Cassius

Anyone large and hairy was sent down here to the basement, where there was a boiler, rows of folded chairs and tables, and the small cot, TV and hot plate that constituted Cassius’s home.
He was there folding his laundry, and he hadn’t heard Buck come down the stairs. The TV was on, an old black and white movie playing with the volume very high. Cassius had a sleeveless tee on, the old eighties-style muscle shirt with the low-cut front and sides, but Cassius had obviously gotten the shirt back in the 80s when his broad chest filled it out. He’d withered a bit since then, and now the shirt was loose and draped over his wrinkled but powerful frame. He moved with a little rhythm, not musical, more like he was dodging and weaving in the boxing ring again, but slowly and as he folded his clothes.
Physically speaking, Cassius was actually only fifteen years older than Buck — he was barely fifty — he just came across as older. He had a nice thick ass, Buck noticed, beneath his old faded basketball shorts. He hoped it wasn’t too wrinkly.

From Buck the Ex-Con