Run #501 Thirteen Against the Storm
Heeding the careless call of hare
Thumper to visit the wilds
of the East Bay, an intrepid band of Gypsies
assembled at the lovely Mel-O-Dee Lounge in El Cerrito for a blustery
evening that would not soon be forgotten. As a Force Nine gale raged
over the hills, No Hands was
heard to express satisfaction that perhaps he’d finally get a blow
from Mother Nature, a welcome respite from the usual with Samuel
Adams. At the mere mention of a
blow, Mr. Bonejangles began
tapping his feet in anticipation, and Elliott
started looking nervous.
Despite travel advisories from the
National Weather Service and the uncommon site of Likes to
Lick clinging for life to a
lamppost at a 90-degree angle, an intrepid foursome set out to r*n
the trail laid by the intrepid hare. Just John
was the first casualty, sucked into a storm drain by a freak gust of
wind and the vacuum created when Scarlett O’Hairy
inadvertently -- and oh! so innocently -- stretched her legs. Cupcake
lasted longer, but succumbed once he crested a peak and was fried by
lightning shooting out of McTaco’s
ass. Guess those brass balls the Marines installed aren’t just
ornamental. No Hands finally
emerged off trail, a shit-eating grin on his face, to announce that
it might not be nice to fool Mother Nature, but she really does
appreciate it if you diddle her a bit.
Meanwhile, the saner members of the
pack had enjoyed the incomparable hospitality of the Mel-O-Dee, where
beers are a pittance and Rhett Butthole
provides sexual pleasure for free -- though only for himself, of
course. Splat, annoyed
because the rain makes him stink like a wet Kodiak bear, expressed
his frustration by grinding shot glasses into dust with his meaty
bare hands. Awed by this display of power, Phone Sex
offered to show him how to grind something that would really do some
good, but Splat preferred to
howl at the elements. Only later did the source of his rage become
clear, as the handle of Scarlett’s
lost blue umbrella was finally located protruding from between
Splat’s butt cheeks.
In the absence of the Gypsies’
chief enablers Tongueless
and Fits In, the task of
procuring the Sacred Bucket
fell to Bigfoot, who
performed ably, providing a concoction neither salty, nor purple, yet
still highly alcoholic. The pack gathered round to breathe in the
fumes and to imbibe, and soon the tiny alcove where the pack
sheltered in this classy shopping district began to reek of
fellowship and good cheer. (Or perhaps that was simply the farts of
Enter the Gerbil, who was
quickly ejected and sent to wander the outer darkness, where he
showed the Furies how to really
make wind.)
Down-downs eventually commenced and
several Buckets full of grog
were consumed, with the only truly memorable feature being the
unusual sight of the hare standing time and again to give himself a
down-down. Alas, poor Thumper,
we hardly knew ye; by the time the last drop was drained he lay face
down in the gutter, the soft, gentle flow of the effluent streaming
out to the Bay lapping at his cheek.
Bereft of food and unwilling to
scavenge in the neighborhood, the pack set off for pizza in Berkeley,
where a seance commenced and the ghost of Scrotum
was pelted with rocks and garbage. Much satisfied, the pack retired
to their respective quarters, to dream of wind, and rain, and the day
when Thumper’s pact with
Satan will finally expire. On out.