Snake -- slowly working his way to Canada -- spent this week-long stretch of abnormally warm weather playing games along Interstate 81 North (just south of Watertown). His modified Road King growled through a landscape that was just forgetting the effects of winter, just shifting into full-gear spring. It was the season in which plants grew in abandon, and Snake was taking full advantage of the moment.

His game went like this:

He'd find a group of these Harley wanna-be's cruising along the interstate -- almost always dressed in iron-creased jeans, boots, and some kind of H/D t-shirt (sometimes rock&roll concert tees) -- a few leather vests, the more courageous in chaps. He could smell the type -- they rode erect, spines straight and rigid, never at ease with the power they were controlling, never displaying the relaxed confidence of a true biker. (Of someone like Snake.)

They'd be riding in formation in the right lane -- their pecking order established by whatever ritual these types go through -- when Snake would pull up from behind them and slowly pass them on the left, until he was even with the leader of the pack, allowing every man to get a good look at him, at his enormous, exposed triceps.

(Now, to adequately understand Snake's size, the reader may want to quickly visit the Harley-Davidson web site and take a look at the Road King, a cruiser bike. Look at the size of it. Really look at it. Now, imagine the size of the man it would take to make that bike look small. How big would he have to be? Well-over six-feet, to have the leg clearance, right? What kind of weight would he have to carry to make a thick, dense cruising bike like the Harley Road King look almost too small to support him -- three-hundred, three-hundred twenty-five pounds? Picture musculature with almost no bodyfat, flawless skin, encased in a pair of leather pants and vest, a wrist-cuff on one arm, and a biceps-band on the other, a black bandanna (decorated with little skulls) covering his head, and a thick goatee on his chin. THAT was Snake -- NOT pro-wrestling's "Undertaker," though guys had made the comparison before. They DID look similar, except Snake was a lot bigger.)

He'd ride even with these "bikers" -- his attitude would add the quotes -- and they'd usually make some kind of welcoming gesture, small waves and what-not -- some men believed that by simply OWNING a Harley, they were automatically in some fraternity. They wouldn't be able to see Snake's eyes behind his sunglasses, so they couldn't read him exactly, but he'd usually nod slightly toward the leader, to make them think they WERE in some special club. (They would be soon enough, a TRUE fraternity.)

He'd roar his beast forward a bit, until he took the mantle of head, and he'd lead them to one of many un-manned rest stops along the highway. Of course they'd pull in -- they'd follow him anywhere. A three-hundred pound bodybuilder on a modified Road King would peak the interest of ANY forty-to-sixty year-old in mid-life crisis.

In Upstate New York, rest areas are little more than their name describes. Sometimes, there's not even a toilet, although there was at this particular stop. Of the three rest areas that Snake frequented along this stretch of highway, it was the only one that did. Not that it mattered, but it did give him an easy excuse to step away from them for a moment -- though at the other places, he'd say he was gonna go "shoot the bark off a tree." (That would always get a laugh.)

He'd lead them to the back, park them as far away from the road as possible, and shut off his bike. There's not a man alive who doesn't have a partial rod -- a chubby at least -- when he gets off his motorcycle, and Snake was no exception. And the thing living in Snake's balls, the alien creature that gave Snake his size and physical prowess, the Symbiont LOVED the stimulating vibration of riding. When Snake got off his bike at rest stops, his cock would be HEAVY with pleasure -- and in his tight leather pants, painfully obvious.

By reading the back of his vest, they already knew his name -- (The elaborate stitching had been done by an artist/ craftsman who did art-work for a lot of the Harley "community." On his vest, the word "Snake" with a beautifully rendered golden cobra, risen from its own coils, neck flared, ready to attack. It was a multi-colored, complex work, artfully done. Snake had been so impressed, he'd given the guy a Symbiont of his own for payment.) -- they would introduce themselves to him and tell him their names, but he'd never remember them. All that mattered was that they knew HIM.

He was Snake, and he'd lead them to the forbidden fruit.

He'd excuse himself immediately -- to go shoot the bark off a tree, remember? -- because, as part of his game, he needed to give them a moment alone, to react to him while he wasn't there -- to admire his bike -- and to come to a collective decision about how to treat him.

Of course, what he really needed to do was blow a load. There was little use denying the thrill the Symbiont got from riding the motorcycle, and Snake had to fight to keep from spontaneously orgasming in front of his prey. If he seemed impatient, or even gruff -- while he tried to be friendly -- that would be why. So, he'd excuse himself, go to the men's -- or find himself a barky target -- and find some release. By the time he'd get back, things would be in full swing.

Often, they'd find the flowers themselves. Snake had led them to the right spot, after all -- usually the furthest away from the highway -- and had gone to great trouble to seed the area. If they hadn't discovered his grove by the time he'd gotten back to the group, he'd point them out (often with the obvious "What the hell kind of flowers are those?").

Someone from the gang would be sent to investigate -- usually the guy riding last -- and before long, pollen would be all over his face. One by one the rest of them would end up the same way, until Snake stood there watching a field full of frolicking middle-aged men, frisky and flighty. When they'd invite him to join them, he'd say, "No need, gentlemen. We've already sniffed a flower. We've already tasted that pollen." Sometimes, he'd add a flex for emphasis.

And that would get them, that realization. If they hadn't had their second hit by then, Snake's words would motivated it. And before long, these clunky, out-of-shape motorcycle clubs would become true muscle gangs -- the kind of guys Snake would be proud to ride with. Their muscle would bloat and swell, challenging their chaps or their pressed jeans -- usually winning -- their soft guts and flabby chins would harden and sharpen. Their bald heads and bushy gray moustaches would become sexy instead of sorrowful.

Yes, they'd be a completely different group of guys upon their exit back to the road. A gang of mature muscle mammoths, a roving fantasy of muscle-daddies cruising the highways for man-flesh. Snake loved the effect. From standing there at their immediate completion, when the Symbionts would first take hold and the group of them orgasmed together -- having other Symbionts near only added to the power of their climaxes (Snake's included), bringing it to another level -- to the first time they'd ride their bikes after the transformation, heavy with muscle, straining their shock-obsorbers with their masculinity, it was all great for Snake.

He would always see the same look of bliss on their faces, especially when their Symbionts experienced the joys of riding, the heavy vibration of the engine between their legs for the first time. If there had been any doubt about their acceptance of the Symbiosis, the initial orgasm on the motorcycle would cure it. They'd become what Snake was: a roaming re-populator -- a wild card.

He played this way for well over a week, bringing thirty or forty guys into the fold - he'd lost track - then sending them on their way. That doesn't even count the guys who'd found the rest-stop flowers accidentally, pulling over for a quick nap as they traveled the highways of Upstate New York, only to find a different destiny waiting for them at the roadside.

Eventually, Snake continued on his way, following the St. Lawrence River along old route 11, working his way to Canada.

He hoped the others were having as much success as him.

**********************************

"Well, Sheriff Lane, it seems reports of your growth aren't greatly exaggerated."

The Sheriff smiled and inadvertently flexed his massive pecs, causing them to bounce beneath his skin-tight uniform. "Depends on what you've heard, Mayor," he said, his voice deeper than the Mayor remembered. "Some of the stories put us at ten feet tall and eight-hundred pounds - truth is, still six-one, and only weigh three-fifty. Hate to tell you what we've heard about our genitals." He chuckled lightly, stopping only when he'd realized the Mayor hadn't joined in.

"What HAS happened to you, Sheriff?" The Mayor said, sitting on the edge of his desk, motioning for the Sheriff to take the chair before it. "I've always known you to be a big man, but this..."

"Incredible, isn't it?" the Sheriff asked. "And to think it was an accident." He sat, the muscles of his legs so large that he had to sit with them wide open. It was impossible for the Mayor to ignore the size of the Sheriff's package, his obscene penis. It was almost like the Sheriff wanted it that way - the uniform barely held him.

"An accident?"

The Sheriff smiled - a very handsome man - had the Mayor always remembered him as handsome? - and said, "I was in the right place at the right time."

"Well, that's what I want to hear about, Sheriff. In order to decide if you're still able to do your job effectively, I want to know all about this right place/ right time."

That smirk again, that cocky, confident smirk. Whatever had happened to the Sheriff, it didn't seem to trouble him - he seemed almost anxious to talk about it. Or maybe he just liked the attention. "My pleasure, Sheriff," he said, adjusting his big balls, making himself more comfortable. "Of course, it'd be just as easy to show you."

"Show me? What do you mean?"

The Sheriff spoke into his radio. "Deputy," he asked, not waiting for confirmation before he continued, "what's your twenty?"

The radio crackled with the light tenor of the Deputy. "Just finishing up on Main Street, Sir. What do you need?"

"Meet me at the Mayor's office as quick as you can," he said, looking at the Mayor as he spoke. "And bring a package."

"10-4."

Then, the moment of silence as the Sheriff and the Mayor studied each other, the awkward time when neither of them really knew what to say, the Sheriff a study of arrogance and power - it radiated from him, making him impossible to ignore - the Mayor, a mixture of confusion, curiosity, suspicion, and somewhat lusty intrigue. On the one hand, whatever had happened to the Sheriff, was that really such a horrible fate? Didn't every man secretly dream of a sense of masculinity so out-of-control? On the other, what would a transformation like that do to a your mind?

The atmosphere thickened as they waited silently for the arrival of the Deputy.

In Indiana, the boys split up. Everybody had their own agenda, and the Symbionts were only too happy to manifest the boy's long-held, secret fantasies, for didn't they usually end with pollination? A couple of these moments are worth looking at, albeit briefly, for there's still the major branch of the plot to address.

First at Dan Wall and Chuckie, the tallest and the shortest of the group, as they headed toward the little ramshackle ranch house belonging to Dan's older brother, Don. (It doesn't end there, gentle reader! The brothers Dan and Don came from their humorless father, Dean. No wonder their mother died so young, trying to keep all those vowels straight.) Don, recently divorced, lived there alone, if one could call his spiral of self-abuse living.

Only three years older than Dan, he'd quit high school at seventeen to enlist in the army, only to be dishonorably discharged within a year for selling narcotics. From there, it was a small step toward petty crime and destruction -- Don's only point of pride was that he'd kept out of jail for over three years.

He was home smoking some sweet stash when the boys rapped on his door. "Yo!" he called, as he blew out the smoke from the hit, a slight cough that he tried to contain unsuccessfully.

When they stepped through the door, and he saw what had happened to them, Don questioned his buzz. "What the fuck have I been smokin'?" he thought. One of them looked like his little brother, although there was almost nothing little about him now. And that other one, the short one, that was definitely his brother's buddy, Chuckie - it was Chuckie's face -- only Chuckie after about two-hundred pounds of additional muscle.

"What the fuck's goin' on?" he asked, setting the bong on the floor.

Danny walked up to him. "Got somethin' to show you, bro," he said, and held out a plant in his hands. He'd unearthed it, not picked it - it still had it's root structure, the odd-looking bulb that sprouted the flower - a flower that looked remarkably like a penis.

But before Don could get out, "What the fuck is that?" the plant shot it's wad in his face.

A few minutes after that, no other drug mattered.

All Joe Leonardi had been thinking about as his day had become worse and worse was how good that first martini was going to taste. The renovations on his house - the EXPENSES - were finally complete, and Joe looked forward to nothing more than relaxing in the new sun-room as he sipped his evening drink. Even better that his wife was away at that ridiculous spiritual workshop, dancing naked in the woods and worshipping plants, or whatever those weirdo women did - he'd be able to watch some pornography and beat off in peace.

How he looked forward to that during his headache-ridden day.

He didn't announce himself as he came in the door as he usually did - he hadn't seen Tony's car in the garage - so he caught his son by surprise in the sun-room.

Well, it was hard to say which of the two of them were more surprised, father or son. Imagine coming into your new sun-room - your EXPENSIVE new sun-room - ablaze with the late afternoon light, only to see your son, barely eighteen, so swollen with muscle as to dwarf the men they call professional bodybuilders, his youthful face, suddenly mature and angled, the obscene size of his body.

And if that weren't enough, suppose you came upon this scene. Suppose he'd torn out all of the houseplants that your wife had painstakingly - and expensively - placed around the room, leaving only the dirt in the pots. (He'd stacked all the unearthed houseplants in a pile by the door.)

Now imagine that your muscle-freak son, who'd torn all the houseplants out of your new sun-room, was masturbating over the empty pots, stroking his impossibly long penis as his cum dripped into the dirt.

Who was more surprised, father or son?

The son shrugged, heaving his heavy shoulders up and dropping them quickly. "It's a great room for growing things," he said, his voice deeper and richer. Taking his time, he tucked his abundant cock back into his shorts.

"Tony, what's happened to you?"

"Relax," said Tony, reaching out and taking his father's arm, holding him by the biceps. "We're gonna show you."

It wasn't long before the room was full of flowers, produced by both of them.

So it spread. Man to man, father to son, brother to brother, like a weed. Unchecked, it quickly took control of the garden, choking out the competition, adapting to its circumstance. New shafts sprouted often and in unexpected places. It couldn't be controlled.

Of course, with OUR short attention spans, it would be easy to be distracted by all this new growth and we might forget to look in the thick of the trunk, right? But don't worry. This narrative will leave no leaf unturned, no root-system forgotten - this story will be tended with the care of the best horticulturist.

So, how can we follow so many divergent branches at the same time? How many sub-plots will we watch grow out-of-control before we decide to prune? How can we group them together in one big storied-bouquet?

Easy. Watch this:

That night, as Tony Leonardi slept wrapped in the even more mind-blowing arms of his father, his father's cock nestled between the halves of his ass, as Danny and Donny Wall, nearly identical now in body, lay exhausted on the living room floor from the marathon of fucking, as the Mayor lightly snoozed in his creaking leather desk-chair as the Sheriff's Deputy continued to give him head, as ordered by their now mutual Master, Sheriff Lane, that night, they all had the same dream.

Farmland. Acres and acres of tilled and turned-earth. The flat expanse suggested the mid-west, probably Nebraska or Kansas. In a dream-state, it was hard to be sure. Most of them would wake to say Kansas, though they wouldn't know why. The dream presented only a feeling.

The earth needed sowing - it called for their seed. They knew/ felt that, too.

And then, HE was there, a silhouette against the sky, blocking the sun. There were few details, other than an overwhelming sense of power. He was an older man, with powerful eyes, bigger, taller, more muscular than anything imaginable. He was greater than any of them, even if He couldn't be seen clearly, even if He were only a shadow, a promise.

When He spoke, the timbre of His voice was unable to be ignored, hypnotic, deep and passionate. "You're needed," He said, motioning one huge arm to the earth. "Your seed is needed. Come to us."

And then the sudden close-up of His eyes, His powerful, fiery eyes.

"Come!"

And then the shared orgasm - all of them, all over the United States (and by the location of Snake's fitful sleep, Canada, too), they all shot at once. They all woke with the same sense of purpose.

They had to go to Him.

And He was in Kansas. •