SFH3 Run #1746: Shaft Light Trail
|:||Sydney Walton Square, Front at Pacific|
|:||Do Her Well|
A city like this will smile sweetly at first glance, but a guy like me’s been around long enough to know that beneath her Golden Gate grin, there lurks an insidious underbelly, a teeming morass of feckless debauchery. Around here it’s cut or be cut, take or be taken, swallow or be swallowed, and not by the mol you’re pining for but by a big ol’ fish called Shaft.
A man by the name of Shaft is not one you’d fiddle around with, not by choice. But I had nowhere else to go, nowhere else to turn at this point but into the arms of The San Francisco Hash House Harriers.
A more conniving lot of ne’er-do-wells I’d never met, not in the city of Boston, not in the slums of New York. And I arrived tonight to pledge my loyalty and gratitude to our Don, Masterbaster. The Snoball caper had gone without a hitch, pornaments had found their way into the seedy underground of El Rio and were being trafficked citywide.
They hadn’t stopped with that, in fact. Shaft had arranged a cunning plan to continue infiltration downtown, sending us out in waves to distract hapless security guards and further befuddle lost tourists. Stinky Floss, with her minions Uber Luber and Ru Ru Rimmin, passed illicit pornographic materials to paying customers, while Dick Simmons took blackmail material for later use.
The PD, hopelessly distracted by Banana In Public running away from them, failed to notice a Saab being set on blocks by the pier. “Here ya go, toots,” Dick Ass Mother Fucker winked at Dickweed as he threw him a grill. “I know how to treat a dame like you.”
But not all was going according to Shaft’s diabolical plan. Backside Banger had spotted trouble, and trouble was his middle name, after Clarence, of course. He had seen a man and a woman arguing and making out in the middle of the street, a sure sign that the SFH3 turf was not being respected. Backside gathered his own crew, leading Rent Whore, Zippercised, and Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring to plot against the brash pair. A strategic call to the po-po served two purposes—it removed the duo, who were currently fucking on top of the now stripped Saab, from SFH3’s domain, and it distracted the sergeants from the fully functional sex dungeon that had been set up on Pier 7.
Master Brave Fart had tied up Heracknophobia just like she liked, while Perfect Woman was supplying both with copious amounts of Fireball Whiskey. It was not long before Roman Showers had bogarted the bottle away from them, sloppily spilling it down her chest and demanding that Fluffer clean her up nice and neat. Whorifist and I’m Drunk were charging admission to the show. After they’d earned enough for a round at the bar, Hand Pump made everyone scram before they were busted.
While Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring prepped the getaway car, Don Masterbaster gathered the group together to thank them for their loyalty to himself and Drunkin Honuts. A wary eye was turned towards Weiner I Am, Wrinklepecker, Cirque Du So Lame, and John Handcock, who had all spent far too long with a family of another kind-- Weiner I Am’s mom. Penance would be paid, Masterbaster assured the group. A session with Sister Fister would sort them all out. Our Portland visitor and his virgin chuckled with glee.
With that rousing thought, all eyes turned towards me.
How does a small town boy like yours truly get by in a group like this?
Simple. Cock in one hand, pizza in the other.
It’s not delivery… It’s Dickgiorno.