to the fingers on my right hand after the accident," Jeb said.

"Accident?" Chris said.

"I can't use the fingers on my left hand. Watch my films sometimes. You'll see it."

"Uh OK. This school year, the School Board gave into pressure from the State Athletic Guild to get rid of the Indian Chief mascot. WE convinced them to let the students vote for a new mascot." He pointed to two boxes.

"You let high school students vote for a mascot?" Wyatt asked. He laughed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

"I took the entire Tribal Council dressed in full regalia to the Student Assembly. We intimidated the smart-alecks so they wouldn't vote for mascots like Total Douche, Petey Penis, Pink Pussycats, and the ever-lovable Purple Panjandrums. No one knew the results of the student referendum. Tonight's the unveiling, the debut, the inauguration-,"

"In simple words, we're exposing the mascots for the last game of the season. Get to it, Dude. Get to it."

"Yes, the last game of the season. So for the mascot, in a choice between a Blue Bandersnatch, Green Gecko, Golden Eagles or Scarlet Stallions, the students chose the Scarlet Stallions. They chose the Scarlet Stallions." Chris opened the boxes revealing scarlet-red mascot costumes with molded horse heads, muscled breastplates and torsos and foam padding in the thighs and arms. "I insisted that the mascot be athletic and not just a suit of fake fur."

"Ain't no one going to block these muscle stallions into a box canyon, eh Tonto?" Jeb ran his hands over the hard breastplate admiring the chiseled pecs and six-pack abdomen.

"Surely you didn't just call me Tonto, did you?" Chris dropped his costume. Wyatt reached over and wrapped an arm around the younger man's shoulders.

"Now Chris, you have to forgive the old geezer."

"Forgive?" Chris laughed.

"You calling me old? I'm going to be 32 next month." Jeb mugged. Chris started to say something but Wyatt interrupted him.

"Now, now, now let's stop the pissing match and put the new costumes on. You can massage your bruised ego after the game." Both Wyatt and Jeb snickered. The anger left Chris' face.

"You two set me up, didn't you?"

"And you snapped up the bait, like a good fish. Now go check the B-Ball team and the rest of the school. We'll be ready when you want the mascots," Jeb said. The costumes had leggings, a long undershirt, gloves, boots, the molded breastplate that would fit like a vest over the padded arms, and the helmet-like horse's head. Jeb checked the length of the costume against his height.

"I've heard of hard shelled costumes. These are really well made." Jeb stripped his clothes off revealing a skimpy black thong more befitting a male stripper than a wrestler. Wyatt giggled.

"It's the image, Dude, everybody expects a big, hulking wrestler to wear a sexy thong. I hate them. They scratch my ass and the leather ones get all gooey with ass-snot," Jeb said. Wyatt broke into laughter.

"Why does everyone laugh at that?" Jeb teased, pulling the leggings and adjusting the padding over his heavy thighs. Wyatt pulled off his clothes revealing a fine, youthful body – muscular and fat free. He wore one of the athletic team's red jockstraps. He started to pull on the leggings when Jeb stopped him.

"I think that you better remove that jockstrap. You'll be standing on the B-ball court doing the 'I-gotta-pee' squirming wiggle wishing you never wore a jockstrap." Jeb said.

"I never had that problem in the old gym. The old locker room had those four-foot high urinals with the drains in the floor. I just yanked the loincloth aside and let fly," Wyatt said.

"Yeah, easy with a loincloth," Jeb added. "Last year half the wrestlers got invited to the Orange Bowl. We staged five hours in advance with no port-a-potties. You can't imagine the desperation of the kids in those marching bands with their fancy new uniforms. They'd run behind bushes or wiz in trashcans. The worst were the tubas and drummers. Rather than set down their instruments they just peed down into their boots. Dozens of potted palms and odor eaters died that day."

"I never had the pleasure of a bowl game. We only marched locally." Wyatt slid his jockstrap down his legs revealing jumbo-sized, uncircumcised genitals worthy of a small horse.

"They should have called you Chief Stud-Stallion." Jeb smacked Wyatt's back.

"I hate being naked."

"Oho, you're a shy colt. Not ready to prance around like a stallion yet, are you?" Jeb said. Wyatt wrapped the flaps of the costume around his body and reached for the codpiece.

"I don't mind being a stallion. I just don't like the silly comments in locker rooms. I was born with this. At least these uniforms have ample modesty panels."

"With my huge muscles, most people assume that I'm hung like a horse and when they see the reality, they're disappointed. I'm hung like a stud chipmunk. I wonder what they'd do if they found out that my testicles are silicone implants."

"Silicone? Really?"

"My first professional match, the wrestler went goofy and jumped on my crotch four, maybe five or six times. Crushed the little buggers to jelly. When I woke, my agent told me that the surgeon implanted silicone replacements. Hell, with all the steroids and growth hormones I take to keep these muscles, my testicles would be raisins anyway. No big loss," Jeb said. The two men dressed in silence for several minutes – pulling on the padded leggings, the boots, the scarlet undershirt and the padded arms.

"You won medals in tumbling and gymnastics, as I recall. I'm strong enough to throw you in the air. That's our act, huh? Me muscle, you finesse," Jeb asked. He rearranged the padding on the inside of the horse head.

"I guess so. I hadn't thought this through that far, yet. This horse head is long and the neck is stiff. That could be a problem." Wyatt adjusted his horse head and slid it over his head.

"A few months ago they fused the bones just below my neck. I can't bend my shoulders forward. I'll tell you, I wish my neck was long enough to see out of the eyes of this mask." Jeb slid the mask over his head. The padding gripped the sides of his head and held the mask tight.

"I guess that would help. I want to see straight ahead in front when I run." Wyatt moved the fake head around trying to see the ground.

"Horses can't see straight in front of their heads. We have to get used to it. Fasten the head, would you," Jeb said. Wyatt closed the latches and then turned around and let Jeb seal his costume. The two men examined their costumes in the mirror. Both looked like giant musclemen with horse's heads. The scarlet fur reflected the light just like real fur. Wyatt stretched his arms and legs. He jumped high and kicked out sideways, landing in a muscle pose.

"The crowds like that move." The costume made his voice deeper, heavier.

"A horse shtick, stamp and snort." Jeb snorted and kicked the ground.

"You do it well." Wyatt tried to snort and whiney like a stallion. "I sound like a tenor. It would be fun to breathe smoke and fire out the nostrils. I'd settle for moving the lips and showing the teeth."

"There's a drinking tube, thankfully. I don't want to cope with apples and sugar cubes." Both men laughed. Jeb picked up a bottle of water from an ice chest and put it to the lips of the horse head's mouth. He sucked the water through a tube in the mask. They pranced around the locker room getting used to the costumes, making fun of being stallions.

"If I throw you up, can you somersault backwards? Jeb asked. Wyatt set a hoofed foot into JEb's hand and when Jeb lifted, he twisted back into a handstand. The padded costume moved with his body.

"I'll go higher and do a complete flip out on the court, to many lights in this ceiling. Can we grapple and pretend wrestle?" He took a wide stance and let the larger man grapple his body in a collegiate wrestling hold. They found that the extended head and neck of the stallions didn't interfere with their movements. The costumes clung tight and stayed in place as they rolled around the floor. Winded, both men sat on the floor, resting.

"Hey Jeb, I'm not sweating. With all this fur, I thought I'd be roasting in this costume."

"Same here. Whatever the material in the costume, it's cool, and it stretches, conforms too." He moved head from side to side and the costume head bent and twisted with his movements. Wyatt curled up and rolled backwards letting the equine snout press against his chest as he tumbled. He shook the equine head from side to side and snorted. Jeb imitated Wyatt, shaking his head and snorting.

"Remember the football drill of run and roll forward? That's almost the same as a forward roll in gymnastics," Wyatt took two steps and dove into the roll. He popped upright and flexed all his muscles. Jeb repeated the roll several times before he got the landing. The school bell rang.

"I guess we better dust ourselves off and get ready. Young coach Chris Big Chief Indian Stud should appear in a couple minutes," Wyatt said. He fished through the packing material and found two stiff-bristle brushes that fit the fake hooves on their gloves.

"I thought you liked him?"

"I do, but he's a little snobbish about his upbringing. He's too young to have pretensions about being Chief of Indian Nation." Wyatt took a brush and both men groomed the fake fur of each other's costumes.

"This feels too good. It's like a massage. Even through the padding, it's like a massage." Wyatt stretched his arms up and let Jeb brush his back. They watched each other in the mirror.

"This material really sticks tight and it feels like horsehair. The Federation ought to use it for next year's promotion. Battling Greeks and Centaurs might make a season." Jeb knelt near a bench and raised his arms giving Wyatt had an easier time grooming his shoulders and the black mane that hung halfway down his back.

"You admit planning wrestling?"

"Sure, every season is scripted. When I get back, we're going to write next year. It's all planned and staged. By the way, I just had a thought about these costumes. Why don't we have tails?" Jeb leaned back against the brush.

"I don't know. I think my butt and your butt look good enough without a tail," Wyatt joked.

"Well you see, I've always felt exposed back there. Pro wrestling didn't help. The promoters want blood and gore. They'd love it if the men wrestled naked. They dream of ratings fueled by two men ripping each other's balls off. Obviously, we wrestlers don't want that at all. No wrestler wants blood sport. Wrestling nearly naked in tight spandex is already brutal."

The public address system cracked and whined. At first, the announcer spoke meaningless junk into the microphone as he set up in the unseen control booth, then, he launched into an ungentlemanly description of his last date. "Someone ought to tell that kid about open microphones," Jeb and Wyatt listened to the treatise on bad dating habits and practiced horse-laughs.

They heard a gentle tapping the door, Coach Chris entered and stood amazed at the two mascots. Their voices resonated from the mouth of the masks.

"I can hear you neighing and whinnying like wild horses. What are you two laughing about?" Coach Chris studied his guest mascots intently.

"Your student is broadcasting." Wyatt said. His voice sounded strange coming out of the horses mouth.

"And if any of the girls in his class can hear him, he's going to be dating his palm for a long time." Jeb's laugh was more a neigh as the broadcast revealed a particularly juicy tidbit. Coach Chris picked up a walkie-talkie and punched a key. The mascots listened as the voice on the PA system answered, was told of his error, uttered an expletive into the open microphone and then cut his mic off. Coach Chris laughed with the two mascots, their hoofed feet clip-clopped on the floor as they walked around the locker room.

"You know guys, those costumes turned out better than I ever imagined. The kids made a platform on wheels with a curtain so we could unveil you two in the middle of the court."

"We worked out some shtick," Wyatt said. He took a run and jump at Jeb landing a somersault into the big man's arms.

"I'd throw him into the air, but the ceiling in here is too low. Out on the court, we'll be able to do lots of gymnastics like that." Jeb's voice had a lower but definitely horse-like neighing sound to it.

"And the costume doesn't slip?" Coach Chris asked.

"Nah, it's almost like a second skin. I can even tuck my horse head when I roll." Wyatt shook his horse head. He took a running step forward and tumbled. He rolled easily into a handstand and a flip. The only disadvantage was the dust.

"I'm impressed. I knew you guys were good." he turned to the door and then stopped and turned back. "Let's let the team and the crowd your identities. How about I introduce you at the end of game? Until then, why don't you make like horse-taurs and let them guess?" Both men agreed. Chris had more to ask of them.

"You know, if the team wins, it might be a good idea to stay in costume for the locker room celebration. Whatcha think about that?" Chris asked. Again, feeling good, both costumed men agreed. Coach Chris motioned them out of the locker room.

On the court, the team stared in amazement as the anthromorphic mascots, looking very much like muscular men with horses heads, put on a gymnastic show. Wyatt's ability to twist and turn was the perfect foil for Jeb's strength. Neither the Team nor the cheerleaders could guess their human personas. Wyatt and Jeb played their roles to the hilt. They didn't talk or open the costume. They drank through the horse's mouths. The basketball game was spectacular. The higher the team's score and the louder the cheers of the crowd, the better the two mascots performed. At the end of the game, the mascots carried the student MVP, a fine Indian lad, and the head cheerleader, a gorgeous blond, on their shoulders.

Back in the team locker room, the coach had champagne ready for the senior players and coaches, as they were legal to consume alcohol. He held the bottles to the mascot's horse-like mouths and made sure they drank it all. The team cheered them on. By the time the seniors hit the showers, they were well lubricated with alcohol. Amped up on the win, half-drunk and unable to release the uniform, Jeb and Wyatt played along and got wet. Both Wyatt and Jeb neighed softly and sensually as the players soaped their fur and toweled them dry. The seniors cheered the stallions into drinking more champagne. They played horsy-ride with the mascots. Jeb and Wyatt enjoyed doing the carousing. By the time they got the team out of the gym and off school grounds, it was past midnight. Coach Chris and the two mascots returned to the locker room.

Jeb and Wyatt slumped on adjacent benches - their horse-shaped heads sticking straight up, their legs on either side of the benches. Wyatt neighed softly, leaned backwards and fell asleep. Jeb sat up and handed a brush to Chris. Chris brushed and groomed his fur-covered body. Jeb made his muscles ripple under the grooming brush. He stood up and posed, flexing to look fierce.

"You ready?" Chris asked, standing behind Jeb. Jeb clomped once. Chris twisted a hidden seal on the back of the costume and stood back as Jeb's body stiffened and became immobile. Chris went over to the sleeping Wyatt.

"Wake up Dude, wake up," Chris lifted Wyatt's shoulders. Half-asleep and still drunk, Wyatt stood up and let Chris brush his fur. He hugged the young man in an attempt to stay up. Chris reached around to the back of the costume and started to turn the seal on the costume. Wyatt's body stiffened and stayed upright. Satisfied, Chris took the opportunity to groom Wyatt's fur and pose his arms and legs. He could feel Wyatt struggling in vain, motionlessness. He couldn't talk and he couldn't resist.

"We will call you Lightning Bolt That Came Before because you are like the pony I had as a young boy. You will grace the sports arena for all our athletic events. The process will take a day or two. They tell me that you'll be aware of your bodies changing into statues. Wyatt, what you did as mascot was to give false hope. You tried to be Indian but your caricature of a chief damaged the spirits of young men and boys. Didn't you ever wonder why no Indian supported you for four years? Didn't you wonder why the young braves tried so hard to beat you out as mascot?" Chris Running Deer said to Wyatt. He stared at the statue for a moment as if it could answer. When it didn't, he turned his attention to the larger statue of the pro wrestler.

"And you, we name you Spirit Guide, a modern name," Chris said. "You will stand at the entrance to the school to remind the students of the values we want to instill in them." He paused. "Jeb, I personally thank you for your sacrifice. I never expected the most outrageous former mascot would willingly accept this fate. Whatever, you think you did wrong, whatever offense you believe your years as mascot were to the Indian nation, the Council asked me to inform you of their gratitude for the way you stood up to Principal Carlton and Coach Kressge when they banned Indian men from sports. They tell me that you were responsible for changing that policy. They forbid me from asking you why you agreed becoming a totem. I can only thank you."

Chris Running Deer checked their poses and left the gym. Tomorrow, he would have the janitors place the new statues on permanent pedestals.

3800 words more or less

My Anthology

Ten Stories by Dave Fragments
*A hunting expedition on an alien world.
*An Alien serial murderer and a furry detective with fleas.
*Murder on a world with altered humans.
*Disturbing apocalyptic visions *Monstrous dystopian societies.
*A man on trial for betraying the human race to robots.
*Devils, demons and ghosts.
*Survivors of a plague war.
*Cyborgs trying to be human.
*Six friends in a strange sinkhole.
*The truth about a world drowning in rain, without sun, without hope.

Available at:
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Fragments is devoted to adult-themed transformation stories. In most of these stories, men are turned into statues, animals, mythological creatures, and other changes both physical and mental. In almost every story, the transformation involves sex and the situations are adult in nature. If that disturbs you, or you are underage -- please don't read these stories.