Run #437 Agony of De
Heat
“Drugs!
Where are the drugs?”
No, the words were not those of King
Rongjon in
extremis, bemoaning the absence of an appropriately mind-altering
substance. Nor was it the plaintive wail of Chickless
Boner as the DEA
strike team filed out of his house. Rather, it was the Gypsies’
own broken Bitch
in Heat, fresh
from an untimely encounter with a chain link fence, the force of
gravity and a hard concrete sidewalk, who lay doubled up in the dust
at Olympia and Clarendon, demanding pharmacological relief.
Our
Bitch,
our virgin Hare, had just returned from an exhausting afternoon spent
running in incoherent circles, tossing flour, and recycling his
Shakespearean beer joke. For those of you who missed it: “A man
walks into a tavern and orders an ale. He makes a face and says,
`That beer was so bad it gave me the plague!’ ” Imagine the Joke
repeated ten times. Fifty times. One hundred times. Now picture the
features of co-Hare Scarlett
O’Hairy,
present not only at the birth of the Joke and its fine-tuning during
a lengthy drive to and from Norcal the previous weekend, but also
throughout the afternoon in question as its unmistakeably pungeant
odor wafted again and again over Twin Peaks. Rumors that the fair
Miss Scarlett
asked Naked
Hasher to
arrange an “accident” for her co-Hare remain unconfirmed at this
time.
Flush
with amusement at his witticisms, elated at his virgin lay and
steadied by an uncounted number of beers, our Bitch
took a quick break to relieve himself and returned to the gathering
pack, planning to vault effortlessly over the low fence that
separated him from the piss. But faster than you could say Handjob
for Humanity,
events went awry. A crunching noise reverberated through the air, a
familiar sound to anyone who has watched Fucking
Pesto Chicken
unsuccessfully lunge for the nearest female within reach. And there
lay our busted-up Bitch
in shock, his tibia and fibula having decided, literally, to make a
break for it.
Once
the pack’s laughter subsided a few slightly quicker-witted
half-minds sprang into action. Comes
Quickly, the
fairer half of a diplomatic mercy mission from the Wine and Chowder
Society, made the sacrifice of sprinting an entire 15 yards to the
nearest fire station. Sirens blared, claxons clanged, and soon three
engines and an ambulance were at hand, enough even to put out the
tiny but long-burning fire in Shithead’s
shorts. The aforementioned drugs were slow in coming, but not so Dick
Chick, who
pushed in so close to the burly firemen in tight little shorts you’d
have thought frottage was coming back into style. Bitch
in Heat, no
stranger to men in tights himself, was sadly unable to appreciate
their efforts to strap him down and have their way with him. Soon he
lapsed into a semi-coma, muttering something about Nutless
Sac and a bottle
of Wesson oil, and was quickly borne away.
The
fallen Hasher safely packed off to hospital, the Gypsies
prepared for
their evening festivities. Comes
Quickly was
brought forward to read the Sacred
Missal, and true
to her origins managed to find the only page without any sex on it,
one quickly donated to the Hash Gods. Scarlett
O’Hairy woke
the pack from its slumber and set it off uphill toward Mt. Sutro.
Having wound across two reservoirs, trail led across the cleavage of
the Twin Peaks themselves, where Open
Wide was heard
to declare that she, too, would flash her tits at the city -- if she
were five miles tall. Likes
to Lick, doing
the math, wilted as he realized OW
would also be three quarters of a mile deep and more likely to
require the ministrations of Coit Tower than his own lowly organ.
Bigfoot,
the very model of hospitality, offered to guide Lick’s
cousin Just Chris
across the
shortcuts in order to make the beer check before it decamped. But the
two were quickly lost in contemplation of the decorative garbage
piles strewn hither and yon beyond Laguna Honda, and found themselves
forced to forage for remaining drops in bottles abandoned by long-ago
winos.
Back
at the start, the Sacred Bucket was mixed by the sacrilegious hands
of Enter the
Gerbil, yielding
a salty purple vodka concoction dubbed Grapehounds and widely shunned
until the power of the Circle
compelled Hashers to slosh the stuff back. D’Anglin
Anglin and Dick
Chick amused
themselves by chalk-tracing each other’s outline on the sidewalk
where Bitch in
Heat had once
lain, leading to embarrassment and hurt feelings all around after
Just Kim
mistook the drawing of D’Anglin’s
tail for something more practical. Never fear, said Twinkle
Dick, anxious to
impress the fair maiden with his own sparkly member. Her giggles at
the sight echoed for hours.
Wine and Chowder Grand Masturbator
Wankee Doodle,
slumming with the Gypsy
commoners,
presented his credentials to the King
in absentia.
Their authenticity was quickly confirmed as he repeatedly slung his
down-downs behind him, where fortunately Wanker’s
Island stood
ready to redeem them. Except, that is, the one time Just
John,
resplendent in his silvery new shoes, shouldered Wanker’s
aside to catch
the errant beverage in his footware for his own enjoyment. Eventually
tiring of such delights and wary that the firemen might return a
second time in anger, the pack dispersed into the night, reforming
later at the Miraloma Club for cold beer, hot pizza and plenty of
second-hand smoke. On on.