SFH3 Run #1771
: 05/30/2016
: Crocker Amazon Playground, Moscow at Italy
: Who's Your Daddy?
: Do Her Well

“This is a disaster, an unmitigated Category 5A hurricane of a clusterfuck.” Who’s Your Daddy slammed the phone down. Papers were whirling in the air, faxes were humming busily, Dick Ass Mother Fucker was running around in the background screaming.


“Destroy everything,” Who’s Your Daddy declared solemnly. “The Feds are on their way.”


Sir Menage-a-Lot and Craven Morehead looked at each other and slunk towards the door. Now was a good time to find a bar.

Masterbaster frantically patted himself down. “Shit, I left the paper shredder at home.”


“No excuses!” cried Who’s Your Daddy. “There is no time for tears. That will come later.”


Sesame Creep threw open the window and flung a set of papers out, only to have them all blow back in his face. “Shit!” he yelled, and tossed the contents of his favorite mug out afterwards. “Piss!” he screamed into the golden shower.


You’ve Been Fucked patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve already sold our beachfront mansion, dear, but I found the cutest little station wagon!”


“Who’s running this thing?” Zippercised asked, sipping out of his flask.


“Chicken Bone Her is entirely responsible for this entire debacle!” Who’s Your Daddy carefully slid his desk placard up his pants.


“You can still see the CEO bit poking out,” Hand Pump said helpfully.

“She set a trail of flour right to the feds doorstep,” Who’s Your Daddy continued, unabashed.


“Flour?” asked Just Doesn’t Get It.


“It’s a goddamn metaphor. All of you are fucking useless. Forrest Dumped gave me his two minutes notice this fucking morning, before the shit had even hit the fan. Good riddance. And don’t you think I can’t see those Broadway playbills, Weiner I Am.”


“Who, me?” Weiner I Am shoved his mockup Cinderella ads into his bag. He linked arms with Just Alex. “You know what, Who’s Your Daddy, maybe I’m going to go with a man who will treat me right. A man who will respect me. A man who know what I want.”


“I’m touched,” Just Alex’s voice broke a tad.


“Not you, dumbass, I Cunt Hear You just won a new dildo—I mean, ‘back roller.’ But we already posted the billboards for our show, so we’re stuck together.”


“Now I see why you re-hired me,” Fixed Queer exclaimed triumphantly. “You wanted a fall guy. A patsy. You wanted to blame the Mexican!”


At that moment, Mary Tyler Whore threw the door open. Pumping Ethel and Deadbeat burst threw, panting with exhaustion. “Everybody freeze!” They raised their flashlights accusingly.


“I knew it!” screamed Saigon Sally. “I knew that wasn’t our Mary Tyler Whore.”


“You fools!” cried Mary Tyler Whore. “Haven’t you learned by now that hashers can share the same name?”


“I made that mistake with Grassy Ass once,” Wee Wee opined. “Never again.”


“It’s here!” gasped Masterbaster. “The paper shredder!”


“It even has a bottle opener.” Who’s Your Daddy shredded the last incriminating trail map. “And is stashable.” He put it, too, up his pants. “You’ll never catch me now, coppers!” And with that he was off into the night, blazing the fastest trail possible to the Broken Record. “On On!”