Just Scott had become Just Scott at the tender age of two. His mother was a hippie who believed her child’s essence would declare itself in due time, which it did after a particularly difficult session of potty training. Just Scott knew in theory that there were other Scotts out there, but unlike his unlucky peers named John and Tim, he had never needed to append an Initial or an –ie to differentiate himself.
Just Scott arose that morning as he had any other morning, pleasured himself, ate a single slice of toast with an egg, and discovered that he was setting trail for SFH3 that night.
“Hand Pump is crazy to be here after his head injury,” said Do Her Well.
“Yes, he certainly is,” replied Sir Menage A Lot.
“Then why is he allowed to keep bringing the beer?”
“All he has to do is ask for someone else to do it.”
“But he won’t ask,” retorted Do Her Well. “He’s crazy!”
Titty Boo Boo
Titty Boo Boo had fallen in love with Hand Pump the moment he saw him. Titty Boo Boo was nursing his hangover that had kept him from work for two months. The doctors were puzzled. If Titty Boo Boo’s hangover got better, then he could go to work. If it got worse, then he would be admitted it to the hospital for treatment. As it was, they would ask him about the pain, tsk impatiently when they told him it was the same, then hand him another note.
Truth be told Titty Boo Boo’s hangover had disappeared weeks ago, but he had everything he needed at the hash, and here no one was trying to kill him.
Hand Pump closed the van doors and drove away.
It takes skill to follow trail. There are so many routes through the city, so many hidden stairs, tiny alleyways, paths full of shiggy that only someone who is paying attention could sort them all out. The shortest path to the beer depends upon a keen mind, a cunning instinct, and an excellent sense of direction.
“Drink check near!” shouted Pubic Perm.
The pack paused, stared at the very clear letters D. G. K., and followed him to the nearest liquor store.
“Birthdays are a bitch,” groused Just Megan.
“I know what you mean,” replied Roman Showers. “After twenty-one, it’s all downhill.” She popped a chocolate covered strawberry in her mouth.
“Each year the hangovers get worse.”
“So does the regret the morning after.”
“And the realization that you’re just avoiding the meaninglessness of your existence.”
“Each year is just one step closer to the grave.”
“So maybe just five bars this year?”
Sometimes Just Rufus held the ball under his left paw. Sometimes under his right. When Just Rufus was particularly bored, he would hold the ball under both paws. Some men asked about his balls the other day. Just Leah had told them that he had none, which confused Just Rufus, so much so that he located all of his balls one by one until he was satisfied that they were all there. They were.
Just Brogan & Abbah
Just Brogan and Abbah were not really lovers, but it was easier that way. There were whores in Sweden who swooned at the sight of Abbah’s long luxurious locks (and then looked upwards into his eyes and swooned again). He had been forced to flee the country to avoid the marriage proposals which had piled up at his mother’s doorstep. It would take her another year to finish writing the responses.
Likewise, Just Brogan had moved to San Francisco to escape an arranged marriage—the prospective lady’s family had judged him worth ten head of cattle. Even in San Francisco, Just Brogan’s troubles persisted, though the offers were now missing the words “ten” and “cattle.” Just Brogan had taken to carrying a large stick around to beat the ladies away with. Sometimes the ladies would take the stick and bring it back later.
Just Brogan had met Abbah at Bay 2 Breakers, where they had promptly come to a gentleman’s agreement, moved in with each other, and declared each other domestic partners. They were blissfully happy together—just linking hands would turn the hordes of women away. Finally the chafing could have a chance to heal.
The pair turned in unison towards the kilted figure approaching them. They glanced at each other, sidled slightly closer, and presented their ringed fingers in obvious view.
Sir Menage a Lot grinned.
Rent Whore, some things aren’t to be taken lightly, so I’m using this space to say we’re glad to see you again.
Double Man Cum
Double Man Cum was buying Jello shots in North Beach for five dollars and selling them in SoMa for three at a profit.
“How is that a profit?” screeched Titty Boo Boo, aghast.
Double Man Cum shrugged. “Do you want a share?”
“No,” retorted Titty Boo Boo. “I want to know what you think you are doing?!?”
“I’m selling Jello Shots,” said Double Man Cum. He winked. From across the circle, someone threw him a condom.
“Oh,” said Titty Boo Boo. “Oooohhh.”
Ru Ru Rimmin
Just Wayne was not actually Asian. When people met his family, they thought he had been adopted, but his mother swore up and down that he had sprung from her womb. This resulted in Just Wayne having the talk about the birds and the bees at three (and then again at five, and then at seven, ten, twelve, thirteen, and the last time at twenty-two just to be absolutely clear). There was photographic evidence to support her version of events at all stages, and Just Wayne eventually had to accept for a fact that genetics are a bitch.
However, when not in the presence of his family, and apart from a brief stage as a Rastafarian at fourteen, Just Wayne allowed people to think whatever they wanted to.
So when the name “Ru Ru Rimmin” was suggested, he tried not to wince. The ties to his “favorite” sexual panda Lu Lu were all well and good. But the hash must never know his deepest, darkest secret. The secret that prevented him from ever donning a pair of Lulu Lemon pants.
And that was his…
“How many Just Scotts are haring with you?” asked Muff Daddy.
“One,” answered Primal Vagina.
“Are you sure? Because I thought I saw two.”
“Did you look closely?” asked Primal Vagina.
“No,” admitted Muff Daddy. “I didn’t.”
“It’s probably just the lighting,” explained Primal Vagina.
There was actually no Just Scott. Primal Vagina, having grown bored of setting trail, had taken to typing Just Scott on the hareline. She typed this with her left hand to avoid detection. When she grew bored even of that, she would type Scott Just instead.
“These Jello shots are still good.” She slurped down another one.
DeWalt the Thunder Pussy
“Doesn’t anyone care that there’s a dead man in the van?” inquired DeWalt the Thunder Pussy incredulously. “Is this some sort of a joke?”
DeWalt had been asking this question for two weeks now. Ice Box pushed him roughly to the side—he was blocking the keg—and filled her cup.
“Someone should tell Hand Pump,” DeWalt grumbled and wandered off towards the orange food.
Raspukin climbed out of the van and swigged the last of the beer.