“I’ve never seen it that big,” Code For Penis stared in awe. Dickgiorno nodded in agreement.
“I have,” Pumping Ethel confided. “Once when I was very young, late at night…”
“What are you all doing in the dark?” Brown Eye burst into the group.
“Um… the moon?” Buck Fucka suggested. “We’re avoiding light pollution?”
“Oh look, the pack’s off,” Code For Penis sprinted away, leaving the rest no choice but to follow.
The moon was indeed big and bright, leaving the group with little need for lights as they ran down Cesar Chavez. Who’s Your Daddy, embracing a basic misunderstanding of astronomy, displayed his own moon to assist them further, leading to Wrinklepecker crashing into the bushes as he clawed at his eyes. No Shit pulled him out, only to dive in afterwards when he saw Bitch’s Bitch had followed suit. In short, all was as usual for an SFH3 trail.
“Maverick, no!” In horror, Resting Slut Face watched as his canine companion was pulled (by his own hand) into a tree. “I told you to stop doing that.” He bent down to inspect the pooch, and stepped back in horror. “What kind… what kind of a tree is that?”
“Beech,” muttered Tears of Semen as she ran past.
“No, I think it’s a dogwood,” Primal Vagina knelt down to examine the remains of the branches.
“Oh shit,” Resting Slut Face’s eyes widened and he dropped the leash. “He’s allergic to dogwood.” He walked backwards slowly, staring at the slobbering canine.
“What’s the problem?” Whorifist leaned over, letting Just Maverick jump up to lick his face. “I don’t see anything wro… wroof… arf!” Whorifist got down on his knees and began panting.
“That’s a bit odd,” Shaft remarked, only for Whorifist to leap up and lick his face. Shaft dropped Fluffer’s leash and starting running around in circles. Blowqueen attempted to collar him, only for him to get a full dose of Shaft’s tongue too. He howled to the supermoon instead.
“This is worse than that case of glitter herpes I had last Christmas,” Mouth Down South remarked, before he too was overwhelmed.
“Run!” shouted Now I Know My STDs, shoving Just Patrick away from the group. “They’re contagious!”
“Who’s a good doggy,” Douchicorn scratched Blowqueen’s rump. “Who’s a good boy.”
“Douchicorn, get away from them,” yelled Pole Her Bare, only to see him swarmed by the crowd of man-doggies.
“You gonna run trail tonight?” Douchicorn asked the group. “You gonna find the beer for me?”
“I think he’s immune,” Perfect Woman concluded, watching the slobberfest continue.
“Go get ‘em,” Douchicorn’s pitch heightened. “Go get that beer.”
The pack turned and overran I Cunt Hear You and Just Gianni in quick succession, then turned towards Cuming Mutha. Saigon Sally intercepted them just in time, training kicking in. “Go! Save yourselves. I have but one life to give for my count…”
“I’ve got an idea!” Just Fiid leapt forward with rainbow helmet blasting full colors. “Follow me!”
The pack, entranced by the glowing lights, turned to follow him. Eyes unable to track him completely with the blinding glare, they slowed just enough for him to keep ahead. Meh herded them from behind, making sure none of them escaped until they got to the beer check. It only took one sacrificial lamb in the form of Sodomentary Cock for them to make it there.
“Holy shit,” Miss Delivery stared in shock as Blowqueen started humping Backside Banger’s leg. “I did not sign up for this.”
“Beer,” panted Resting Slut Face. “Beer always takes care of Maverick when he gets like this.”
“Ummm. I don’t have a bottle opener.” Miss Delivery ran off before he could get a stern licking. Herassic Park rolled her eyes, pulling out her Swiss Army flashlight and saving the day. She poured the beer into a doggy dish that had somehow found its way into Hand Pump’s van, allowing the men to lap it up.
Rhythm Method rolled her eyes and snorted at the sight. “Typical.”
Scrubbing Bubbles looked around at hashers one by one standing up from the ground and shaking themselves off, the curse apparently broken. “Are we sure any of them doesn’t need a foster?” she asked, disappointed.
“I’ll go home with you,” Muff Daddy offered.
“It’s not the same,” she sighed.
“I think these shorts are ruined,” complained Whorifist.
“Stop whining,” On All Fours grinned at him cheekily. “You were barely down there for half an hour.”
“If you need new shorts, come right this way.” Sleazy had taken the Disaster Opportunist approach to haberdashery.
“So it’s over, then?” Twerxes asked looking askance at Just Maverick. “He’s safe?”
Haelowood howled in the background.
“Ignore him, he’s just drunk,” millimeter Peter pointed out. “Maybe we need a test subject.”
Cockamole held out the hashshit hesistantly. Maverick slobbered over it lovingly, but it remained as inert as always.
“What did you expect would happen?” Millimeter Peter wondered.
“Nothing, I just wanted to see his instinctual reaction,” Cockamole responded.
“Training that sort of response takes decades,” agreed Cowlick. “With a face like that he could make millions.”
“Maybe we need to move to in vivo studies,” Gondolorrhea said bravely, bracing himself and kneeling on the ground, only to be bowled over by an armful of soggy canine.
“Do you feel like humping everything in sight?” asked Masterbaster after a few moments had passed.
“Yes?” Gondolerrhea answered.
“He’s safe!” My Little Porno declared. “I’d expect no less from him. Now let’s get to the bar.”
“Has anyone seen my phone?” Haelowood asked.
The crowd trailed off, leaving Just Maverick alone in the dark with the hashshit. The silence was only broken by the tinny ring of a cell phone.
“Hello, Kink.com?” a faint voice answered.