SFH3 Run #1879: Bayview Cliffhanger Trail
|:||Bayview Park KC Jones Playground Baseball Field|
|:||Dick Ass Mother Fucker and Banana In Public|
|:||Do Her Well|
“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea of what you are talking about,” Banana In Public crossed his arms over his chest, mouth a firm line.
A slight breeze blew the salt air, tinged with a hint of benzenes, between the two men. The sun shed its last rays over Hunter’s Point, as Dick Ass Mother Fucker tried to close the crevasse that seemed to separate him from Banana.
“That’s because you have amnesia—if you but knew a hint of the man you once were.” Dick Ass Mother Fucker’s voice lowered despite the utter absence of life in the open space around him. The metal sculptures, the empty silence, the plastic bags blowing by in the wind—Dick Ass could have imagined he was the only man in a world devastated by the nuclear apocalypse he was trying every day to prevent. He continued, “You were the best in the business. The best double agent Belize never had…”
“Panama,” corrected Banana In Public.
“You could sniff out a counterplot like a dog sniffs poo… Panama?” Dick Ass’s eyes widened, but Banana was already off and running. A car screeched to a halt as they barreled onto a street, One And Done shaking a fist at them and honking angrily. Dick Ass pulled the door open and commandeered the vehicle, leaping in to find Ska Skank grinning in the passenger’s seat. He pulled away while Just Doesn’t Get It in the back began to sound a siren.
Dick Ass barreled through the streets, forced to double back every time Banana managed to find yet another staircase. Tapping into his earpiece, he called out, “Gloryhole! Gloryhole! I need some help here.”
“Tuna on Top is redirecting the lights in your favor,” Gloryhole’s deep voice sounded over the coms. “The Perfect Woman is going through Banana’s file to find likely safehouses in the area, he’s got to be heading somewhere. Cirque du So Lame and his trainee are covering the airport right now, while Circle Jerk has his eye on the ferries.”
“Did you find his psychologist yet?” Dick Ass Mother Fucker grit his teeth as he swerved around a curve and back towards Bayshore.
“My god, did he kill her?” Dick Ass breathed out slowly.
Dick Ass slammed on the brakes, barely avoiding Cosmopolitits who gave him the finger. He weaved around her, pulled the car into a U-turn, and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. He looked over to Ska Skank, who was hanging out the passenger window taking selfies. “I think I know where he is going.”
A minute later, Dick Ass pulled the car up at the edge of the cliff, headlights flashing over the figure of Banana. An SFPD squad car screeched to a halt behind him, Buck Fucka and Infinite Butthole climbing out of the car and pointing their weapons.
“Banana, it’s over,” Dick Ass declared.
“Hey, I was just passing through!” Good Shit popped out from behind a rock. “I don’t want nuthin to do with this.” He waved his arms in the air.
Buck Fucka was undeterred. “Everyone!”
“That’s right, Sergeant Buck Fucka,” a figure strolled slowly out of the darkness. Infinite Butthole gaped in recognition. “General Machu Machu Man,” he breathed in awe.
“Indeed. And I can tell you both that I know of this Good Shit’s story for far longer than you would initially suspect. It was in the wilds of East Asia that we first met, I was on assignment with Bierectional and we were lost yet again, and it was Good Shit who showed us the way. But one night, when we were about to achieve our objective… suddenly it was Muff Daddy we were dancing with, not Cum Test Dummy, and no one could tell us how the switch was made. And we left, chasing after shadows, and it was Mary Tyler Whore who insisted that we regroup and search in the morning. To think that we later discovered that those two were twins!—But it was in Belize…”
“Panama!” shouted Banana In Public. “It was in Panama that Good Shit was operating because Good Shit is my man.” All but Banana took in a sharp breath when they saw Good Shit’s gun pointed straight at Ska Skank.
“You wouldn’t want any… harm to come to this nice lady, would you? Come over here, you!” Good Shit gestured towards himself with the barrel of his weapon. Ska Skank sauntered over, sighing as she allowed Good Shit to grab her arm.
“Are you going to take her into your human trafficking ring too?” Machu Machu Man raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes. I know all about your little scam.”
“I told him, and I’m telling you, this is not a human trafficking ring!” T-Ball strode forth from behind one of the rocks, Zippercised and ABBAH stumbling after her, linked by chains.
“It’s like a kidney donation, you know, the ones where no one is a match so you just take one and pass it on. Except with homes.”
“So why are you chained together?” Asked Machu Machu Man pointedly.
“Um.” Said T-Ball.
ABBAH just grinned.
Meanwhile, a helicopter and camera crew circled overhead. Mouth Down South was usually the weatherman, but Mary Tyler Whore had seen a car barreling out of control, followed by blue and red lights, and Foul Balls had already captured some great footage. Producer Hand Pump had given him the okay, and this could be footage that would go on national news. He turned to the camera, waited for the red light to go live, took a deep breath, and “HOLY FUCK!”
Good Shit had grabbed a flamethrower, and he was menacing Dick Ass with it. But Ska Skank turned while he was distracted, timing a kick perfectly to knock Good Shit out of commission. Meanwhile, a second helicopter swooped out of the sky, Fuck Norris moving it into range of the ground as Shaft dropped a rope and prepared to leap. It was unclear whose side they were on.
A tank rolled up behind the group and rumbled ominously, Backside Banger popping out of the top. “Let Banana go!” he warned. “Or Six Tits a Week is blowing this place sky high.”
Mouth Down South scowled. Not only was he going viral in the worst way, but he had just caught sight of DeWalt Thunderpussy, his six o’clock weather rival, carefully creeping towards the scene with his own camera crew. He was about to command Mary Tyler Whore to lower them within leaping range, when he saw Banana slipping backwards between the rocks of the cliff, moving towards a metal object gleaming in the last light of day.
Mouth Down South’s jaw slackened as he took in the sight that had eluded him until that moment, a cliff made entirely of explosives, wires like snakes writhing towards the central button that Banana now held. He lifted a finger over the button, pausing with regret, turning slightly as he felt more than heard Dick Ass rushing towards him.
To Be Continued