SFH3 Run #1779
|:||Russian Hill Park|
|:||Backside Banger & Dick Simmons|
|:||Do Her Well|
“Just an inch more,” Dick Simmons knelt down. “Then it’ll be perfect.”
9 ½ Wanks looked at him doubtfully. Six Tits a Week frowned. “You think so? I thought the rip in her pants was potentially embarrassing.”
“No, no,” the hare reassured them. “Split pants are quite fashionable this time of year. It’s almost perfect.”
Bitch’s Bitch knelt beside him. “I’ll get that for you, Dick,” he said.
9 ½ Wanks leapt away. “I think we’ve got it,” she reassured him, heading back to the beer van.
“Not everyone can see my vision sometimes,” Dick Simmons sighed.
“I hear you, man,” Bitch’s Bitch tried to throw an arm around his shoulder, but he was already scurrying off.
“Hand Pump! How did you like r*nning trail? Did you get the Shaft?”
“Oh, I got him alright,” Hand Pump chuckled. “One year older, not necessarily wiser.”
“Older? Oh no! I didn’t get any cake for him!”
“And Fucker,” Hand Pump corrected. “Funny, I don’t see either of them here now.”
“I’ll go bake two!” Bitch’s Bitch scampered away.
Dick Simmons eyed the crowd at the beer check. “Is that blood?” he asked Mouth Down South. “Here, hold your leg this way.” He watched as the blood dribbled down the man’s leg. “Just a bit of an adjustment now, I promise it will look fantastic.” Bitch’s Bitch wordlessly handed him some gauze.
Shit Eating Grin showed his phone to Ru Ru Rimmin and Rogue Cow. “How do you hide this thing? It’s so… big. It’s just out there… for everyone to see.”
Grassy Ass leaned over his shoulder. “I’ve seen bigger.”
“This is what it was originally going to be.” Dick Simmons pulled back his phone and stepped away as all gasped and fainted on the spot. Smelling salts were quickly placed in his hand by Bitch’s Bitch.
Wrinklepecker was instantly dragged over to the still bodies by Mr. Magoo the feeling eye dog. Just Zara, seeing the lust in the beast’s eyes, immediately headed for higher ground, pulling her leash out of Pee On My Head’s hands. “Someone get Zara!” she cried in distress.
Bitch’s Bitch threw a rope around Twerxes, then frowned as Primal Vagina, Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring, and Wee Wee ran after the actual canine.
“No, no, this is all wrong!” Dick Simmons wrung his hands in distress as Mr. Magoo licked the last bit of cum from his snout. “Bestiality is after circle!”
“Allahu Aqbark would never do that without consent,” Masterbaster remarked smugly.
“Training makes all the difference,” Cowlick agreed, patting Fluffer on the head.
“Well, let’s get circle started then,” Bitch’s Bitch pulled Do Her Well and Zippercised out of the tree.
“Should we really do that when there’s a cop standing right behind you?” Do Her Well wondered.
“Cop! Cop!” Bitch’s Bitch squeaked and rolled down the hill, narrowly avoiding the officer’s taser. “It’s not even the Anti-Ranger Run!” He yelped, disappearing into the night.
“Cop?” Sister Fister asked. “Hey, man, where were you when some asshole was trying to grope Rhythm Method and me on trail?”
“Yeah,” added Dick Ass Mother Fucker. “And where were you last week when we were running through the Tenderloin? Someone snorted at least half of the marks completely away.”
“Yeah,” added Cuming Mutha and Cox Box. “And where were you when On All Fours had her bachelorette party?”
“Yeah,” added Fuck Buddy. “And where were you when I started hashing? You could have saved us all a lot of trouble.”
The cop looked around at the gathered hashers and wordlessly slunk back into the darkness.
“I guess that means we should make fun of people now.” Zippercised belched up a bit of curry.
“Faster, funnier,” Brown Eye got onto his soap box, only to have Buck Fucka yank it out from underneath him.
“Really, it’s just the hares, isn’t it?” asked Do Her Well. “Backside Banger, Dick Simmons, get up here.”
“I’ll get us two down downs.” Dick Simmons said. “There, perfectly poured, just the right amount of foam.”
“What am I here for?” asked Backside Banger.
“Dick Simmons, you made cocks out of all of us, but we let you do it,” Zippercised decreed. “But Backside, far worse—we’re not here to fulfill your filthy desires and kinky dreams. But you pulled it out. We know Dick Simmons didn’t just come up with that design out of thin air.”
“Congratulations, sir. Your penis is now pubicly available on Strava.”
Roman Shower wiped away a single tear as she knitted a ball cozy in the beer van.