SFH3 Run #1747: Electric Hash
: 12/21/2015
: Washington Square Park, North Beach
: Cockagami & My Uncle's Girlfriend
: Do Her Well

“Didst ye not readeth my emails?” HAND PUMP questioned the two hares standing before Him.


“Ow!” MUG jumped, having poked herself with a safety pin while adjusting the glowing electric butt plug that was gracing the front of her shirt.


“A blood sacrifice shalt not be necessary,” HAND PUMP intoned. “Doest thou have a Trail prepared for the Hash?”


“Uh, it’s kind of shitty out,” Cockagami pointed out.


“Thou hast forsaken the vows of thine ancestors.” HAND PUMP raised a fist. “Thou hadst plans to build a grand boat to bring all of thine companions to safety. What hast thy time been used for?”


“Drinking?” suggested I’m Drunk.


Lightning flashed across the sky. Udder Moron and Just Doesn’t Get It dove for cover under the patio umbrella planted like a rod in the middle of the sidewalk. Prison Wallet peed himself, but to be fair he’d planned to do that anyway.


“GO!” shouted HAND PUMP. “Gather your hashers two by two. A flood cometh!”


“What the fuck did he mean by that?” asked Cockagami as they scrambled off with the flour.


“Hell if I know. But we’d better think fast.”


The kennel stood around, huddling together for warmth.


“Whatsoever isth that?” HAND PUMP peered at the object in Dildo Baggins hands.


“Uh, a camera? State of the art, DSLR, I’ve been meaning--”


“Doest it captureth souls?”


“Uh, not this version?” Dildo Baggins attempted to snap a pic to prove his point, but the camera merely emitted a puff of smoke.


“Nevermind. The time hath come my children! Flee into the wilderness! On On!”


And with that the pack was off, sliding over slick grates and through a few brave groups of tourists as they ran in search of beer. As they rounded a corner, they nearly crashed into a man and his dog, who raised his fist at the passing group.


“Oh yeah? I’ll show you where to put that dirty mouth of yours!” Roman Showers was not about to be delayed by the disgruntled civilian, who thought better of prolonging the encounter and disappeared into the night. Unfortunately, Allahu Akbark was instead enticed by her womanly wiles, and it took every ounce of strength in Masterbaster to hold him back.


Uninterested in the shenanigans, Dickshank Redemption, Dick Simmons, and Perfect Woman ran onwards in search of beer, only to be cruelly sidelined by the lies of Da Vinci Load and Just Doesn’t Get It. After a full strip search revealed no beer was with the walkers, the trio continued. Finally, they found the hares at Pier 39, where they were led up the stairs and (thank HAND PUMP), out of the rain.


Security walked by, and Whorifist quaked in terror, dropping to his knees to beg for leniency. Saigon Sally quickly took him up on his offer, and by some stroke of providence, the guards continued onwards, leaving the pair unmolested.


“Here, take these.” MUG handed a box to Cirque Du So Lame.


“What a night to forget my enema!” he grumbled.


“Get your ass in there!” Cockagami did not have time for delays.


The FRBs stared at the most frightening thing they had seen all night—themselves. Mirrors were everywhere, and a sorrier sight had never before graced them (and that’s something for a tourist trap). Fortunately Perfect Woman, accustomed to mirrors and himself inside of them in all sorts of states, was able to recover his senses and guide the group through.


“Thank HAND PUMP you came along!” yelped Muff Daddy. “I don’t even have a reflection! This thing isn’t ADA compliant.”


“You don’t have a reflection?” asked Primal Vagina.


“It’s been surgically removed,” explained Muff Daddy.


“After all this, I need a drink,” said Sister Fister.


“Oh, come on, one more time through,” coaxed Dildo Baggins. “I think I can get some great shots.”


“OK, but I get half of the profits when we put them on Etsy,” she bargained, pulling Cockamole along in with her. “I hear there’s a X-rated area in beta testing.”


The rest of the group slunk off, sighting HAND PUMP’s van a block away.


“At last, beer! Praise be to HAND PUMP,” Do Her Well cried. “What a shitty night.” Cockagami raised an eyebrow at her. “Present company excluded, of course,” she amended.


“Was this what you wanted?” MUG asked HAND PUMP. The rain continued to pour.


“The rite of the Hash must be completed!” HAND PUMP commanded.


“You hear that? On IN!” cried Cockagami.


“But which way?” wondered One Night Only.


“Do you like it hard?” asked Cockagami. “Because if you do, you can just run straight up to Coit Tower.”


“Cockagami,” Backside Banger pulled him to the side. “We couldn’t get the prostitutes in time.”


“Um, I mean.” Cockagami grunted. “If you want to be a goddamn racist, go to Coit Tower. Otherwise, don’t.”


The pack milled around for a bit, one by one taking off like mentally deranged homing pigeons. Most managed to make their way back to the start, with the hares and Just Doesn’t Get It needing the gentle assistance of Zippercised’s car.


As everyone gathered together, Zippercised and Cockagami conferred together over the issue of HAND PUMP. Several hashers had come up to them, concerned that he wasn’t acting like his usual self.


“He has a head injury you know.” Do Her Well munched on an Oreo. “Shit, cranium, shmanium…”


“Nevermind, what were you saying?” Zippercised honed in on her.


“Uh, he tripped doing Gypsies trail on Thursday. The hospital said he was normal, imagine that!”


“What should we do?” Zippercised wondered.


Cockagami shrugged. “Circle? Let me get more beer.”


And so the shivering pack clustered under umbrellas to escape the pounding rain, stacking the keg, orange food, and themselves on the top of any available park benches to avoid the slowly rising flood waters.


Autohashing? HAND PUMP groused that he once had to walk on water to get to beer.


Complainers? HAND PUMP demanded that the offenders be turned to salt.


Dirty Santas? HAND PUMP decried false idols and commanded that they be melted back into gold.


“HAND PUMP, may we request you… for a down down?” Zippercised turned his eyes away, for HAND PUMP’s face was now too terrible to bear.


“What is it, mortal?”


Zippercised handed him a bandage. “Sorry, this fell off.” The crowd turned back towards them in relief as the horrific wound was covered. “HAND PUMP, it’s come to our attention that you had a… mishap last week.”


“No, I don’t believe so.” For the first time that night HAND PUMP sounded uncertain.


“Yes, you did. You tripped and cut yourself up there while running trail.”


“I… I was on trail?”


“Yes,” said Zippercised. “You were in Golden Gate Park. With the Gypsies.”


“But, that must mean… I’m a hasher?” HAND PUMP looked down at his hands, astonished. And so the scales fell from Hand Pump’s eyes, and he saw that he was a mortal, just as the rest of the pack, with all the good and much of the bad that came with that.


“Look at this!” Gondolorrhea was holding back Prison Wallet, who was carrying a bundle in his mouth.


“It’s faux fur!” exclaimed Primal Vagina.


“It’s completely dry!” yelled Roman Showers. “The rain has stopped!”


And so the pack doffed their rain jackets and closed their umbrellas, enjoying the calmness in the wake of the storm. Some took advantage of the half-full keg, while others traipsed to the bar in small groups to partake in a wider selection. A rainbow blossomed across the sky.


“Fuck,” said Uber Luber. “I’ve really got to stop getting this trashed, or I’ll be banned from Lyft, too.”



Exeunt Omnes