SFH3 Run #1845: Glengarry Glen Hash
: 10/09/2017
: Holly Park
: Big Cock Chains
: Do Her Well

“It’s coming at us fast, cap’n!” Udder Moron cried even as he pegged away at the keyboard in front of him, turning the thrusters on full bore.


“Permission to dock?” came over the radio. “Hard In the Saddle here, with Man Aids right behind me. We’ve flown a long way to greet you.”


Hand Pump wiped his brow. “Now isn’t the best time, gentlemen,” he announced, even as he was rocked by the impact of a second asteroid. “Damage, Muff Daddy?”


“The bilge has been hit hard, and there is now a fire raging in the engine room. We’re at twenty-five percent capacity.”


“Aye, captain,” the radio crackled. “It looks like your main thruster is lit up brighter than Christmas lights. There’s even more asteroids, you’re in the middle of a fucking storm of them here, there’s more here than there are venereal eruptions on Man AIDS!”


In the background of space, no one can hear you scream… but if that wasn’t true one would have been deafened by the supersonic protest from the other ship. Hard In the Saddle continued, “If you don’t get that contained before the next hit it could cause a massive implosion. So, about docking?”


“Fine, fine,” Hand Pump sighed. “Big Cock Chains, chart us a course to pick up the visitors and get us out of this field. Backside Banger, make sure Hard in the Saddle and Man AIDS are properly inspected. I Cunt Here You, what’s our status?”


The bridge was silent. Dick Ass Mother Fucker spoke up. “There’s no hope of containment for at least a week. Conditions are expecting to worsen rapidly, and even the bridge will be affected soon by deteriorating air quality.”


“And?” Hand Pump prompted.


“Kegs are at peak capacity.”


“Excellent!” Fucker clapped his hands. “Why didn’t you say so?”


Big Cock Chains thrust his chest out proudly, handing Hand Pump a crumpled napkin with some scribbles on it. Hand Pump took the note solemnly, passing it to Fuck Norris who blew her nose in it before realizing she was meant to adjust course. The ship darted through the field at high speeds, occasionally zigging when it should have zagged, while the occupants on the bridge drank themselves into oblivion.


“Captain, it’s horrible!” Six Tits a Week stumbled in front of them grasping his chest.


Do Her Well followed, a pained look on her face. “Sir, we lost lighting in the bunks. None of us could see where we were going, and so… there were some casualties.”


Sticky Fingers limped into view, his left arm entirely gone. “No worries, it’s just a flesh wound. Coulda happened to anyone, really, right? Right?”


“It was dark. Gloryhole panicked.” Do Her Well explained. “And no one’s seen Cuming Mutha.”


“I saw him taking one of our new officers in the opposite direction!” Six Tits a Week offered. “He said something about it being expected because she was a virgin.”


“We’re down another officer—Foul Balls, is your trainee ready to take on her duties?” Hand Pump asked.


“I don’t know if he is properly equipped?” Foul Balls wondered.


“I have a suggestion?” Douchicorn stepped forward. “Permission to speak, captain?”

Hand Pump nodded.


“I noticed that Just Victor was very adept with the Grindr portal in the ship’s computers, even lengthening it to five whole inches. May I suggest a promotion?”


“Duly noted,” Hand Pump pursed his lips. “Five Angry Inches, please report for duty in the brig. I think Pepe Le Poop got lost down there and will need some company.”


“Reporting for duty!” Brown Eye appeared on the deck, eying Five Angry Inches as he passed. “Captain, I am ready to rejoin the crew.”


Deadbeat held up a cautioning finger. “Sir, I believe Brown Eye may need to enter quarantine for a few weeks. We rendezvoused with an alien vessel, the Interam, during our voyage.”


“That’s not unusual for us,” Just Get It Over With pointed out. “I myself have experienced many such adventures without any ills to report.”


Deadbeat cleared his throat. “Yes, but I don’t believe you had the same close encounter that he did.”


“What exactly does that mean?” Fuck Buddy wondered.

“I got laid, okay?” Brown Eye rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to make such a big deal of it.”


“You were the one who asked to be put into quarantine,” Deadbeat pointed out. “Several times. You even asked Weiner I Am, and you know the pharmacy can’t make that call.”


“It’s not like I asked for a party or anything,” Brown Eye defended himself.

“You wanted Just Pat to dance an Irish jig for you. You offered to pay him, but I’m pretty sure you were lying,” Roman Showers retorted.


“Okay, okay, don’t have an aneurysm. I was going to pay him in beer. From the keg.” Brown Eye sniffed. “Is something on fire?”


“Yes,” Hand Pump answered.


“Should we be worried?” asked the crew.

“Yes,” said Hand Pump.


The heroes are elsewhere,

do not look to us for your champions.

But to celebrate in the face of fear,

bringing joy to the edge of madness,

will go down with the last breath

on our ship of fate.

We do not celebrate in ignorance,

but clad in the heavy weight of fragile mortality.

The human spirit is the stakes of the final battle.


We are what is being fought for.