SFH3 Run #1813
|:||Lincoln Park Golf Course Parking Lot, 34th and Clement|
|:||Just Liz featuring Douchicorn|
|:||Do Her Well|
Fucker folded his hands in front of him, quite comfortable in the windowless office somewhere deep within the Immigration Services building. He had been offered and declined both coffee and tea, almost certain that Just Doesn’t Get It’s advice that drink preference was the final test before being sworn a citizen was incorrect, but not wanting to risk it.
The door slammed open, and two besuited figures strode in.
“That’s Sir Just Liz to you,” she slammed a stack of papers on the desk.
“Douchicorn is just fine, it’s like Madonna.” The man adjusted his tweed pants.
“What is this about?” Fucker demanded. “I’m here to take my citizenship oath.”
“Oh, you’ll take an oath all right. I’ll have you slipping and sliding into a Sutro Bath full of oaths faster than Whorifist can prove his namesake.” Just Liz scowled at him.
“I have Baileys with cold pressed espresso in it,” Douchicorn said helpfully, pointing at the portable thermos in his backpack.
Just Liz paced back and forth, gesticulating. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be happi-er to chat than Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring about her haberdashery, you’ll be Circle Jerking your way into a confession. You’ll be crying Tears of Semen before I leave for lunch.”
“She gets it delivered so it’s nice and fresh. We can get you some if you want,” Douchicorn pulled a menu out of an invisible pocket.
“What does the hash have to do with this?” Fucker asked, perplexed.
“What’s to admit? I’m a legal adult.”
“Do you know how many laws there are in this country?” Just Liz leaned over him. “Do you know how many rules and regulations govern every aspect of your behavior? Every breath you take, every move you make…”
“I’ll be watching you…” crooned Douchicorn.
“No, I don’t,” Fucker answered bluntly.
“No one does!” exploded Just Liz. “No one in this godforsaken office, not even Primal Vagina and if you are looking for an expert in labyrinthine quagmires look no further.”
“Your point?” Fucker frowned.
“We have so much dirt on you already we don’t even have to dig. We’ve got you in a Cockagami of an inveiglement and your only way out is to open up.”
“It’s like those fortune teller thingys you make in school,” Douchicorn explained. “Crabs made me one, all the fortunes say ‘Go Away.’”
“Let me put this in terms you will understand. I Cunt Hear You without a lawyer present.” Fucker shut his lips firmly.
“Oh, you don’t have to talk quite yet. You just have to listen.” Just Liz gave a tight smile.
“Okay!” said Douchicorn.
She rolled her eyes just barely and continued. “Let me tell you a little story about a very dangerous man…”
“His name was Dick Simmons!” Douchicorn interrupted.
“No, goddamn it.” Just Liz looked pained. “I told you, we’re off that case, that’s in Just Arno’s hands now, that brownnoser. No, this was another very dangerous man, so dangerous that ICE was tasked with embedding agents on years long assignments to track him down. Months go by, and we have nothing, until this weekend in Portland.”
“ICE has been embedding agents in the hash?” Fucker’s curiosity got the better of him. “I mean Muff Daddy is pretty obvious, in retrospect.”
“He’s not ours,” Just Liz admitted. “We’ve been asking around, but even the CIA claims to know nothing. No, our agents are more savvy—One Night Only is heading up the Kremlin watch, while Udder Moron handles the… differently abled. We did recruit Dick Ass Mother Fucker for all the brown people, but just between you and me he gets really upset by his job sometimes, I think he’s angling for early retirement.”
“Good Shit Lollicock is sometimes too much for just one man to handle,” Douchicorn admitted.
“We have been looking for a man whose face is but a shadow in our databases, whose impact is felt rather than seen, whose marks are deep on the thighs of men and women across the country. His crimes? Ineffable. His punishment? Unbearable. But it may involve some Big Cock Chains.”
Douchicorn’s face grew serious. “We had not a breath, not a whisper of his whereabouts or plans until this weekend in Portland. His confederates conspired to wear a symbol of their loyalty, and two of them, Leave It To Cleavage and Mouth Down South, have since returned to San Francisco. Mouth we believe designed the message, transmitting it through Cleavage and her associates. And upon their return they surely must have borne with them the fruits of their labor to our target.”
“Brown Eye was our prime suspect,” Just Liz revealed. “But we exposed him in the forest and found his plans, incidentally, were unrelated to this case. No less nefarious, but unfortunately not in our jurisdiction.”
“We can only guess at who might have been responsible—The Perfect Woman? Boob Slap and her friend Just Jana? Fuck Norris with Brave Fart at her side? The Notorious Cunty Butler?”
“Why does it have to be another person? Couldn’t Mouth Down South or Leave It To Cleavage have gone directly to your suspect?” Fucker asked.
“Transmitting things is the only activity the hash knows how to do,” scoffed Just Liz.
“We need your help to decipher the message: ‘Uncle Bad Touch Say This Is Okay.’” Douchicorn put his best set of pleading puppy dog eyes on. “And more importantly… to find Uncle Bad Touch himself.”
“Did you check the SFH3 Facebook page?” Fucker suggested.
“You can trust no one,” Just Liz continued as if she did not hear him. “Not Stinky Floss, not even Yes Sir Yesshesfat, as honest as he may sound. Masterbaster has long since been compromised by Allahu Aqbark, and we believe Backwash is contaminated as well. It’s all in your hands, Fucker. Find Uncle Bad Touch. Find out what This is and why it is Okay.”
“Is that all?” Fucker asked, standing up. “Can I go now?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Just Liz.
“Your oath?” Douchicorn suggested. “We can’t have non-citizens spying on citizens. That’s just plain un-American.”