The pack gathered on Monday as usual, a large group with four virgins in tow. Muff Daddy’s cries of “Six Dollars! Dues!” sounded through their intercoms, and everyone calibrated their antigrav devices to allow for a slight spring in their steps. The red rock of Corona Heights, one of Mars’ newly developed public parks, gleamed slightly in the light of the distant, setting sun.
“SHIT!” screamed DeWalt Thunderpussy, trying to force the controls on his Rent-a-Ship to cooperate. The small craft bounced several times in the dirt, causing a small cloud of dust to blow over the crowd. The atmosphere scrubbers in the group’s suits turned on simultaneously.
“He’s destroying the natural environment,” complained millimeter Peter.
“Then why on earth did you set the trail here?” asked Fuck Buddy. “Besides, I thought this was live?”
“You’re right,” responded the hare, easily distracted. He grabbed his three pounds of flour (don’t worry, that’s around ten pounds on Earth) and was gone.
The pack waited for a few minutes. “You know, I can still see him,” mused Cunty Butler. “There really isn’t a lot of scenery in these parts.”
“I’m sure it will be fine as long as we stay on trail,” said Dick Simmons. “Besides, the sun is setting. Soon we won’t see anything at all.”
Hand Pump finished handing out the last of the chalk.
“Hey, why did I get the black chalk?” complained Miss Delivery.
“And I got the brown chalk!” chimed in Buck Fucka, happily.
“And I got the white chalk!” added Saigon Sally.
“So what?” asked Jizzard. “I got the brown chalk too, you know.”
Hand Pump looked over Jizzard’s burnt brown face, a sign of a man who had not realized the dangers of Mars’ thinner atmosphere. “Absolutely nothing to it,” he reassured the group. “I promise.”
“You know, black chalk has its place,” piped in Just Dave.
“I’ll show you where I’ll place my big black chalk,” replied Miss Delivery, looming closer.
“Good, good,” muttered Hand Pump nervously. “I think we should all be off now.”
A shrill whistle sounded through their intercoms, and Just Doesn’t Get It was off. “Was that really necessary?” wondered Titty Boo Boo. No one answered—at least half of the group had already turned the sound off.
Trail devolved rapidly thereafter. With no one able to hear anyone else, whoever was running the fastest in the straightest line became the de facto leader. Some of the pack saw all of the backchecks, some of the pack saw none (because they were fucking lost), and some of the pack simply ran in the last direction that they had seen millimeter Peter.
“Hey, is that Natty Lite?” asked Ru Ru Rimmin, pointing to the ground.
“We’re looking for beer, not water,” scoffed Uber Luber.
“I was being ironic,” retorted Ru Ru Rimmin.
At last most of them regrouped at the top of Mount Olympus, where they found the hare and the beer shuttle, which, despite being transformed into an interplanetary transportation device, still was resisting the pack’s attempts to get their belongings.
“Did you know,” millimeter Peter said to Wee Wee, “that this is the highest point on Mars? It’s taller than Mount Everest!”
“Is that why I had to take a shuttle all the way out here? I’m going to be late to work tomorrow, you know.”
“It doesn’t look that tall,” complained Dick Simmons.
“It’s getting a bit cold,” added Do Her Well. “This is almost as bad as San Francisco. Can we go home now?”
“I thought it would be nice to do circle here on Mars, before we go to *cough* the Lucky Thirteen, as you all requested,” responded Peter. “Here, I’ll mark trail back to the start.”
They walked back together slowly, sipping the beer through a conveniently placed intake valve in their suits. Heracknophobia noticed Eat My Pussy falling back. “Hey, where are you going?” she asked. He gestured slightly and shook his head. “HEY, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” she screamed, forgetting he probably had turned his intercom off. Eat My Pussy continued to march off into the dark, until suddenly his light illuminated a solitary house. It was the only structure they had seen during their time on the red planet. Eat My Pussy climbed up the stairs and disappeared inside.
“Sometimes you have to just let them go,” reassured Muff Daddy. “If he loves us, he will come back to us.”
The crowd gathered back at the start, where they learned a lot more about a certain Just Paul, who streaked during the ’96 World Series and cleaned 9 ½ Wanks’ pipes really well, if you know what she means, and we think you do.
“On your knees!” cried Cockagami.
“I can’t, the suit doesn’t bend that way,” replied Just Paul.
“Ok, well, what doesn’t go in you, goes on you!” he dumped the beer over Just Paul’s cranium, where it harmlessly bounced away. Ignoring this, he cried out, “You are hereby ‘Foul Balls.’ Go forth, be merry, and multiply those Balls as you will.”
“I think this works a lot better on Earth,” whispered Do Her Well. “Mostly everyone has their coms turned on for their own private conversation anyway. Let’s just have Split Wide Open, 9 ½ Wanks, Little Douche Poop, and Masterbaster up as returners, get our visitors and virgins, and be done.”
“Cool,” replied Cockagami, yawning widely. “Shit, why am I so tired?”
“I dunno,” yawned Do Her Well. “I can barely keep my eyes open either. Millimeter Peter!” she called out. “Where are we off to next?”
He stood forth in the middle of circle. Most of the crowd had sat, as best they were able, or were leaning against Hand Pump’s shuttle.
“Well, I would first like to thank you all for coming to this trail,” started mmPeter. “It has been a delight. We also should think NASA for sponsoring our trip out here.”
“Hurry it up!” yawned Cockagami.
“Yes, well, I have to admit the trip wasn’t entirely free.” He chuckled. “You see, NASA has been eager to study the effects of an extended period on Mars on a large, diverse group of participants.”
“Don’t worry,” he said as last eye flickered shut. “It won’t hurt a bit.”