SFH3 Run #1740
: 2015-11-09
: Crocker Amazon Playground
: Do Her Well
: Do Her Well

“These are the times that try men’s souls,” Masterbaster proclaimed to the shivering pack. “The summer hasher and sunshine harriette will shrink from service to their kennel. But we proud, we few, who stand together in times like these, it is we who deserve the love and thanks of all who would clink their glasses together in solidarity.”


The chattering of teeth was his only answer.


“The Daly City Police have oppressed us for far to long. Tonight, the brave amongst us will stand together—  What is it, BloQueen?”


“Ahem, ahem. The code name is Blokeween now, thank you very much, and I just have to say that I don’t think that invading Daly City is quite the answer, you know. They have their traditions, we have ours, let bygones be bygones all that. I dunno, what do you think?”


Masterbaster blinked. “Shit, all out of Swedish translators tonight BloQueen. As I was saying… we will sally forth tonight and let them see us in full strength. Well, what are you standing around for? On ON!” he roared.


The pack was off, slipping and sliding up in the mud as they charged up San Bruno mountain. Darting and weaving through alleyways, stumbling over at least one broken sink and one completely intact can of beans, they evaded the oppressive gaze of Daly City’s Finest, until at last they reached the top of the hill.


“Are we all here?” asked Roman Showers.


“Anyone need shiggy socks?” added Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring. “Only twice regular price right now,” she added, eying the thorny plant life around them.


“How did recruitment go?” demanded Cockagami. “I’m Drunk, Hoseblower, did you turn any Daly Citizens to our ranks?”


“No, but I got some cool pictures!” Hoseblower scrolled through his iPhone. “Look at the Christmas lights—here’s one with Snoopy! And a train! And—oops, you went too far.”


Suddenly, the pack split down the middle, two figures stumbling forth. Gobble My Ass was bravely supporting Who’s Your Daddy’s weight, but even she had to collapse as they finally were ensconced by the safety of the pack.


“He’s poisoned,” she gasped.


“They fed me…” Who’s Your Daddy whispered.  “They fed me… non-alcoholic beer.” He collapsed with a sigh.


“Who did?” demanded Primal Vagina. “Who did it?”


She turned towards Lady Red Rocket, his pal Just Aaliyah hovering by his side. “I don’t know you… you could be from Daly City… or worse, Brisbane!”


The Perfect Woman put a hand on Roman Showers’ shoulder. “I can vouch for them, Primal Vagina. A hasher is not defined by where he or she is from, but what company they choose to keep! The hash is the family you choose.”


“Okay, then what about this asshole.” Primal Vagina gestured to Brown Eye For The Gay Guy. “He says he’s a transplant, how convenient. His Brown Eye is perfect camouflage for a lily white soul!”


“Sorry, I don’t need souls right now,” Brown Eye looked up from his list. “But if you happen to be Jewish…”


“Okay, what about Just Eric?”


“He was under me in high school,” chimed in Whorifist. “My entire time there. I can vouch.”


“Or Just Ana? She doesn’t say that much.”


“Oh, what? No, I’m with you guys.  Let me…  I just love going down. All night long. Going down is my jam.” Just Ana smiled brightly.


“It certainly is,” added Wee Wee, slinging an arm around her shoulder.


“Look!” interrupted Sir Menage A Lot. “Her shirt!”


Cunty Butler stood up from tying her shoe.


“It says NON-ALCOHOLIC BEER!” cried the pack.


“No, guys, it was just a race… oh shit,” she backed away from the crowd, then turned to run.  As she scrambled downhill, she flung first her shirt, then her pants at the pack, but they were undeterred.  They pursued her downhill at an alarming rate, until she slid to a stop near Geneva Avenue. 


“Shit, where’s trail, where’s trail. That last arrow was wonky. Where’s trail…”


The pack were nearly upon her, but the millimeterPeter cried out “Beer near!” and the group’s focus shifted like a gang of toddlers with ADD.


“I’ve never been happier for shittily marked trail.” Cunty Butler breathed a sigh of relief as she disappeared into the night.


Back at the van, the pack milled happily with beer in hand, mission forgotten entirely.


“Were your units successful?” Do Her Well leaned towards Hand Pump. They gazed together at Backside Banger, Muff Daddy, Six Tits A Week, and Pied Piper. Muff Daddy nearly orgasmed as he found the box of Whoppers in the orange food.


“Oh, yes,” chuckled Hand Pump. “A bit of a run in with a park ranger, no trouble there, though. He may even join us at the Broken Record tonight. If he knows what’s good for him.”


“Where were you guys?” Just Doesn’t Get It asked Cunniwingus and Haireola as they walked back to the start.


“Uhh… parking?” replied Cunniwingus. Haireola gulped and adjusted his running shorts.


Just Doesn’t Get It looked around at the empty parking lot and frowned.


“I mean, we’re pacifists?” tried Haireola.


Just Doesn’t Get It winked. “Just remember to use lube!”




Meanwhile, still atop San Bruno Mountain, Jack the Ripper kicked Who’s Your Daddy’s limp form. “Are you on?” he asked blithely.


“Here,” a figure emerged from the darkness, carrying an uncapped bottle of Pliny the Elder. “This should revive him.” She brought the Pliny to Who’s Your Daddy’s lips, and he eagerly swallowed.


“Where did you get that?” he gasped.


“Even in the darkest of nights, on the most remote trails, we have our allies,” she said mysteriously, and sashayed off into the night.