Jack the Ripper had launched his TikTok career under a pseudonym because the work 'Ripper' kept getting censored. At his latest trail, he had planned to set off a new trend that would sweep the nation before midnight, but Who's Your Daddy had unfortunately attracted the attention of a young mall cop. Reluctantly, Jack stashed his Swiffer and faced the sorry lot that had stumbled across the parking lot in search of another, less security-laden parking lot.
"For the Gram?" he asked Do Her Well, holding up his phone.
"You should have used at least five pounds of flour," she scolded. "I thought you said it was going to rain!?"
Jack shrugged and checked for himself on Twitter trends. #TrailTreasure yielded some... interesting results, so he snapped a selfie with his co-hare Tricrapylete to try to turn the tide. Unfortunately, activating his network of bots was too much work, and the pack was not going to be much help. Just Jan, likely the youngest representative, claimed he had found the group by calling a phone number he had found in a bathroom... but Cuming Mutha had given up the hash hotline years before. Three Fingers was refreshing Facebook to see if he could add historical commentary to the trail's event invite (as if Jack would bother), while Hand Pump was busy following up on his Craigslist Missed Connections.
Jack sighed, and sent them off into the wilderness of SF State. Dickweed was sure to appear on NextDoor, which was good since it would keep Jack out of the purview of less desirable platforms. King of Bedbugs finished uploading to his Be Real app and followed close behind, while Gloryhole and Fucker took a little more time to say goodbye to their WhatsApp networks. Trail took the group through so much suburbia that Muff Daddy had signed up to two separate Neighborhood Watches, each of which was on the lookout for Muff Daddy. TurboTwat and Tuna narrowly avoided an endless loop of tags on Pinterest, thank god.
On All Fours paused to check her messages on Tinder, which she had joined in an effort to find lumber for projects Millimeter Peter was planning out. Her mistake caused no troubles, as he had already found appropriately aged wood at the local theater he had stopped by in lieu of trail. Famous Anus sought out a review, but demurred when Chickless Boner offered to share a Pay-Per-View version from his home collection. Jack just had to shake his head, he had learned that the attention span of today's viewers required quicker action than any of that lot had to offer.
Sensing Jack's disdain, the pack circled around to see what advice he had to offer. Wee Wee, complaining that she'd been given real phone numbers on trail 'like we were in the 90s or something' was advised to carry a QR code with her in the future. Muppet Dick learned that you can't just make hash shit 'happen.' And SeXXX-Ray figured out you might not get the best results from ChatGPT when you asked it what a hash shit is.
The true tragedy of the night, however, was that after Jack the Ripper had given the hashers so much, they had given him so little in return. For while he looked at Humpy, Slug, One and Done, and even Little Red Riding Wood for any spark of inspiration, anything that might shoot his mentions into the stratosphere. But all he saw was normal people, doing a normal thing, drinking in the middle of a random street on a cold, dark San Francisco evening and not bothering to move if car happened to try to drive on the actual lane of the road.
But when his ears overheard Just Paul talking, he stopped, aghast. For he heard something that had never been recognized, something instantly relatable, something that the richest of the rich and the lowliest commoner would find common ground in. Because Just Paul spoke of the devastation he had suffered, not once, but twice, as he felt the pain bloom in his absolutely average, positively regular, exquisitely normal Medium Sized Balls of Fire.
The song went viral overnight, Jack made bank off of the Medium Sized Ball Coolers he sold on Etsy, but he has remained in arrears to hash cash ever since.