Run
#466 Blown Away
’Twas
a night not fit for man nor beast, which made it perfect for the
Gypsies
just emerging from their undisclosed locations ready to test their
mettle against the elements. Thumper
had taken pains to raise high expectations for his return to Gypsies
haring.
For days, the abusive e-mail messages had flooded cyberspace,
promising dunes, dizzying heights, brushes with death and the
opportunity to be smothered to death by Fucking
Pesto Chicken’s
genitalia. Not to mention, of course, the giant squid, whose
thrashing tentacles and succulent sucker pads had since taken
starring roles in the fantasy lives of Hashers like Rhett
Butthole
and Bitches
Bitch.
The
squid, sadly, was nowhere to be seen. Dunes, however, there were in
abundance as the pack assembled at a godforsaken spit of land south
of Fort Funston, one so desolate that Scarlett
O’Hairy’s
love life seemed right at home. Then there were the hills, and rain,
and the sound of the crash of surf somewhere off in the darkness. Oh,
yes, and the wind, which whipped up an occasional sandblast painful
enough to raise a red rash on Glory
Hole’s
exposed legs, making a nice counterpoint to the other festering sores
he was trying desperately to hide. Mostly unsuccessfully, that is,
since he’d apparently started taking sartorial tips from Naked
Hasher.
Huddled
together like the post-apocalyptic mutants they closely resembled,
the Gypsies
sought warmth in the shelter of Pesto’s
SUV, embracing companionship and song -- not to mention one another.
Beats
Me
and Latex
Dreams
squealed as No
Hands
demonstrated the best way to cop a feel without incriminating oneself
-- namely by blaming that hot, lapping tongue on Samuel
Adams.
Even Tits
for Hire
swallowed her pride long enough to wrap herself around LCB’s
scrawny frame, draining it of heat even as his temperature started to
rise.
Stunned
by the elements, thoughts of religion were abandoned and the pack was
off across the dunes. An especially violent gust of wind struck Phone
Sex
as she crested a ridge; she achieved terminal velocity in a flash and
plummeted straight into D’Anglin
Anglin,
sparing him and the pack his usual one-way sprint into oblivion.
Between the cold, the dark and the sand flying about, the Six
Million Won Man
had a sudden flashback to Omaha Beach and curled into the fetal
position, where even the sudden attentions of Bite
Size
couldn’t rouse him. Drill
Me
herself was able to revive the fallen hasher with her own amphibious
assault, and after a refreshing pause Six
was off and away.
Spanky,
whose flashlight had given up the ghost because Almond
Joy
had siphoned off the juice that morning to keep his Anal Intruder
humming, found herself forced to follow Enter
the Gerbil
but lost the wily rodent as he skittered away through the underbrush
in search of AJ
and his AI. As trail led the pack from the teeth of one tempest to
another, Likes
to Lick
bounded forward into the surf, lured by what he took for the siren’s
call of the giant squid. Sadly, it was only echoes from latecomer
Boulder
Houlder,
calling out in hopes of finding fallen Hashers so she could get her
piece while the getting was good.
Meanwhile,
the raging elements gave even Thumper
second thoughts about the final stretch of trail, a short piece of
work called Just Hang By Your Testicles Bluff, so he doubled back to
warn off the pack. Just
Vincent
didn’t get the message, and thinking he had snared the hare grabbed
what remained of the flour and ran forward. The bluff, however, had
other ideas, and a dangle or two later Vincent
was the proud owner of a vastly expanded scrotal sac, which
functioned as a crude sail at the next gust of wind.
Back
at the start, Bigfoot
and Fits
In
had foregone the pleasures of trail for the pleasures of curling up
with a good beer and Nutless
Sac,
whose truck provided a very safe haven indeed. Puss
Sucker,
visiting from Seattle, scoffed at the pansy elements of Northern
California and plunged ahead until Just
Vincent swept
by, smothering the unfortunate Hasher in his now immense folds of
skin. Not exactly his genitals, mind you, but close enough. Open
Wide
stumbled in off trail hours late, having had no testicles to hang by
but for the treasured collection she wears around her neck.
Reassembled
at the nearby Boat House, the pack gathered for a quick round of
down-downs. Pied
Piper,
celebrating his recent release from lockup, promised never again to
bugger anyone uglier or recognizably less human than himself,
fortunately keeping his options wide open. Virgin Just
Christine
was feted for her first appearance, but disappointed the crowd by
opting to sing the choral part to Beethoven’s Ninth rather than
unbundle her intimate parts. As the elements continued to working
their wiles and with exposed flesh starting to turn blue, the pack
soon fled for warmth, beer, companionship and beer in the Boat House.
Did I mention beer? On on.