Run #466 Blown Away

’Twas a night not fit for man nor beast, which made it perfect for the Gypsies just emerging from their undisclosed locations ready to test their mettle against the elements. Thumper had taken pains to raise high expectations for his return to Gypsies haring. For days, the abusive e-mail messages had flooded cyberspace, promising dunes, dizzying heights, brushes with death and the opportunity to be smothered to death by Fucking Pesto Chicken’s genitalia. Not to mention, of course, the giant squid, whose thrashing tentacles and succulent sucker pads had since taken starring roles in the fantasy lives of Hashers like Rhett Butthole and Bitches Bitch.

The squid, sadly, was nowhere to be seen. Dunes, however, there were in abundance as the pack assembled at a godforsaken spit of land south of Fort Funston, one so desolate that Scarlett O’Hairy’s love life seemed right at home. Then there were the hills, and rain, and the sound of the crash of surf somewhere off in the darkness. Oh, yes, and the wind, which whipped up an occasional sandblast painful enough to raise a red rash on Glory Hole’s exposed legs, making a nice counterpoint to the other festering sores he was trying desperately to hide. Mostly unsuccessfully, that is, since he’d apparently started taking sartorial tips from Naked Hasher.

Huddled together like the post-apocalyptic mutants they closely resembled, the Gypsies sought warmth in the shelter of Pesto’s SUV, embracing companionship and song -- not to mention one another. Beats Me and Latex Dreams squealed as No Hands demonstrated the best way to cop a feel without incriminating oneself -- namely by blaming that hot, lapping tongue on Samuel Adams. Even Tits for Hire swallowed her pride long enough to wrap herself around LCB’s scrawny frame, draining it of heat even as his temperature started to rise.

Stunned by the elements, thoughts of religion were abandoned and the pack was off across the dunes. An especially violent gust of wind struck Phone Sex as she crested a ridge; she achieved terminal velocity in a flash and plummeted straight into D’Anglin Anglin, sparing him and the pack his usual one-way sprint into oblivion. Between the cold, the dark and the sand flying about, the Six Million Won Man had a sudden flashback to Omaha Beach and curled into the fetal position, where even the sudden attentions of Bite Size couldn’t rouse him. Drill Me herself was able to revive the fallen hasher with her own amphibious assault, and after a refreshing pause Six was off and away.

Spanky, whose flashlight had given up the ghost because Almond Joy had siphoned off the juice that morning to keep his Anal Intruder humming, found herself forced to follow Enter the Gerbil but lost the wily rodent as he skittered away through the underbrush in search of AJ and his AI. As trail led the pack from the teeth of one tempest to another, Likes to Lick bounded forward into the surf, lured by what he took for the siren’s call of the giant squid. Sadly, it was only echoes from latecomer Boulder Houlder, calling out in hopes of finding fallen Hashers so she could get her piece while the getting was good.

Meanwhile, the raging elements gave even Thumper second thoughts about the final stretch of trail, a short piece of work called Just Hang By Your Testicles Bluff, so he doubled back to warn off the pack. Just Vincent didn’t get the message, and thinking he had snared the hare grabbed what remained of the flour and ran forward. The bluff, however, had other ideas, and a dangle or two later Vincent was the proud owner of a vastly expanded scrotal sac, which functioned as a crude sail at the next gust of wind.

Back at the start, Bigfoot and Fits In had foregone the pleasures of trail for the pleasures of curling up with a good beer and Nutless Sac, whose truck provided a very safe haven indeed. Puss Sucker, visiting from Seattle, scoffed at the pansy elements of Northern California and plunged ahead until Just Vincent swept by, smothering the unfortunate Hasher in his now immense folds of skin. Not exactly his genitals, mind you, but close enough. Open Wide stumbled in off trail hours late, having had no testicles to hang by but for the treasured collection she wears around her neck.

Reassembled at the nearby Boat House, the pack gathered for a quick round of down-downs. Pied Piper, celebrating his recent release from lockup, promised never again to bugger anyone uglier or recognizably less human than himself, fortunately keeping his options wide open. Virgin Just Christine was feted for her first appearance, but disappointed the crowd by opting to sing the choral part to Beethoven’s Ninth rather than unbundle her intimate parts. As the elements continued to working their wiles and with exposed flesh starting to turn blue, the pack soon fled for warmth, beer, companionship and beer in the Boat House. Did I mention beer? On on.