SFH3 Run #1737
: 10/19/2015
: South Park
: Sir Ménage-a-Lot
: Do Her Well

“I can’t believe you half-minds are getting the hash canned before Hashoween!” groaned Crabs. “It’s simply ludicrous!” Backwash nodded in agreement.


“Well, to be fair,” pointed out Do Her Well. “We’re not canned yet… just in the can.”


The group was cloistered together in a small holding cell of the San Francisco County Jail, with barely enough room to breathe. Every so often, someone would step on someone else’s foot, and that would send off a tidal wave of shuffling and poking until they settled down for a few more minutes.


“Hey, this is just like my tiny house in Tahoe!” Just Andrea exclaimed happily. Everyone else would have groaned, but they couldn’t suck enough air in.


“Why did Menage set trail into the jail?”


“Why were we stupid enough to follow him?”


“Why didn’t I go to prelube?”


There were no answers.


A measured beat of footsteps from the hallway echoed into the cell. The group could only see a shadow of the police sergeant’s cap, but it was enough to gain their silence.


“Let me explain, sir, you see,” Buck Fucka stepped forward. “We were simply following a trail of flour set by one of our group in pursuit of beer—”


“Shut up!” the group collectively screeched.


“Don’t anyone talk to them without a lawyer!” added Roman Showers.


“We know that.” The sergeant’s mustache bristled. “We know everything. But we’re willing to look the other way, in exchange for some information…”


“They said they would leave us alone for two whole years!” Sir Menage-A-Lot popped up behind him.  “All we have to do is tell him—”


“Tell us what you know about the events of this weekend,” interrupted the sergeant. “And you’ll be free to go.”


“Hey, that isn’t what you promised—whoa!” Menage was thrown into the already stuffed holding cell.


“Next time get it in writing.” The sergeant looked around. “Who’s first? You— ” he pointed towards the back of the cell. “What’s your name?”


“Oh Shit!”


“Stop being a wise-arse, come over here.” Oh Shit shuffled forward. “You’re going to be in trouble soon if you don’t tell me your name.”


“Oh Shit! My name is Oh Shit!”


“No shit,” retorted the sergeant.

“No, I’m No Shit,” piped up a voice from the back of the room. The pack, eager to get this over with, shoved him to the front.


The sergeant squinted. “You’re Oh Shit, and he’s No Shit?”


“No shit!” they exclaimed together.


“Were you separated at birth or something? How am I supposed to tell you assholes apart?”


“We have a way.” The pair looked each other, and pulled off their pants.


The officer sighed, looked down, and nodded. “I guess that’ll do.  Right this way.” He hauled the two away for questioning.


Once he left, the group exploded in a furor of accusations, mostly directed at Menage.


“Not to worry!” he held up his bag of flour. “I’ll just simply set trail out of here.”


“I don’t think it works like that,” cautioned Primal Vagina.


“It’s a good thing that I snuck this file in the bag, then,” replied Fixed Queer.  “Let me get near the window…”


The door opened once again, and Fixed Queer dropped to the floor.  Resting Slut Face and Cockagami were shoved unceremoniously in.


“Where were you guys?” asked ABBAH.


“We were at the pre-lube,” Resting Slut Face explained. “Some guy got mad at Cockagami.” He thought for a moment. “And then he said I had a pretty mouth.”


“And I don’t?” Cockagami chimed in. “I take offense to that.”


“So I asked him what he meant, and then he handed me a wad of cash, and then the cops showed up,” finished Resting Slut Face. “No clue what happened.”


“What happened,” the sergeant’s gruff voice broke in. “Is that your sex trafficking ring has finally been busted. We’ve gotten everything we need from these two.” He threw No Shit and Oh Shit back into the room.


“We’ve heard all about your thirst for virgins and fresh, young meat. We’ve taken Just Enoch to Juvenile Hall—hopefully he won’t be irreparably scarred by your shenanigans. And after the events on the SS Jeremiah O'Brien this weekend we finally have enough to bust you. Just tell us who the ringleader here is, and we can let the rest of you go.”


“Not without my lawyer present, you’re not! And that goes for the whole group. We’re not saying another word.” Roman Showers pulled out a business card.  “Here. Call my attorney immediately.”


The sergeant looked like he would protest, but he simply harrumphed and took the card, slamming the door behind him.


“Wasn’t that your business card?” asked Backside Banger.


“Shh, I’m buying time.” Roman Showers crossed her arms. “No one’s saying anything, no one knows anyone else here. Get it? Or else you certainly will.”


“No worries here,” replied Sister Fister. “I don’t even remember this weekend.”


“Cops know how to use Facebook,” Now I Know My STDs cautioned. “Maybe if you were going to ship virile young men into San Francisco, you should have banned all of the cameras. And not hired a professional photographer.”


“It was just a wedding!” yelled Roman Showers. “There was definitely no funny business, none whatsoever.”


“Then why did you ask for $1000 for that dude, and $500 for the other one tonight?” asked Zippercised, pointing to the men in Roman Showers’ company, who were most definitely not married to her.


“Hey!” yelled one of Roman Showers’ virgins.


“They’re housekeepers, duh.” Roman Showers rolled her eyes. “One of them is… more experienced… than the other.”


“Got it!” shouted Fixed Queer. “It’s a tight squeeze, though.” He looked at the open window, and down at his waist.


“Not to worry,” Who’s Your Daddy whipped off his shirt to show his freshly manscaped chest. “I’ll slip right through. Someone lube me up!”


As the group backed away from him, Menage took the opportunity to set trail out of there. “Follow me!” he yelled. Only a handful were dumb enough to follow.  The rest emerged from the window onto the sidewalk and tried to look like lost tourists.


A car screeched up, driven by a woman engaged in intense conversation on her phone. “Hi Mom!” Dick Ass Mother Fucker waved.  “No guys, you have to leave her alone, she’s busy right now.”  The group ignored him, piling into the car. A bigger group of clowns had never been seen in San Francisco. Hand Pump’s van followed behind, picking up the hashers who fell off. 


“To the bar!” They yelled in unison.


“It’s my birthday,” added No Panties, No Problem. “And after all this someone better buy me a fucking drink.”


The End.