SFH3 Run #1889: Oh hill...
|:||Corwin St dead end at Kite Hill Park|
|:||Do Her Well|
Duck Ass Mother Fucker closed his eyes and counted to ten. And then to twenty. He looked at Duck Norris for sympathy, and hid his face from Duck Simmons who was endlessly taking screencaps.
“What exactly is going on?” he asked Hand Pimp in exasperation.
“Virtual hashing isn’t what it’s cracked up to be,” Hand Pimp explained. “There are still apparently a few bugs to be worked out.”
“Look at my new sex toy!” Big Cock Chins announced. A giant egg beater floated by. It was bigger than Fuck Budding. Bye Erect Anal was trying to smash it with his meat tenderizer, but it kept bumping into Just Christian and Just Alex, who were quivering in terror. Just Doug looked on in horror and crouched behind Just Matthew. Cream Chugged shrugged at her virgin and heartlessly pushed him into the melee.
“Whoever input our hash names is both terrible at spelling and has a poorly functioning autocorrect,” Sir Menagerie added.
“One great thing about VR,” Cockamamie opined. “I get as much pussy as I want—with no consequences!” Indeed, when Coming Mother looked over at him, he was entirely surrounded by cats.
Whee Whee shook her head. “Are we going to do this trail or what?” She and John Handpick muttered together for a moment and crept off into the bushes.
Goggle My Ass rolled her eyes. “Tonya Harlot can see you on the VR map guys. Try asking nicely and then maybe you’ll be able to pants her.” Somewhat reluctantly, the pack left their penguin huddle and bounded off into the dying light.
Flicker shivered as they ran, “How the fuck can I still be cold in the virtual world?”
One and Din pointed upwards. “Better question is, why is it so exhausting to run up these hills?”
“Not if you pay for the expansion pack!” Just Get It Over With flew by on a unicorn, shotgunning a beer.
Peekaboo bye scowled, “I refuse to pay extra just for some fucking basics of gameplay.”
“Yeah,” added Dough I Corn. “I already shelled out a ton just to have Ricky Ducky with me. Dog VR suits aren’t cheap, and he keeps peeing on himself by accident.” Ricky Ducky sniffed and continued to look cute despite everyone thinking far too much about Dough I Corn’s dry cleaning bill.
Six Tats A Week pulled out a big bag of Cheetos, sharing some with Good Shot. “Do these count against my diet?” He wondered aloud.
“Hey. Hey. HEY!”
“Excuse us?” Backside Bang E.R. ambled forward.
“I mean, it’s a street.” Cockamamie pointed out.
“I paid taxes for this street!” the platypus announced to Six Off Nine.
“I want you to MOVE!” demanded the platypus irately.
“But we aren’t disturbing anything,” One Awl Fours pointed out. “And you can just reboot after we leave and there will be no trace at all.”
“But I will still SENSE your electrons,” the platypus argued. It began to sweep the street as aggressively as a platypus could.
“Okay, okay,” Three Fangled told him. “We’ll move.”
The platypus grinned in satisfaction. The pack moved slowly away, Snuff Daddy leaving a desolate trail of Whoppers in his wake.
Hours later, deep in the thrall of the On After, Cockamamie’s neurons sent up a distress signal. “Huh, I wonder where all those cats went?”
In the virtual space of Kite Hill, the unceasing cry of pussies in heat began.