SFH3 Run #1763
: 04/11/2016
: 9th and MLK
: Wee Wee Wee & Sister Fister
: Do Her Well

Golden Gate Park was ominously quiet, the eldritch light gleaming through the trees through the overcast clouds. A bird whistled, but stopped abruptly. The crowd had gathered around for chalk talk, a lone virgin proffered by Sister Fister up for the sacrifice. The clock ticked onwards towards the hashing hour, and all could feel the energy buoying in the wind. And yet, a key member was missing from their number, and with it went a part of them…


Sir Menage-a-Lot stared at the pile of flour and chalk marks in front of him. Something had been on the tip of his tongue, but as it didn’t belong to his husband, he couldn’t be quite sure what it was. A bit of the flour blew aimlessly in the wind, and he noticed the rest of the group around him was staring just as blankly at it as he had been.


“Dude!” yelled a fluorescently clad stranger walking towards them. He held his hand aloft, but no one gave him any acknowledgment. “Fine, be that way. Hey Hand Pump, where’s the van?” A moment of silence passed, then another, and finally Lost in Foreskin shrugged and moved forward towards the milling group a little distance further along the sidewalk.


Meanwhile, the man he had called Hand Pump stared at a map which had seemingly appeared in his hands as if by magic. It looked like a drunk toddler had created a mapmyrun account and accidentally hit print screen, but in the middle of it all, highlighted in two different colors and underlined thrice were the letters B C.


“Hey is that the beer check?” Lost in Forskin peered over his shoulder.


“Beer check?” Hand Pump wondered aloud.


“Yes. The place where you drive the beer to. BC. Beer. Check. Capisce?” A small part of Lost in Forrskin’s mind was wondering if Hand Pump had sustained yet another head injury lately.


“Oh. Of course.” Hand Pump didn’t sound at all sure, but that was no one’s problem but his own. Lost in Foerskin decided abruptly that it would be best for everyone if the pack was off, and with that he was yelling “ON ON!” and dashing off through Golden Gate Park, with the group instinctively following.


“Hey, I’m pretty good at this!” yelled Dick Simmons, snapping his shutter maniacally. He pulled Stinky Floss, Chicken Bone Her, and Cockamole together for some action shots, and the ladies were only too happy to comply.


Weiner I Am chased after John Handcock, diving into the bushes randomly. “Trail’s this way, guys,” Lost in Fuorskin muttered to himself, doggedly pursuing the flour trail with Buck Fucka hot on his heels. “It’s like they’ve completely forgotten hashing since I’ve been gone.”


The pack ran after him towards Stow Lake, where like fools they ran completely around only to be forced down across the bridge on the other side. Heracknophobia darted past Dick Shank Redemption, who had gotten distracted by some baby owls.


“What are you running for?” asked one of the avian aficianados.


“Who?” asked Dick Shank, already moving after the pack.


“You’re only the fifteenth person today,” grumbled the birdwatcher, nonchalantly tripping Closet Twitcher down the nearest embankment as revenge. I Cunt Hear You immediately tumbled in sympathy, but luckily his phone was saved from further harm by good old 21st century wireless Bluetooth technology.


Meanwhile, Lost in Foorskin had tuned his sixth sense for beer towards Transverse Drive, evading all of the assholes who had been no use to him whatsoever the entire evening. At last! His mouth watered, his lips trembled, a small speck of drool leapt from his parched tongue.


“Why would I give you beer?” asked Hand Pump incredulously. “Did you do all of this already?” he waved his trail map around.


“Because you’re Hand Pump.” Lost in Fœrskin staunchly declared. “It’s what you Do.”


“I don’t think it’s allowed,” opined Hand Pump, staring back down at the piece of paper for any sort of clue. Lost in IVskin, sensing no help from that department, took off down the trail. Two seconds later, Good Shit Lollicock and Crabs emerged from the bushes with Cuming Mutha. Wiping his lips, Good Shit trekked towards the van with determination.


“I just told that other guy, you’ve gotta do the trail,” Hand Pump said insistently.


“Lemme see that,” Crabs grabbed the map and pulled a pencil from his pocket, drawing a short line. “There you go,” he told him. “Followed it exactly.”


Hand Pump shrugged as more hashers emerged like ants whose hill had been filled with water. “Good enough for me.”


“I’m so glad I decided to come out here tonight,” Handjob for Humanity remarked to Shaft. “I mean, I have no idea what I’m doing here, but with two kids that’s not really a new feeling, you know?”




“I started a new job yesterday, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.” Pencil Dick told Do Her Well.


“So why did they hire you?” she asked.


“I’m filling their old person quotas,” he explained. “Apparently some millenials need a father figure.”


“Are you sure they didn’t use the term ‘daddy’?”




“I’m not crying,” Tight Lips waved her hands in front of her eyes. “Shaft thought he had something in his shoe.”




“How was your birthday?” Cockagami asked Just Jaci.


“Huh?” she asked. “That wasn’t this weekend, was it?”


“And you all went to Phoenix Red Dress,” he turned to Perfect Woman and Cockamole. “Great time, right?”


“That I don’t remember…” pondered Perfect Woman.


“And wearing a half-marathon shirt to the hash?” he pointed at Just Erdy. “Did you forget that’s r*cist behavior?”


“Did I?” Just Erdy looked down in confusion.


“Shit, where’s the keg?” Cockagami wandered off.




“We have a special down down for Lost in Fouerskin” Wee Wee declared.


“You brought a visitor?” asked Millimeter Peter.


“No,” Sister Fister. “Lost in FHORskin. You know. Comes once a year and tells us all the things we do wrong. Sets trails that only he knows how to run. Was probably dropped on his head as a child.”


“Hey!” yelled Lost in Foürskin.

“Nothing wrong with that,” remarked Do Her Well, rubbing her cranial flat spot.


“You have all gone insane,” said Lost in Fohrskin, holding his tiny down down thimble. “You have gone out of your goddamn gourds. Will you please end the charade. I don’t give a shit if you act like you know me or not. Please give me some sense of hope that when this circle ends you will have some ability to find your way home and into your own beds, or if not that, at least into the beds of someone that you know.” Everyone just stared at him, Wee Wee, Sister Fister, and Cockagami shifting uncomfortably behind him.


“It’s like we’re missing something…” Wee Wee looked around.


“Or something is missing from us…” Cockagami’s eyes darted about. “Twerxes! The Hashshit!”


To Be Continued