“No, No! If you don’t let me go, the pack will catch me!” Who’s Your Daddy rocked back and forth.




“Uh huh,” Dr. Lady Bird On My Johnson made a notation. “Would you like to tell me why that makes you so afraid?”




“We don’t have time for that, man,” Who’s Your Daddy got up and paced to the end of the room. “The Perfect Woman pops up out of nowhere. Nowhere! And have you ever heard Eat My Pussy coming up behind you? Have you?” He turned sharply, but a short gesture from Dr. Johnson kept Ru Ru Rimmin, standing guard, at bay. Ru Ru Rimmin relaxed, but his nipples remained erect.




“I tell you, there is nothing more terrifying than the moment you step off the cliff and decide you’ll do a little extra for an eagle, and you hear Dick Ass Mother Fucker scurrying mere seconds away. More terrifying than Liverdance and Kerry’s Cumcakes discussions about anal. More frightening than listening to Brown Eye give Do Her Well relationship advice.”




“Well, it’s my job to help you work past those fears,” Dr. Johnson said reassuringly. “Drs. Knightstalker and Blackout have traveled very far to study your case, and I can assure you all the best minds can be called in if necessary.




“That’s what I’m afraid of, I knew that Millimeter Peter would zig left at the base of Bernal, so I zagged right, and I knew that Bi-erectional wouldn’t hesitate to swing either way on Cortland so I stayed the course. But if Udder Moron could figure out all of my tricks, then you assholes, pardon my French, don’t stand a chance.”




“Chicken Bone Her,” Dr. Johnson called over the radio. “I believe we need your assistance.”




After a moment, Chicken Bone Her’s friendly face emerged along with a tray full of pills, closely followed by Cunty Butler with a Taser. “Look, cupcakes!” she said cheerfully. “They have Kahlua inside!”


“God dammit, I told you we don’t have time for that!” Who’s Your Daddy patted his sides. “Where’s my flour?”




“Mouth Down South set a guerilla bar check,” Chicken Bone Her explained gently. “He made the mark so plain even Cream Throat Willy could find it.”




“That’s crazy,” whispered Cunty Butler loudly. “SFH3 would never accept a guerilla bar check.”




“SHH!” Chicken Bone Her didn’t lose her grin. “Titty Boo Boo was so thoroughly confused by your first check he’s in Brisbane by now. Backside Banger is going to have to let him sleep on his couch or risk letting the neighbors learn about who he associates with. Three Fingers has been out for so long his kid’s already graduated from college. Your trail is taking the pack longer to solve than Just Get It Over With takes to finish a down down.”




“Wow,” said Who’s Your Daddy.




“Yeah, wow. It would take Cream Chugger five trails to sow the chaos you sowed in one. Just Adam and Just Rob could have gotten hash names, had kids, and had those kids given hash names by the time the pack would be able to find beer check. If Wee Wee had stayed at work instead of hashing, she could have published a Linnaean classification of stool by now. Gloryhole could have encircled the globe sixty-nine times, Bloqueen could have chugged just as many new artisanal beers, and Shaft might have gotten a new Strava record had he not opted to pursue your trail.”




“Aww, that’s so swe—”




“NOW TAKE YOUR DAMN CUPCAKE!” Chicken Bone Her finished.




“Okay,” Who’s Your Daddy complied. “Fuck Norris? Fuck Norris, what are you doing with that flour? No, don’t let Vagina Dentata take over my trail…”




“Okay, he’s out,” pronounced Chicken Bone Her.




“Dr. Knightstalker recommends a partial lobotomy,” Dr. Johnson informed them. “But Just Doesn’t Get It says he’ll complain to the medical board. Some nonsense about patient rights and autonomy.”




“I heard Cirque du So Lame and Mary Tyler Whore were running a back alley surgery above Toronado,” Wash This Asshole poked his head in the padded room.




“Excellent!” Chicken Bone Her said. “Have Dildo Baggins prepare Toronado’s special recovery suite, the one overseen by Good Shit Lollicock. I expect the patient will do just fine.”