SFH3 Run #1914: Superb Owl Hangover Trail
|:||Russian Hill Park, on Bay Street between Hyde and Larkin|
|:||Can't Eat Pussy|
|:||Do Her Well|
“It’s nights like these in Boston that you have to be particularly wary,” cautioned Can’t Eat Pussy somberly. “The severe weather has stirred some dark and eldritch creatures from the deep. In my years of hasing, I’ve seen beings that you couldn’t even imagine. For our trail tonight, you have to listen to me, and follow all of my instructions! Care has to be taken at every step.”
Do Her Well shivered miserably in her parka, while Bierectional frowned and spat a tooth out of his mouth, so hard had his teeth been chattering. In the back of the van, Bloqueen fanned himself in his swim trunks while sipping a strawberry daiquiri.
“There is one creature above all that SFH3 should fear,” Can’t Eat Pussy continued. “If you see its scuttling marks in the ground you will have to go as fast as you can away from that place, unless you want it to eat your soul and burp up the remnants in its dark and moist nest. The only defense we have tonight is…”
“Beer?” Hand Pump offered. Bush And A Rack nodded and went to find a bar. She was never heard from again.
“No.” Can’t Eat Pussy frowned. “As I was saying…”
“I know, I know!” Good Shit Lollicock raised his hand. “Condoms!”
“A good guess,” Can’t Eat Pussy allowed. “But—”
“You’re not going to tell us its abstinence, are you?” Muff Daddy guffawed. “That never works!”
“No, but to be fair, it’s never eaten a virgin hasher,” Can’t Eat Pussy allowed.
“That’s because there are no virgin hashers!” Muff Daddy rebutted.
“Definitely not tonight, there aren’t,” Tuna said darkly.
“So what you are saying is we should find whatever satanic being Tom Brady is using and sacrifice the virgins to it?” Five Angry Inches asked.
“That man is extremely talented— “ Can’t Eat Pussy cut himself off. “Nevermind. No, no, no. Listen to me. You’re going to go out there, and you’re going to follow trail. And there will be a check. And there will be another check. There will be so many checks, because we have to confuse the foul creature at every step. Also hills, busy roads, tourist traps, and random shiggy. It hates all of those things, so I have made sure you’ll be well protected by taking trail through all of them. At one point, a downpour will happen, and what will you do?”
“Go home?” Fuck Norris suggested.
“NO! You will keep hashing. There will be sustenance on your way, but don’t drink it if it’s a half empty bottle of Seagram’s.”
“I’ll take two!” The Perfect Woman said happily.
“Duly noted.” Can’t Eat Pussy sighed.
Cum Test Dummy frowned. “I’ve seen over thirty hashers try to defeat the beast before and fail. What makes you think we’ll be any better off?”
Can’t Eat Pussy looked around at all ten of them. Good Shit was cleaning his teeth with a bottle cap. Deadbeat had made an umbrella out of the sweater that had been left in the van since last Bay 2 Blackout. Do Her Well was trying to squeegee her pants by pressing them in the van door. “You’ll work it out. And if you do happen to be unlucky enough to see the scourge of the hash sit-a-pede, you should sit—”
“On my face?” suggested Dick Ass Mother Fucker.
“Only if they want to?” Can’t Eat Pussy hesitated. “You know what. Nevermind. Be eaten by an evil roving beast and don’t come crying to me about it.”
“Any word on the Marin Hash you’re setting this weekend?” Gloryhole asked. “Weather should be nice, no?”
“That’s Eat My… fuck all of you all. Goodnight.”