Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring opened the van so that everyone could grab the parkas. The box was in the very back, perched high above the empty keg, and it was impossible to reach for any hasher except for Dick Ass Mother Fucker. His parka was as black as the night, with SFH3 printed in the back in all black, and his initials inscribed upon the front. If you looked closely enough, you could see that his parka didn’t exist at all.
The crowd lined up at the keg, each waiting the appropriate thirty seconds to receive their beer, with the watchful eyes of Hand Pump overseeing them. Chicken Bone Her lifted her cup carefully, trying not to sputter on the foam that washed down her throat, followed by the briefest of tastes of beer.
“Something wrong with the tap?” No Shit asked cheerfully, prodding at the keg. “Huh, kicked early?”
Just Liz edged away instinctively, pulling Miss Delivery away with her. She had been attached to him all evening, and was certain that she should probably cut the cord, but no one had expressly told her it was permissible to do so.
“No Shit,” Roman Showers said gently. “The keg is quite full.”
“No it’s not!” No Shit laughed. “What are you talking about?”
Rhythm Method pulled him to the side. “I’ll take you to the full keg,” she offered, and disappeared with him into the dark.
There was silence, in which Fuck Buddy and Titty Boo Boo shuffled uncomfortably, though that might have just been from a physiological itch. If you looked at their faces, as Backside Banger did, you would not have seen even the slightest of signs of discomfort or concern. Cunty Butler glided by them, face serene, attached at the hip to Religious Advisor Cockamole.
“Shall we begin circle?” asked Zippercised to no one in particular. The pack shuffled in tighter, grateful for the overwhelming dark. Sometimes circle was held under a streetlight, other times in broad daylight, and keeping an appropriate attentive face with a lax smile could be difficult for some of them.
“Well?” Cockamole laughed abruptly.
“Yes please?” offered Wee Wee.
“Can I have Dick Simmons and Douchicorn,” Zippercised continued without acknowledging her. Wee Wee sighed in relief.
The pair shuffled their way into the circle of light.
“Do you see a change here?” Zippercised touched Douchicorn’s curls gently, then Dick Simmons’.
“Dick Simmons has Douchicorn’s man bun!” shouted Mouth Down South.
“No,” Zippercised paused. “Douchicorn has never had a man bun.”
“Then how did he get named?” I’m Drunk slurred.
“Douchicorn has never had a man bun,” Cockamole repeated.
“Douchicorn has never had a man bun,” Cunty Butler repeated.
“Douchicorn has never had a man bun,” the crowd repeated.
“Go away.” Zippercised turned to his notes. “Just Lauren.”
She stood before them, awaiting his verdict.
“You’re Italian.” Zippercised waved a hand to dismiss her.
“No, I was trying to speak Italian.” She giggled nervously. “It was actually funny, I wanted to get a cigarette, but I kept asking for a blowjob.”
“No.” Zippercised put an affirming hand on her back. “You misunderstood. You’re Italian.”
“You’re very lucky,” Cockamole added. “Italians are our friends. Not like the East Bay.”
“We have always been at war with the East Bay,” Saigon Sally added.
“Go now, you are welcome here.” She nodded her dismissal. “Can we have ABBAH’s German friend?”
“Unimportant. Drink this.” She handed him an empty cup that was overflowing.
“It’s empty,” he complained.
“You finished it already? Have another.” And they sang at him until he drank none of it.
“May I have our canine companions and their men?” Zippercised demanded.
Resting Slut Face pulled up Maverick. “What did we do?” he asked, panicking. “I thought bestiality was best? Didn’t you tell us that last week? I thought it was okay?”
“Bestiality was never best,” Zippercised determined. “Bestiality is Double Plus Ungood. That is how the song goes. He sang in a monotone:
Bestiality is Double Plus Ungood, boys,
Bestiality is Double Plus Ungood.
Don’t fill your dog with wood, boys,
Don’t fill your dog with wood.”
“Vagina Dentata?” Zippercised signaled to the cloaked figure standing under the tree branch, who pulled Resting Slut Face away from the light. If you listened closely, you could hear the gnashing of teeth in the distance.
“Hand Pump?” A hush fell over the crowd as the man himself came forward. Yes Sir Yesshesfat prostated himself on the ground, only pulling up his pants after Hand Pump had passed. Just Arno panted in exhaustion and fear. Udder Moron panted in excitement and confusion.
“What did I do?” Hand Pump’s steely eyes gazed confidently at the Religious Advisors. Unlike everyone else who had been called forth that night, his countenance held not a flicker of uncertainty. It was Zippercised and Cockamole who looked away first.
“You left us last week to our own devices,” Cockamole stuttered slightly. “And so demonstrated to us our utter helplessness and dependence upon you.”
“Oh wise Hand Pump!” cried out Zippercised. “It is us who must drink for being so foolish.” And he and Cockamole drained their vessels.
“Stinky Floss and Public Enema,” Zippercised called. “And Do Her Well.”
Another hush fell over the crowd, for one of those called had been the hare. But all knew that Public Enema would not be allowed to take credit for his work.
“Foolish canine,” Cockamole chided. “Leaping into pond water, and taking Stinky Floss and Do Her Well in with you.”
Public Enema barked, explaining that a small child had been drowning in the pond.
“You’re lucky that they didn’t die in the process,” Zippercised added.
Public Enema told them that the child would one day grow up to unite the planet in peace and prosperity. He told them that the child would remember that day, and institute baby swim lessons for all, saving countless lives. He would also invent a really tasty flavor of ice cream.
“Two legs good, four legs bad!” Brown Eye shouted at him.
Fucker took up the cry along with him, and he was soon joined by Pumping Ethel and the rest of the pack.
Public Enema, having had enough of this, realized he wasn’t tied down. Darting from beneath Stinky Floss’s grasp, he ran between Zippercised’s legs, and zigged through the crowd. After pausing to bite Muff Daddy, he headed into the depths of Buena Vista to go live with the coyotes.
“Hare, do you have any thoughts?”
Do Her Well stopped pulling the underwear out of her ass crack and opened her eyes wide. “I heard that most of you followed trail appropriately. But for two…” she looked in the direction of Dr. Bombardier and Blowqueen.
“Oh come on,” Dr. Bombardier complained. Blowqueen was trying to clamp a hand around his mouth. “We thought— ”
“You… thought. You? Thought?” Cockamole raised a theatrical finger to her lips. “That sounds like a crime.”
“A crime!” shouted Dickgiorno.
“A crime?” asked Don’t Tell My Wife About The Big Cock Chains.
“A crime,” affirmed Muff Daddy, still rubbing his ass.
“What’s going on?” Just Doesn’t Get It looked up.
“A thoughtcrime,” Zippercised said in a friendly tone. “Not to worry, though, we have a solution to that. Just Get It Over With?”
She cleared her throat. “A hash song, to clear our souls and minds…
This is the hash that doesn’t end.
It goes on and on my friends,
We started drinking, not knowing what it was
And now we’ll keep from thinking forever just because…”
And they sang over and over again, until all jaws were slackened and eyes deadened and the entirety of what they were was the hash, they had no beginning or end, but for SFH3 and Hand Pump.
Blowqueen sat down heavily on the bar stool, accepting welcoming pats from his friends. The struggle was over, and he had emerged the victor, for he loved SFH3, and SFH3 loved him.
“Heading to the East Bay?” Cockamole waved to Saigon Sally.
“I thought we were at war with the East Bay?” asked John Handcock, scribbling notes into a small book that he thought no one had noticed. Millimeter Peter clicked on his lighter and carefully burned it.
“We have never been at war with the East Bay,” Saigon Sally murmured, as he made his way into the night.