“Oooh,” Forest Dump wailed, the bay at his back. “Oooooooh. Do you know who I am?”

 

 

 

“An angel?” Just Get It Over With guessed.

 

 

 

“Do I look like an angel to you?” Forest Dumped asked, crossing his arms.

 

 

 

Just Get It Over With shrugged. “It takes all kinds. Trust me, I know.”

 

 

 

“A scary spider?” guessed Hello Titties.

 

 

 

“Uh. No.” Forest Dumped waved his arms about again for added effect. “I am the ghost of Hashmas past, and I am here to guide you through the hazy cloud of time so you can see things… things as they once were.”

 

 

 

“Actually, there’s lots of interesting historical pictures and archives of old San Francisco,” millimeter Peter said helpfully. “You can just download this app— “

 

 

 

“You have apps? You have apps!?  There’s no apps! There’s no apps in hashing,” Forest Dumped shook his fist.

 

 

 

“Oh, leave him alone, Forest,” Wee Wee scoffed.

 

 

 

“Zip it, Wee Wee! We didn’t even have a Hand Pump, and Cuming Mutha was our hareraiser and he called me a talking pile of pigshit. And that was when my parents drove all the way down from Michigan to set trail. And did I use an app?

 

 

 

“No?” guessed Tongueless’s Penis.

 

 

 

“No! And you know why?” Forest Dumped yelled.

 

 

 

“Probably because you had to use smoke signals to communicate,” Fucker remarked.

 

 

 

“Because there’s no apps in hashing! You disgust me. Trail’s that way.” Forest Dumped pointed to his asshole.

 

 

 

Luckily the pack was somewhat used to overly helpful hares and found flour a block or so away. Cream Throat Willy dashed away, leading Dickweed and the virgin into a construction pit. Bierectional darted the other way leading Muppet Dick down a poorly lit stairwell.

 

 

 

Forest Dumped hovered helpfully nearby. “You see all this luxury? You see all these refined people? Trendy bars? Elite athletic structures? Pah. This was all empty shipyards, scurrilous characters, and a suspicious smell of urine back in my day.”

 

 

 

“Well, we can provide two of three,” Backside Banger said optimistically.

 

 

 

“You know what would make me feel better?” Do Her Well asked no one in particular. “Getting down low with some ladies.” She hopped in the elevator with Mary Tyler Whore and Bush and A Rack.

 

 

 

“Happy to help you all… enjoy the ride!” Buck Fucka pushed all of their buttons with vigor.

 

 

 

Fuck Buddy ran on, ignoring the chaos, while Wee Wee took a pitstop by a fancy looking Ferrari. Dick Simmons missed the shot by just a hair.

 

 

 

“And here!” Forest Dumped moaned dramatically. “Here is where the scent of good beer used to draw hashers in for miles, and we’d get the best deals in town. Now! Hipsters galore!”

 

 

 

“If he’s the ghost of Hashmas past, can I be the ghost of Hashmas present?” Five Angry Inches wondered. “My present is chlamydia.”

 

 

 

“You’re saying you have chlamydia?” wondered Can’t Rush Anal.

 

 

 

“No, but I know someone who does,” Five Angry Inches wiggled his eyebrows.

 

 

 

“Let me tell you about Hashmas past,” Cum Guzzling Cockaholic held up a hand. “Back in my day, you could be proud of the hash. You could brag at work, tell all your buddies. But now? Now I have to hide myself like a cockroach, scuttling in the darkness.”

 

 

 

“All of my trash notes have been syncing to my work email,” Do Her Well replied. “Pretty sure that’s all you, buddy.”

 

 

 

“Are we there yet?” complained Cum Test Dummy.

“Actually, yes,” CPA replied.

 

 

 

“Oh, shit, I need another twenty miles,” she took off.

 

 

 

“What’s up assholes!” Chicken Bone Her waved from the van. “I’m the Ghost of Hashmas Yet to Cum.”

 

 

 

“What happens to Hand Pump?” Today is Monday asked, hands clenched together tightly.

 

 

 

“Oh, he’s retired after winning the lottery in the future,” Chicken Bone Her replied.

 

 

 

“Uh, how soon?” Vagina Dentata asked. “Like, ten years from now, right?”

 

“Oh, at least,” Roman Showers waved her hand. “I gave him some lucky numbers that he’s still using—5, 2, 13.”

 

 

 

“How’s that gonna help?” asked Dickweed.

 

 

 

“Powerball is six numbers, duh,” Roman Showers walked off to get a beer.

 

 

 

Forest Dumped sighed. “You kids have it so easy these days. Apps. Fancy stadi-i.  Hand Pump. Ten million IPAs. They don’t make hashers like they used to these days.”

 

 

 

“Come on, come on,” Just Doesn’t Get It hushed him. “You’re scaring the NIMBYs—see, we have one right here drinking beer with us.

 

“You?” Forest “You made someone come? You?”

 

 

 

“Yep,” Just Doesn’t Get It straightened his tuxedo shirt.

 

 

 

“Huh. I guess not all hope is lost,” Forest Dumped shrugged. “The kids are all right.”

 

 

 

“What a nice night,” Muff Daddy remarked to Tuna as they gazed over the water. “What say you?” he asked as they watched the crowd depart slowly and drunkenly into the night.

 

 

 

Tuna breathed in and out slowly. “I see dumb people,” she said, and walked away.