SFH3 Run #1739
|:||9th & Lincoln|
|:||Cunniwingus & Wee Wee Wee All The Way Home|
|:||Do Her Well|
Little Red Riding Bitch
Cunniwingus pulled out her trail map, peering at the street names now bleeding together from sweat that had drenched the paper. Ten yards away, Wee Wee waved furiously. The pack would be on them any second now.
Above them, a high-pitched chittering resounded from the branches of a pine tree. Two glowing eyes stared out of the darkness.
“I don’t think we’re alone.” Cunniwingus warned.
“Oh, come on, it’ll be fine.” Wee Wee gestured again and turned to run onwards. Suddenly, a small furry shape scurried from a bush in front of her. She gasped and dropped the bag of flour. The chittering again echoed around them, this time magnified by a factor of twenty.
“Shit, there’s a hundred of them!”
They darted off into the night. Two small pairs of hands carefully picked up the chalk, while another set grabbed the flour. If human ears had been present, they might have trembled at the eldritch sound of inhuman laughter that rang through the night.
Just Lexie sniffed at the ground eagerly. Her two mothers had told her that Foul Balls was going to take her to see her grandmother today. Grandma Lexie (whom she was named after) was very busy with her career as a stripper, travelling across the nation to see her adoring fans. Just Lexie had never met her in person, but she already knew they would get along famously.
The entire pack was already gathered around the white van, attention centered on one person. Just Lexie sniffed… she had not realized before… but could it be?
“Chalk?” Hand Pump handed Foul Balls a piece of drywall.
“Grandma?” barked Just Lexie.
“Yes, girl.” Foul Balls patted her head absentmindedly.
“Grandma!” she barked again, as Hand Pump turned away. She tugged at her leash, pulling Foul Balls forward by several paces.
By that point, though, Zippercised had finished chalk talk and sent the pack off. In the confusion, Just Lexie lost all sight and scent of the man she believed to be her grandma.
“This way!” The pack turned left and right, and Just Lexie lost all sense of direction. Catching the elusive scent she leapt forward suddenly, flinging Foul Balls into the bushes. The leash snapped, and she took off.
Just Lexie’s nose led her out of Golden Gate Park, but then trail died off. She paused in confusion.
“Hey there, girl!” ABAAH grabbed her collar swiftly. “What are you doing here?” He walked her across the street, pulling her into a nearby yard. Grabbing a clothesline, he made a makeshift leash. “Let’s follow trail a bit, maybe we’ll bump into your daddy.” They soon joined Mr. Asstastic and his canine companion, and Just Lexie peacefully went along, hoping that ABBAH would help her find her grandmother again. They went up and down, hither and yon, until finally they arrived at the van once more.
“Grandma!” Lexie barked excitedly. “My… what beady eyes you have!”
Hand Pump bent down and patted Lexie on the head. “All the better to see you with, my dear.”
The pack milled around the van. Just Aaron tittered as Do Her Well recounted her misadventures with poison oak, offering to rub some onto his furry arms to prove his resistance.
“My, grandma,” Just Lexie added. “What interesting… breath you have.”
“All the better for you to track me, my dear.” Hand Pump’s sweatshirt shifted about as he bent to pet her again.
Just Mike was explaining to the gathered crowd that his new racing techniques involved scrambling on four legs. “Much more efficient,” he proclaimed.
“And grandma,” Just Lexie said hesitantly. “What furry ears you have.”
“All the better to hear your kind words with, my dear.” A set of whiskers quivered as Hand Pump continued pat her head.
“It’s a trick!” barked Just Stan, tugging Masterbaster towards them. A set of headlights lit up the end of the lane, and half the pack, including Hand Pump, scurried into the darkness.
“Whoops!” shouted Drunken Honuts as she fell over into the bushes. She appeared a moment later, tilting unsteadily as she adjusted her chest. Roman Showers stared. “No dear, let me help.” Drunken Honuts grabbed her wrist, yanked, and they both fell out of sight.
“Quiet, Stan!” retorted Lexie. “I’m trying to spend time with my grandma. You’re just jealous that you’d need a maternity test to find your mother. Your family tree is just a stick in the mud.”
“Harumph,” said Just Stan. “At least my mother was a real bitch. Your parents were two lesbians and a plumber, and your grandmother is a pile of raccoons.”
“On in!” chittered Hand Pump, ending the argument. The pack marched back to Golden Gate Park. Everyone dug into the orange food with great enthusiasm, and RAs Zippercised and Do Her Well began rounding up everyone for circle.
“Foul Balls!” cried Do Her Well.
“Papa!” barked Just Lexie excitedly. “I found Grandma, she’s over there!” She pulled Foul Balls towards Hand Pump, who was standing unsteadily at the edge of circle.
“My, Hand Pump,” Do Her Well said uneasily. “What sharp, pointy teeth you have tonight.”
“All the better to eat your orange food with, my dear!” screeched Hand Pump, collapsing into several furry masses that darted through the crowd. Bags of Cheetos and chips flew through the air.
“Fuck!” screamed Good Shit Lollicock. “I thought you assholes could at least tell white people apart.”
“Is it too late to take back the part about being a transplant?” asked Brown Eye For The Gay Guy.
“Holy shit!” yelled MUG as Cockagami also collapsed beside her. “I should have known something was wrong when he bought a new pair of shoes this afternoon.”
“How can people be this stupid?” asked Backside Banger to no one in particular.
“Well, yeah, but she still makes excellent pies.” Backside explained. “And she loves washing dishes too. And phones.”
“Silence!” yelled Masterbaster. The crowd paused. “I don’t care if a bunch of you are raccoons.” He thought for a second. “Even my co-GM. Just clean the fuck up after yourselves.”
“I want my six dollars!” yelled Muff Daddy in the background.
“And pay for your shit,” added Masterbaster. He looked around at their expectant eyes. “That’s all I got.”
“I was going to swing low…” said Zippercised, hesitantly.
“Go for it,” said Do Her Well. “The odds of training them successfully have increased by at least one hundred percent.”