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.