Run #498 Bigfoot the Bartender

5150 dusted off his haring suit and laid yet another big one on the paranoid population of San Francisco. His call to saddle up and wreak havoc was answered by the usual mélange of cut purses, rum pots, wharf rats. Striking fear in the populace of this fair city would be so much more fun if it wasn’t so damn easy. Okay, admittedly the sight of the likes of Fuck Me, Father careening down the street barely able to hang onto Fucking Shut Up is one that would conjure fear in all but the strongest but as to the rest…cum’on. So our hare called the pack to assemble in the parking lot for Latitude 42, a trendy eat and drinkery, south of Market, way south of Market. Our humble hash was graced by the presence of Mr. Postal himself, Fucking Pesto Chicken, making a rare sojourn out of the southwest. Umm, umm, how times have changed. FPC was in the city not to hash but for a, dare I utter the vile word, *ace and that wasn’t the only change. Our boy has gone from postal to pussy in one fell swoop. Where was the rage of yesteryear? Was it hidden beneath his Julius Caesar haircut? Has easy living in the artist colony in Santa Fe led our answer to Dr. Lecter into the closet? Wow, what a surprise when he was summoned to the lectern to provide the evening service from the Male Missal and refused to read. Well perhaps Bigfoot was right when she said that the parable of the cabana boy and the artist’s agent cut a tad to close to the bone (no pun intended). While cuming to terms with the new FPC the pack was on-on. Trail took the pack from the parking lot to the street where they were *un along the bay while enjoying the breeze off the bay wafting the favorite scent of San Francisco, eau de urine to their nostrils. It was enough to send Stiffy from hypertrophy to atrophy not that any of the women in Tokyo would mind. Trail led the hounds to Pac Bell Park where our hare had liberally distributed the trademark anthrax in a circle jerk around the Giants’ sandbox. The siren sound of the arriving hazmat team was music to the pack’s twisted half mind. Having once more brought the city to its knees with the simple of application of Betty Crocker’s best it was time to move on. Poor Tongueless what with being older than dirt his eyes aren’t what they used to be and making that crude racist remark to who he thought was Likes To Lick gave Open Wide the opportunity to recommend an oral surgeon who may be able to save what was left of his teeth. While Drill Me was busy keeping Bite Size from dining on some of the city’s more delectable homeless fauna Tits 4 Hire was keeping busy trying to keep Max from being dined on by the same fauna. Trail eventually took the pack along train tracks where urban detritus attracted the incredibly cheap Go Nad who was spotted making selections for redecorating his apartment, when last seen he and D’anglin Anglin were fighting over some of the choicer pieces. Scarlet O’Hairy, fresh from her sexual conquest of Alabama, was spotted practicing noblese oblige with a pair of San Francisco’s less fortunate, Just Doesn’t Get It and Mr. Bone Jangles. She just gives and gives and gives. Speaking of those less fortunate Naked Hasher was check sitting when one of SF’s homeless took note of his condition and offered him a shirt, shades of Go Nad he took it. All good things must cum to an end and our hare’s trail eventually led the pack back to the Sacred Bucket filled by Bigfoot. Fits In denies all responsibility for those who went blind and or impotent after drinking her concoction. Still giddy from her role as “Beer Bitch” in Goa Bigfoot tried to bring some of her experience back home. A drink composed of coconut liquor called Fenny and Sprite was her contribution. LCB who’d also been to Goa fainted at the scent. Whippet In and Whippet Out licked some spillage but the vet says they’ll live. Even I R Stupid wasn’t stupid enough to partake...but he was tempted. Not so Dickless Namehole who after three cups of the stuff will be living up to his name when he gets home. Usually quick to defend Bigfoot’s honor even Enter The Gerbil remained silent as King Rongjon administered down-downs with the noxious stuff and the bodies hit the pavement. Poor Shithead may never live down the sighting of him humping Napoleon Bonerdog’s leg. The sight left Thumper catatonic. Spanky and Almond Joy arriving late and seeing the carnage were barely stopped from calling 911 by Just John who pointed them towards the Bucket just before he collapsed. Phone Sex arrived late with Just Laura another of her civilian clubbing bimbo buds and surveying the scene just stepped over the bodies and headed off to Latitude 42 for a real drink. The few who survived made their way to Parkside to tell the story. Lordy, lordy keep that woman away from the Bucket. Cheers.