“It’s the perfect plan, it can’t go wrong,” Who’s Your Daddy was talking into his beer. “First, Muff Daddy drops the pretzels. In that moment, we make our escape. They think we’ll go straight to the Embarcadero, but when we send Bierectional zigging left, we will zag right. We’ve got Tonya Hardon and Chicken Bone Her on our side—it can’t go wrong. It’s foolproof!”
“Huh?” Weiner I Am stumbled out of the restroom. He stepped back as a bag of flour was thrust into his hands.
“You watch out for Rent Whore and Wee Wee, and I… I’ll get something special planned for Do Her Well. But the biggest problem is Dick Simmons.”
“He seems pretty chill?” offered Weiner as they started hiking towards the start.
“No, no, it’s just if they check his camera… don’t you worry about it. I have it figured out.”
Who’s Your Daddy tried to look nonchalant, but he couldn’t help the chill that ran down his spine as he saw Tears of Semen talking to Deadbeat. It wouldn’t do for those two to start comparing notes.
“You off yet?” Vagina Dentata popped in front of him like a demented Jack-in-the-Box.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Who’s Your Daddy replied absentmindedly. “Give us fifteen.” And he took off, Weiner in his wake.
If seen from above, it might have looked innocent. Weiner and Who’s Your Daddy dropping flour down the street, dodging trolleys and tourists, sights that would draw the eye of not only Dick Simmons, but Good Shit and Gloryhole to boot. In the commotion through Chinatown no one would notice one of the costumes going missing.
The trail turned, Infinite Butthole pausing to bring the virgins along, while Resting Slut Face and Masterbaster took turns frightening the passersby. The Perfect Woman and I’m Drunk sorted them out—it turns out two odd people are scary but four means it’s just San Francisco.
Being lost in the Tunnel of Love was a small price to pay for Wrinklepecker, but the bigger toll was taken by Cuming Mutha, lured into the deceptive embraces of an abandoned couch. Hello Titties could only be convinced to pick off so many bedbugs, and Dick Ass Mother Fucker just laughed. Delayed by Tonya Hardon and Chicken Bone Her, with the vital assistance of Just Dakota, the pack took a moment to regroup.
“Now I can’t tell you where the beer van is,” Tonya taunted. “Unless you’re in the mood for Tai Chi.” Little Sissy Pants Hasher Boy looked at her in confusion, but Circle Jerk’s eyes lit up and he took off, Pepe Le Poop darting after him.
“Oops,” Tonya grinned sheepishly.
Tricrapylete leapt to the front, followed by Just Doesn’t Get It. Deadbeat was quick to lead them astray, though, and if it wasn’t for Stinky Floss all might have been lost.
“You’re here early,” remarked Who’s Your Daddy, stuffing several packages into the van hurriedly. Neither of the visitors, Judge Doody nor Bubbles, remarked on it, and Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring was too busy talking to Mary Tyler Whore and Backwash. But Tuna on Top raised an eyebrow and drew him to the side.
“I know what you’re up to, sir. Your choice of co-hare first drew my eye, and I’ve been listening to the police blotter from the beginning of trail. Fifteen minutes. You expected us to believe you would need fifteen minutes to set trail? But I figured out your real plan. Five beer stores robbed on our route by a dude in a dragon costume? The police delayed by the chaos of a group of runners?”
“Me?” Who’s Your Daddy asked innocently. “Hey look, that dude has a blue butthole!”
“Nice try, I’m not that easy to distract.”
“Wow, it’s Uncle Bad Touch. And his brother—with washboard abs!” Who’s Your Daddy gaped.
“You’ve been working on your acting skills, but you’ll have to try with something more believable.” Tuna on Top leaned in. “I expect my share by midnight.” She walked off to start circle.
Who’s Your Daddy shrugged. “Good thing I went for the magnum bottles.”