SFH3 Run #1852: It's Jimi Hendrix's Birthday!
: 11/27/2017
: Stanyan & Oak Street
: Rent Whore & Ocean Spray
: John Handcock and Do Her Well

Indiscriminate accumulations of chalk disseminated from a passing automobile, multisexual-arrows, back-forward-checks, false trails that were true, a kaleidoscopic barrage of other unintelligible scribble ...  It dizzied the half-mind, further confused the drunkards, and discumbobulated the virgins. We were somewhere around Oak & Stanyan when the stupidity began to take hold. 


One mark makes you larger

And one check makes you small
And the ones that Rent Whore gives you
Don't do anything at all
Go ask Do Her Well
When she's ten down-downs tall


And if you go chasing Douchicorn

And you know trail's going to fall
Tell 'em a hookah-smoking Ocean Spray
Has given you the on on
Call Brown Eye
When he was just small


When the hash marks on the sidewalks

Can't tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of backcheck
And the pack is moving slow
Go ask Rent Whore
I think she'll know


So on it went, ego-destroying block after beerless block. The trail turned in on itself, became another trail, turned inside out, into a sidewalk with no trail, spitting hashers out the other end. Clueless harriers shattered across Cole Valley like a million shards of broken drywall, chasing beer that seemed to be nowhere.


Muff Daddy, he stares tow'ring confused in purple running shorts.
Backside Banger, lost, waits behind him.
Cunty Butler's fiery bush sneers at the trail-less ground.
Gone are the beer-giving marks taken for granted,
No hashers understand.

Once happy Fucker runs astray,

But wonder where the trail goes on.
But they're all, lost as fuck.
Yeah, they're all lost as fuck.
Yeah, they're all lost as fuck.
Just ask Rogue Cow.


The half-mindedness spilled over the hills of the city like a spilled beer, sloshing towards a park barely depraved enough to contain the confused mob of inebriates. A meditation circle was aroused into vigor, bringing a strike with the precision of a cobra against the kennel, dashing their plans. Miss Delivery was forced again to disturb us all from our respite once again, until we settled like chickens finally come to roost by a lonely darkened bench on which so many impoverished heads have rested. But it was the drinks that were laid down upon it, poured into their final destinations-- the Virgins’ gullets, by the hands of Kerry’s Cum Cakes and visitor Jiggly Tits. Set to the tune of Cirque du So Lame’s jeers, Mouth Down South and Cockamole began the dance, exchanging news of Just Doesn’t Get It receiving droppings from on high, and the strike from below upon Resting Bitch Face. But it was Just Keith—


“Wait just there,” Hand Pump forced John Handcock to pause. “Wash This Asshole. Stinky Floss, get over here. Someone call up Banana In Public, we need his expertise.”


“But the colors of the night—“


“You can tell us about that later. This Just Keith. Can you describe him?” Little Sissy Pants Hasher Boy had pulled out a sketchpad, and One Night Only had silently set a recorder down on the table.


“He was ten feet tall if he was an inch, his eyes were saucers of milk in the tablecloth of the night.” John Handcock rubbed a hand over his forehead. “A nose like a fisherman’s hook, and shoulders set with the weight of a lion’s pelt. A king amongst men or a man amongst kings, it was not until he spoke that I understood the vision of his song.”


Ru Ru Rimmin was typing furiously in the background, while Buck Fucka’s face appeared on a small screen beside Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring. She dispatched both him and Blowqueen rapidly with whispered instructions, tabbing over to pull up Big Cock Chains and Sticky Fingers in quick succession.


“Anything else you can think of?” Hand Pump prompted. Just Tony bustled nervously at his side, Pepe Le Poop pulling him away to preserve the man’s focus.


“Oh, yeah,” John Handcock’s eye widened. “His mother told us he only had one ball.”


The action in the room stopped, the fluorescent light flickering slightly, illuminating the clenched jaw of Udder Moron and Dickweed’s slightest twitching eyelid.


“Wrap it up, people,” Hand Pump announced. “We’re calling Who’s Your Daddy back in from the field, studying the effects of LSD on the civilian population will have to wait. Get Good Shit Lollicock on the horn, I’d bet my last dollar we’ll have immediate orders via Reverse Schoolgirl to redirect all our focus to this. John Handcock, thank you for your service, and please enjoy this nice glass of water.” Gobble My Ass handed him a cup, condensation starting to drip down from the edge.



One sip, a fuzzy feeling, and John Handcock allowed his eyes to close. The last words from Hand Pump seeped through to his consciousness through the veil of sleep. “That’s it boys, we’ve got him. We’ve found… The Uniballer.”