Run #437 Agony of De Heat
“Drugs! Where are the drugs?”
No, the words were not those of King Rongjon in extremis, bemoaning the absence of an appropriately mind-altering substance. Nor was it the plaintive wail of Chickless Boner as the DEA strike team filed out of his house. Rather, it was the Gypsies’ own broken Bitch in Heat, fresh from an untimely encounter with a chain link fence, the force of gravity and a hard concrete sidewalk, who lay doubled up in the dust at Olympia and Clarendon, demanding pharmacological relief.

Our Bitch, our virgin Hare, had just returned from an exhausting afternoon spent running in incoherent circles, tossing flour, and recycling his Shakespearean beer joke. For those of you who missed it: “A man walks into a tavern and orders an ale. He makes a face and says, `That beer was so bad it gave me the plague!’ ” Imagine the Joke repeated ten times. Fifty times. One hundred times. Now picture the features of co-Hare Scarlett O’Hairy, present not only at the birth of the Joke and its fine-tuning during a lengthy drive to and from Norcal the previous weekend, but also throughout the afternoon in question as its unmistakeably pungeant odor wafted again and again over Twin Peaks. Rumors that the fair Miss Scarlett asked Naked Hasher to arrange an “accident” for her co-Hare remain unconfirmed at this time.

Flush with amusement at his witticisms, elated at his virgin lay and steadied by an uncounted number of beers, our Bitch took a quick break to relieve himself and returned to the gathering pack, planning to vault effortlessly over the low fence that separated him from the piss. But faster than you could say Handjob for Humanity, events went awry. A crunching noise reverberated through the air, a familiar sound to anyone who has watched Fucking Pesto Chicken unsuccessfully lunge for the nearest female within reach. And there lay our busted-up Bitch in shock, his tibia and fibula having decided, literally, to make a break for it.

Once the pack’s laughter subsided a few slightly quicker-witted half-minds sprang into action. Comes Quickly, the fairer half of a diplomatic mercy mission from the Wine and Chowder Society, made the sacrifice of sprinting an entire 15 yards to the nearest fire station. Sirens blared, claxons clanged, and soon three engines and an ambulance were at hand, enough even to put out the tiny but long-burning fire in Shithead’s shorts. The aforementioned drugs were slow in coming, but not so Dick Chick, who pushed in so close to the burly firemen in tight little shorts you’d have thought frottage was coming back into style. Bitch in Heat, no stranger to men in tights himself, was sadly unable to appreciate their efforts to strap him down and have their way with him. Soon he lapsed into a semi-coma, muttering something about Nutless Sac and a bottle of Wesson oil, and was quickly borne away.

The fallen Hasher safely packed off to hospital, the Gypsies prepared for their evening festivities. Comes Quickly was brought forward to read the Sacred Missal, and true to her origins managed to find the only page without any sex on it, one quickly donated to the Hash Gods. Scarlett O’Hairy woke the pack from its slumber and set it off uphill toward Mt. Sutro. Having wound across two reservoirs, trail led across the cleavage of the Twin Peaks themselves, where Open Wide was heard to declare that she, too, would flash her tits at the city -- if she were five miles tall. Likes to Lick, doing the math, wilted as he realized OW would also be three quarters of a mile deep and more likely to require the ministrations of Coit Tower than his own lowly organ.

Bigfoot, the very model of hospitality, offered to guide Lick’s cousin Just Chris across the shortcuts in order to make the beer check before it decamped. But the two were quickly lost in contemplation of the decorative garbage piles strewn hither and yon beyond Laguna Honda, and found themselves forced to forage for remaining drops in bottles abandoned by long-ago winos.

Back at the start, the Sacred Bucket was mixed by the sacrilegious hands of Enter the Gerbil, yielding a salty purple vodka concoction dubbed Grapehounds and widely shunned until the power of the Circle compelled Hashers to slosh the stuff back. D’Anglin Anglin and Dick Chick amused themselves by chalk-tracing each other’s outline on the sidewalk where Bitch in Heat had once lain, leading to embarrassment and hurt feelings all around after Just Kim mistook the drawing of D’Anglin’s tail for something more practical. Never fear, said Twinkle Dick, anxious to impress the fair maiden with his own sparkly member. Her giggles at the sight echoed for hours.
Wine and Chowder Grand Masturbator Wankee Doodle, slumming with the Gypsy commoners, presented his credentials to the King in absentia. Their authenticity was quickly confirmed as he repeatedly slung his down-downs behind him, where fortunately Wanker’s Island stood ready to redeem them. Except, that is, the one time Just John, resplendent in his silvery new shoes, shouldered Wanker’s aside to catch the errant beverage in his footware for his own enjoyment. Eventually tiring of such delights and wary that the firemen might return a second time in anger, the pack dispersed into the night, reforming later at the Miraloma Club for cold beer, hot pizza and plenty of second-hand smoke. On on.