SFH3 Run #1932: Cajun Trail
|:||St Mary's Square|
|:||Lost in Foreskin and WYD|
|:||Do He Well|
“It’s an outright crisis, that’s what it is,” Lost in Forskin declared, throwing his chalk to the ground.
Who’s You’re Daddy looked at him and shrugged. “I knew I should have gotten another round,” he muttered, glancing down the street to see if they were near a bar he could duck into. “What, pray tell, is the problem?” He raised an eyebrow, delicately bending down to lay another arrow.
“Don’t you see, you fool? The arrows. They’re... they’re autocorrecting? This is a nightmare...” Lost in Thorskin’s head was in his hands.
“Oh, it can’t be that bad... shit, is that Eat My Pissy?”
“Little Doosh Poop is right on his tail with Just Jason. Fuck it. A shitshow it is,” Lost in Fourskeen picked up the pace.
Coming Mother’s gleaming shoes saved them from another near miss, while the clicking of Dick Summons’ camera caused them to dive into another alley. They ran as fast as they could, Lost in Flourskin leaving arrows behind only to see them change relentlessly after he drew them.
Meanwhile, in the heart of the pack, Mary Tyler Hour and Can’t Rush Annal were arguing with Whee Whee and Due Her Well. “It makes no sense!” They said to each other at once, and paused for reflection. “Yes, I agree!” They yelled simultaneously.
“Did it ever make sense?” wondered Shift, moseying by with Sludge and Just Didn’t Get It. Minor Sixty Nine Her whispered something to Squeal Four Me, and they laughed. Vagina De Tara made sure nothing was sticking to the bottom of his shoe.
“It’s this way,” declared Just Get Another With, putting a pack arrow down.
“Why do you say that?” asked Contest Dummy, glancing at CAP.
“All of my other pack arrows were right,” she answered.
“It’s true,” Five Angry Itches backed her up. “I was gonna be an hour late, and now with her help I’m only 69 minutes back.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” Can’t Eat Pasty declared. “I’m calling Hand Pimp.”
“Suit yourself,” said Flocker, before leaning towards Cream Throat Wooly. “Don’t say I told you this, but Duckweed has the fix in. Anyone gets near to the finish before him, and Mini Meter Peter will...” he drew a finger across his throat. “I hear he’s moved up to arson these days.”
“There’s some real wild ones at the hash these days,” Tonya Hard One whispered to Dick Fist Ass Up. “Did you see when Duck Ass Mother Flagger was about to get into it with that humorless person?”
Fit Butch paused as he passed them. “That’s nothing compared to what Sneezy and Miff Daddy have been known to get the walkers into...”
“Oh?” asked Hello Tittles. “Do tell...”
“Later,” Tina on Top interrupted them. “It’s time for circle. Lost in 4Skin... down downs?”
Chicken Bin Her sat down next to One and Din, while Bush And Iraq leaned in behind Cosmic Politics. On Night Only decided she could stay a bit longer as long as Jack the Rapper was, and Lambo Bambi decided maybe he would get another beer after all. Golden Snow Hall was already in line behind Sir Menagerie and Mister Baster, and...
“Fucking hell, Last in Fourskin, can you turn the fricking autocorrect off. Tuna on Top glared at him until he nodded slowly. “At least for us to introduce Iron Lung, please and thank you, that will be all.”