SFH3 Run #2183: Green Dress Run
: 03/11/2024
: Jackson Park, Arkansas st. & Mariposa st.
: Masterbaster
: Do Her Well

Masterbaster pulled out his pen and paper, and wrote a note. He tied it onto a homing pigeon, which flew over Hand Pump's van. The sound of birdshit triggered something within Hand Pump's mind, and he rummaged into his finest stock of whiskey for Monday's trail.

It was simple, a few observations over the years, wiretapping Just Doesn't Get It's Swiss horn, installing a subliminal message or five into Dick Simmons' boom box, getting Crabs to lead the hash in meaningless chants, an AI system to hack the website to update the start and the Trash. Most of the half minds had already been addled with booze over the years, it was really only returners like Menage a Not and relative newcomers like Just Devin that were a problem. But mass hysteria only takes a bit of a nudge to get going, and as the birds circled overhead cawing and pooping, a few miles away, Circle Jerk and Port-a-Hottie spontaneously bent over and placed their checks. The hash was on autopilot.

Rocky Bowel Movement stopped briefly at the street corner, not noticing the last bit of flour he had been compelled to buy falling out the pocket of his jeans. King of Bedbugs left his pantry in dire need of a Costco run as he took his last flour bag for a walk.  One and Done, arriving from the opposite direction, was also dribbling a bit. Fucker mopped away the excess spillage with his jeans as he prepared for the start.

A few blocks away, Uber Luber bent over and spontaneously placed an arrow. Pomegranate Pullout did the same, albeit with whipped cream. Wrong Waymo accidentally marked at least five blocks via cab. Chalk talk did not even have to be arranged, as Miss Delivery had taken care of it two weeks prior.

Cum Test Dummy looked at the box of hot coffee on the back of her bike. Curious, had she picked that up? It would go well with the whiskey Hand Pump was handing over to Diarrhetos. E = McFucked stared down in slight confusion at the green dress he had been compelled to put on by forces unknown.

The pack was off, somehow with more ideas than usual in their minds about where they were going.  Do Her Well dove in front of a car, Muppet Dick flagged down a bus, and Rhythm Method led them across Potrero in the finest fashion show San Francisco had ever seen.

If there wasn't trail, the pack became compelled to create it, Tuna and Fuck Buddy dashing up Kansas Street while Boner Marrow watched doubtfully from below. But eventually Five Angry Inches convinced even Muppet Dick and Meat Hall of Fame to join in the ascent.

Even the walkers were compelled to the top of the hill, Just Sandra looking askance at Look Who's Coming to Dinner. But Muff Daddy pointed them upward, with Wash This Asshole and Can't Rush Anal prodding from the rear.

After a brief respite, the pack returned to the start en masse. Hoseblower and Blowfish stared in amazement and a touch of fear as their hands spontaneously poured down downs, while Dick Ass Mother Fucker and Three Fingers began to organize whiskey distribution. Crabs found himself with pages of crimes that had just drifted by on the ground, some from the future. While none could quite remember what they discussed, most were fairly certain they had a time.

The next morning, the homing pigeon alit on Cockamole's balcony. She untied the note and scanned its contents.

"Your hareraising days are numbered."

She shrugged, tucked the pigeon under her arm, and went back inside for some coffee.