SFH3 Run #1921
|:||Cum Test Dummy|
|:||Do Her Well|
“My life, my love, my darling--- is the sea!” wailed Can’t Eat Pussy from the bow of the playground ship. He swooned dramatically and clung to the fake mast.
“On on!” shouted Five Angry Inches breezing past, but Can’t Eat Pussy wasn’t that bothered to follow.
Just Ben nudged Bierectional as they ran by. “He’s aware there’s beer ahead, right?”
“I’ll never let you go, sweetheart!” could be heard behind them.
“Um, maybe we have a problem?”
It wasn’t that big of a deal, until it was.
Trail was the usual par for the course SFH3 industrial number, with the locals being scared by shouting, running white people, a sure sign of a rent hike if there ever was one. Meanwhile the hashers were afraid of Cum Test Dummy's arrows, particularly purple ones, and avoided them wherever they could.
He soothingly touched the metal chassis and placed a loving palm over the stick shift. Fuck Norris shuddered and looked away.
“Should someone grab him before he gets hurt?” wondered Dick Ass Mother Fucker.
“I’m the one who is getting hurt,” grumbled CPA.
Jack wasn’t the only hasher to be waylaid, with Tongueless’s Dick taking up with a chain link fence somewhere halfway through trail, and Purple Pussy Eater finding a particularly appealing construction barrel. The pack only realized this was going to be a problem when Bloqueen stopped abruptly by a Honey Bucket.
“Leave him,” Udder Moron cautioned Do Her Well. “Sometimes the odds are so against you, it’s best not to try.”
“It’s not his fault he’s in love with a Port-A-Potty,” Do Her Well argued, still moving forward. Maybe if she just kept going he would disappear from view and she could just sort of forget about it.
“Yes it is!” Udder Moron yelled back. “Look at me! I’m in love with a wrench.” He gesticulated with it wildly. It was only a bit covered in rust. “Portable. Capable of high torque. A nice weapon if necessary.”
“Oh,” Do Her Well nodded thoughtfully. “In that case, I know what I am going to fall in love with.” She looked over to Cockamole’s cranium, covered with a contraption of tubes, plastic, and most importantly, beer.
“See?” Udder Moron insisted. “His own damn fault.”
Somehow most of the pack made it to the drink check, albeit each with some new additions. Can’t Eat Pussy had managed to tear himself away from his vessel, although not without taking a small piece wrested from the playground in memory—in fact, that was the solution most hashers chose, with Jack hanging onto a mirror like it was a lifeline and Dick Simmons using his newfound lighting to stage photos. No one wanted to stand too near to Bloqueen though. All in all, the hash looked like a car that had been gussied up for a wedding, except all of them were the tin cans.
“We can’t just let people keep falling in love with random objects and breaking them into pieces when they can’t go on without them,” Wee Wee spoke up. “Hashers have the attention spans of gnats, all this shit is just going to end up in Hand Pump’s van at the end of the night.”
“I mean, let’s be real. Hashers aren’t going to do much better for themselves,” Cosmo shot back.
“This… really isn’t my problem until circle,” Tuna on Top concluded.
And they were off, going back to the beer check, with not that many casualties along the way… Slick discovered a devastating passion for concrete, while Fuckfuckcaca swiped a safety vest off a construction worker claiming, “He didn’t deserve you!” but apparently random thefts were par for the course in the area because no cops were called out on their behalf.
Muff Daddy found all of this hilarious at the beer check and told them about similar times that this had all happened to ‘a friend of his.’
“It’s kind of gross, though, isn’t it?” Stinky Floss wrinkled her nose.
“No, I think it’s kinda cute!” Sleazy proclaimed. “Look at Bloqueen and that… is that… a toilet seat?”
“Yep,” Blackout shook his head. “Something has to be done.”
“I know, I know!” Abusement Park stood up proudly. “This happened at another kennel. You just have to beat it out of them.”
“Seriously?!” Mouth screeched.
“No,” Abusement Park rolled her eyes. “Is sarcasm dead? Just like end the circle, or whatever. That will bring whatever witchery has befallen these half-minds to an end.”
“Okay, okay,” Five Angry Inches declared. “Hey guys. Attention. Umm. May the hash go in peace?”
“May the hash get a piece!” chorused the pack.
“Of pipe.” Good Shit added.