SFH3 Run #1741
|:||End of Shields St (1100 Shields St)|
|:||Do Her Well|
Through the ages, mankind has thoroughly and sometimes, violently, debated the origin of life. Many ascribe responsibility to a higher power, while others cite scientific theories indicating life arose through natural interaction of simple organic compounds. Still others claim the world is actually an advanced computer simulation with a really sadistic GM.
Had any representative of these points of view been standing at the end of Shields Street on the night of November 16th, they would have quickly been proven incorrect.
A chill wind blew through the dark alleyway, and a lone onion rolled towards an empty bottle of sangria. Bits of onion coalesced with the red yeast extract lying on the ground, which enmeshed itself with the empty bottle, broken pieces of shelving, and half a turkey.1 Slowly amidst the debris arose a slender figure, moaning incomprehensible gibberish from the hole that was gradually becoming its mouth.
“Ah, Blowqueen!” Hand Pump pulled up in the van. “Good to see you, sir.”
The mouth worked itself as the figure stumbled forward. “Blokeween…” it said hesitantly.
“So where are you having the beer check tonight?”
Newly formed eyes blinked as memories of alcohol swirled in the rapidly filling mind. “Beer?”
Hand Pump grunted. “I suppose I can tap the keg for you.” He busied himself in the back. Blokeween looked down at the sack of flour that had materialized in his hand.
He looked back up as Hand Pump put a cup of beer in his hand. He took a sip, trembled slightly, and widened his eyes. “Beer,” he murmured reverently, and looked upwards.
“Oh, the park up there? Very good. Now, do you have any special marks?” Hand Pump looked at his blank face, and then knelt on the ground to draw out chalk talk. “That all? Check, backcheck, turkey…”
Blokeween howled in horror. Somewhere near his spleen, the original turkey parts retained their memories of the past.
“Okay, okay, we can call it something else. How about chicken? Is chicken okay?” A small part of Hand Pump’s mind had begun to wonder if something was wrong.2
Meanwhile the crowd had begun to gather, with several visitors from the South joining the usual group of ne’er-do-wells. Titty Boo Boo and Cunty Butler were placing bets on who would be the first to get tetanus, while The Perfect Woman was finding his match in Pussy Patrol and making plans to “get lost” on trail together later.
The growing size of the group appeared to make Blokeween even more nervous. “Hey, you ok?” asked Good Shit Lollicock.3
“I think it’s best if our hare was off,” Hand Pump prompted him. Blokeween nodded in agreement and skittered off into the night.
“Is it just me, or is he weirder than usual tonight?” wondered Good Shit. Hand Pump just shrugged and gathered the pack together for chalk talk.
“Who’s setting this shit anyway?” asked Fuck Buddy, after Hand Pump had led them through the new marks. In the background Cockamole and Cunty Butler debated which body part the “C” really stood for.
“Blowqueen? I know better than to trust a Swede,” muttered Abbah, linking arms with Six Tits A Week and Pied Piper. “It’s the walkers for me!” Both parties shrugged him off with vigor.4
“That’s odd…” Tears of Semen said softly. “I just saw him at the house before I left, finishing a bottle of Akvavit and eating herring. Hey, Hand Pump—”
But the pack was off already, eager to get to the beer but too foolish to just let the air out of Hand Pump’s tires. Trail took them up and down, in alleyways and through the mall. They went past SF State, where the front of the library was surrounded by people staring at a mass of books scattered about on the ground,5 then at the pack running by. They ran fore and yon, through countless streets that had not seen flour in a dog’s age. Just Stan howled in protest as he dragged Masterbaster through the night.
“Jesus Christ, Stan,” Masterbaster yelled, which was quickly drowned out by further yelps. “You’re going to get us arrested, you know that? You’re a fucking terrorist.”
Just Stan whimpered in dismay. He had not meant to become a terrorist, but an unfortunate family situation and living in poverty had made him vulnerable to coercion before he had known the warm love of Masterbaster. Besides, a sleeper cell sounds like a really good idea when you are a dog.
“Dude, I think Stan’s trying to tell us something,” pointed out Roman Showers. “What is it boy?”
“Allaahhahh AhhhAllAh,” yelped Stan again.
“I think he’s praising Allah?” suggested Backside Banger.
“Well, that doesn’t make him a terrorist,” Roman Showers said staunchly. “This is San Francisco. We are smart enough not to buy into that bullshit.”
“Yeah, but I just followed him on twitter,” said Now I Know My STDs. “It’s kinda suggestive.”
“Well he hasn’t done anything yet! Have you, boy?” Roman Showers scratched Stan’s ears.
“He made me sprain my ankle,” argued Masterbaster. “I bet he plotted it, too.”
“That’s called being a dog,” Backside Banger flatly. “Okay, if we want to be real shitheads about it, let’s just call him Allahu Akbark.”
“Great idea!” chorused the circle, which had metastasized around them.
And so Allahu Akbark, freshly named, skulked back to the car where he gnawed on a bone and thought of things.6
Meanwhile, the pack turned their attention to virgins Just Pam and Just Magnus, who were both queried regarding 29 Dick Pics’ orgasm sounds, and who were only able to blush in reply. Veterans Glory Hole and Jack the Ripper were celebrated also, along with one of our visitors who was sadly neglected by the RAs. Resting Slut Face and In the Ass Dear admitted to being absent together for far too long. Laps in Judgement did the visitor contingent proud by not only using a sandbox in a playground as her personal kitty litter, but also bringing along toilet paper ahead of time.
Finally, Zippercised and Just Get It Over With revealed their trail treasure—two matching game cards, one with a pie and one with a key-- you only get one guess to figure out whose card was whose. Buck Fucka, emboldened by their crimes, brought forth his preciously guarded toaster oven for the crowd’s approval. Finally, Just Michael and Dewalt Thunderpussy admitted that their tunes on trail had been thanks to two iPods that had been on the sidewalk.
“Ahh!” cried Blokeween, who had until that point remained silent.
“My ears!” he grabbed the cards, and affixed one to each side of his face.
“My stomach!” he took the toaster oven, and wedged it into his torso.
“My testes!” he took the iPods, and thrust them down his pants.
The crowd, taken aback, stared at the towering pile of refuse in horror. “Uh, did anyone check to see if that really was Blowqueen?” asked Crabs.
“That’s what I was trying to tell people!” cried Tears of Semen.
“Maybe we should just go to the bar,” suggested Miss Delivery. A police siren blipped, and he was gone.
Blokeween turned towards the squad car and shuffled towards the flashing lights. He made it as far as the front bumper before he collapsed across the hood, rotting vegetable matter speckling the front windshield. The onion landed on the pavement and rolled down the street into the dark.
“Uh. Hmm. Guys, just be out of here in ten, ok?” the car was already rolling backwards and the sergeant’s window was halfway up. Hand Pump nodded as he pushed the keg towards the van.
“He sacrificed himself for us,” said Primal Vagina.
“He was a good hasher,” muttered Crabs. “Maybe the best we’ve ever had. You almost didn’t notice the smell.”
“May he rest in pieces,” toasted Do Her Well.
1. Some of our hypothetical philosophers might want to believe this to be proof of abiogenesis, i.e. a natural creation of life, but I can assure you that very, very unnatural things had happened to each and every object in that alleyway.
2. This is in addition to the even smaller part of Hand Pump’s mind that always knows that something is wrong.
3. And if Good Shit is asking, you know you’re looking rough.
4. Both Pied Piper and Six Tits A Week know through experience that if Abbah is not removed within one minute, there’s a good chance you’ll get Swedish-by-proxy Syndrome.
5. Blokeween took a bit of time on trail to savor some classic literature and also to learn English.
6. And what Allahu Akbark thought was as follows: If one were to judge by the evidence of the night’s trail, intelligent design is highly unlikely. However, if a person wants to believe in a higher power, there’s really no reason why they shouldn’t be able to, so long as they don’t hurt anyone else in the process. And finally, if you lean against the backseat just so, you get a really good angle for licking your crotch.