“It appears it was a proud and noble tradition. Even the women grew them,” Professor On All Fours pointed at a redhead in the flaking painting, which had been carefully protected under glass.
“But why?” asked Cox Box, setting her bags down as she entered the room. “Why did they do it?”
“Some say it was a sign of virility,” Dr. Cuming Mutha stroked his own lovingly. “Glad you made it safely, Cox Box. Any trouble?”
“The usual. Cults. Nazis. Soviet spies.” She shrugged. “But you think there was more to it, don’t you?”
Resting Slut Face emerged from behind a bookcase, nose buried deep in a dusty tome. “Some say it was in celebration of an ancient artifact, one that granted immortality to its wearer. If a celebrant could achieve the perfectly coiffed, ideally sized, and immaculately soft mustache, the Holy ‘Stache would descend from the heavens, and they too would be given eternal life.”
“Eternal life?” Dick Simmons scoffed. “Really son, who needs that, with global warming, nuclear proliferation, and weird food trends?”
“It also comes with access to the Beer Fountain of Youth,” Backside Banger advised. “Sisyphus helps run the mill.”
“More importantly, we think a very dangerous sect is hot on the trail,” Chicken Bone Her cautioned.
“Who?” asked Circle Jerk asked. “Who could it be? Nazis? The GOP?” 9 ½ Wanks tsked and shook her head in disgust. “The Supreme Court Justices?” Circle Jerk hazarded a final guess.
“God no, they’re just too stubborn to die. It’s worse than that.” Douchicorn emerged from the shadows. “I’ve been undercover for months, and I hate to say it, but I think the ones closest to achieving the Holy ‘Stache are… hipsters.”
After the laughter had died down, and they all made sure Jack The Ripper had only keeled over from surprise, Pencil Dick wiped his eyes. “Hipsters. I think I work with some, they’re harmless! They’ve got years before they could achieve the girth required alone, let alone the… style.”
“Nevertheless, I think we have to keep our bases covered,” On All Fours concluded. “The traditional gathering is in Glen Park this evening. I’ve called you all here because we must ensure that no hipster achieves immortality. The consequences could be unimaginable.”
“I still don’t think there’s any way…” Deadbeat scoffed.
“Silence!” On All Fours looked at him sternly. “No arguments, no questions. Let’s get to work.”
“I thought it was silly bringing this many people—I thought we would be noticed right away,” Dr. Wee Wee said to Cuming Mutha, watching the bestachioed group milling around. “Surely there couldn’t be this many people descended from the ancient Hash sect.”
“I think Douchicorn was right about the hipsters,” Cuming Mutha whispered, watching Dick Ass Mother Fucker twirl his ‘stache as he walked over to greet Just David, who was dunking a powdered donut into guacamole. “But I fear there’s little we can do to stop them.”
“Did you hear that Foul Balls and Pole Her Bare brought neophytes? And Just Macayla over there has a textbook full of homework.”
“Cannon fodder,” Cuming Mutha nodded wisely. “They may yet be of use in the coming storm. Look! It begins!”
They both gazed at the figure of Who’s Your Daddy, who was ceremonially anointing himself with flour and then scrambling into the bushes. A whistle and a cry went up, and all followed him into the darkness.
“Where do you think we’re going?” asked Just Liz, ducking through an alleyway.
“We must recreate the ancient Sigil to open the doors!” Crabs instructed, reversing suddenly down a one-way street. “Do it right, and we’ll see the face of the gods!”
“Wait, what happens if we do it wrong?” Just Ben asked nervously, as they descended into the canyon.
“Damnation!” Backwash whispered spookily through the night.
“Eh, better than going to work tomorrow,” Just Jesse opined.
Branckes rustled, and all jumped away as Resting Slut Face was dragged out by Just Maverick. “He saved my life,” gasped Resting Slut Face, “an immortal knight was about to behead me, and he dragged me to safety.”
“Lay off the hallucinogens,” advised Masterbaster. “We’ve got to get this show on the road, or Just Petey is going to cut a bitch.” He pulled his hound away from Public Enema No. 2.
“Form the ancient circle!” Commanded Who’s Your Daddy. “Bring the orange food! Anoint the virgins! Castigate the offenders! Peace out!” He escaped into the darkness.
“So I’m a Eunuch now,” Cum Guzzling Cockaholic waggled his eyebrows at Just Doesn’t Get It. “Red Hot Vagina was going for the vasectomy, but it turns out dogs are a little different anatomically speaking.”
“Silence!” commanded millimeter Peter. “Let us summon the Hash gods!”
A stillness like the eye of a hurricane descended, and Mayor Blew Me stumbled forward. “It’s what the ladies say!” he defended himself from the jeering crowd.
“But what about the gentlemen?” Brown Eye batted his eyelashes.
“Get a room!” Cockagami yelled. “We are here for one thing, and that thing is the Holy ‘Stache! Tonight we will take the mustache ride of our lives and be thrust into eternal youth, everlasting microbrews, and the best music we’ve never even heard of!”
“Hipster!” shouted Fuck Buddy. “Get him!”
Cockagami attempted to run, but was quickly tackled like a tight end by Cox Box. They rolled to a stop in the dirt at the feet of a redhead who, to On All Fours, looked strangely familiar.
“Foolish mortals!” Ska Skank cried. “Mock the ‘Stache, and you shall face eternal punishment. But worship it--” she stroked Cuming Mutha’s with pleasure. “And you shall be rewarded.” The crowd was held still by the power of her gaze, and she paced around the circle like a panther.
“I see many contenders to receive my legacy, but only one true champion.”
“I was born this way!” Buck Fucka broke free of the spell and fell to his knees at her feet. “Look at me in favor, o goddess!”
“Bullshit,” Ska Skank scoffed. “But keep calling me goddess, dear. No, there is only one choice.” She approached Wrinklepecker. “Such girth. Such texture. Such panache.” She touched the ‘stache reverently. “Welcome into the kingdom, my proud knight. Welcome.”
“Great,” Wrinklepecker yanked the ‘stache off and threw it into the bushes. “Where’s my beer?”
“Oh, shit,” Nappy Headed Homo whispered. “He’s insulted Ska Skank.”
“Blasphemers!” she cried, trees shaking with the roar of her voice. “Scoundrels! ABBA! See to them!” The earth split, and a sparkly figure emerged with a mighty hammer. Wordlessly, he struck the ground, causing reverberations that echoed and amplified.
“To the BART station!” cried On All Fours, herding her charges out of the park as branches crashed down and cars rolled over. They ran full speed to the station, hopping over the barriers and darting through the closing door of the train.
“C’mon Junior,” Dick Simmons herded Resting Slut Face to a bench. “Rest a spell.”
“Junior?” asked On All Fours. “What does that mean, this Junior?”
“Dick Simmons, Junior,” Dick Simmons explained. “It’s his name.”
“I like Resting Slut Face.”
“We named the dog Resting Slut Face.” Dick Simmons grinned.
“May we go home now please?” Cuming Mutha asked.
“The dog?” On All Fours said incredulously. “You are named after the dog? Ha!”
“Got a lot of fond memories of that dog,” Resting Slut Face’s face was stoic.
“Resting Slut Face, On All Fours, follow me!” Cuming Mutha yelled. “I know the way!” he ran through the BART cars and into the sunset.
“What a time for a piss break,” Masterbaster groaned, looking around at the debris. “C’mon Stan, you’ve had an eternity.” He left the car door open, pacing slightly.
Allahu Aqbark finished nosing around behind a downed tree with a yelp. He galloped towards Masterbaster, leaping adroitly into the backseat, dragging his tail in before the door was slammed behind him. They drove away, Masterbaster unaware of the large, furry, black mustache now gracing the large, furry black nose of Allahu Aqbark.