SFH3 Run #1929.069: Captain Organ's Quest for Beery Treasure
|:||See below! Depends on your Trail choice!|
|:||Captain Organ, Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring, & Do Her Well|
Hashers staggered aboard the Jeremiah O’Brien, some gazing around in wonder, others huddling together for warmth, and others looking altogether unimpressed. “Yeah,” said Missy Pissy, “it’s alright, but I still prefer a motorboat.”
“Hey, I thought Captain Organ was going to be here tonight,” said Roofie Ragu. “He decided against it,” Po-Po Peepshow informed him, “said he wouldn’t lay trail for any pack smaller than 69, so he’s gone.”
“Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring also appears to be missing,” said Rock Paper Strippers worriedly.
“She’s fine! Just napping at the bar,” Creamthroat Willie reassured him.
Above deck, and unknown to the group that began to form below, Certified Pubic Accuntant and Cockagami braced themselves against the howling wind and buckets of rain to steer the ship towards safe harbor.
“I knew I should have stayed home today!” mourned CPA.
“Shit, Vagina Dentata, can’t you do something about this weather?” shouted Cockagami over the bray of a fog horn.
“Will it be raining men?” asked My Little Porno hopefully. At that moment, a shirtless Perfect Woman, Queen, and Sea Queef Pee Oh appeared on the dance floor.
“Thank you!” cried Tequila Cockingbird and My Uncle’s Girlfriend in unison, as they rushed out to join them.
The storm that raged above the sea seemed to work its way below deck, striking Lost In Foreskin and Shackless to the ground. “Sweet new dance moves!” exclaimed Ska Skank Redemption as she threw herself down a flight of stairs. Anal Beaching, 5 Angry Inches, and Shaft Impacther followed Backside Banger to the deepest corners of the ship in search of dry shelter, while Horny Hands tried to comfort Tonya Hardon with a massage. Only Masterbaster looked pleased with himself, eagerly cheersing anyone he found to show off his personalized vessel.
“Will we survive this surly squall?!” Worst Bottom Ever shouted in despair. Suddenly, the music and shouts were interrupted by the yelp of a car horn.
“It’s Muff Daddy!” said Humpy Slocum, pointing at the van. Sure enough, the unmistakable voice of Muff Daddy rang out into the night. “Alright, who is the owner of this El Camino that’s blocking my van?!”
“Wait,” said Sister Fister, “you mean we could have gotten off of this boat this this whole time?” “Yes of course,” said Muff Daddy, “the ship never left the pier, duh! Seriously, half minds.” And with a roll of his eyes he peeled off into the night, leaving the bewildered pack to make their way off of the boat and into the safe harbor of the nearest bar.