Muff Daddy chewed on a fingernail. He knew he had waited until the last minute to get started on this trash, but he hadn’t been quite sure what he was expected to do. He had had a list of crimes written down, but after leaving it in his pocket, all the ink had bled, and what was left was a sloppy Bitch’s Bitch in proximity to a rapidly fading Boner Malfunction. What was he supposed to do with that?

He chewed on a stale chip. Of the orange food, it looked like there were two opened bags of chips, at least half a cake left, along with some guac that Dickweed had double-dipped on just the way Muff Daddy liked. Good. Buck Fucka wouldn’t have to buy any more for his trail next week. Jesus Christ, what was he going to do, and where was Hand Pump when you needed him…

***

… screeching through the city, with Do Her Well leaning out the passenger side window, Hand Pump artfully dodged a tourist taking pictures of an empty alleyway. “They’re onto us,” Hand Pump said grimly, taking a sharp left turn towards the interstate on-ramp.

“Fuck Buddy’s radioing in,” Do Her Well held her ear to a screeching Walkie-talkie. “She says they’ve got a spike strip system deployed.”

“This van can take it,” Hand Pump assured her.

“No, it’s not a normal system,” Do Her Well argued. “It’s Just Karen. Just Karen… or as you better know her, Too Much Teeth.”

“Shit.” Hand Pump grimaced and slammed on the brakes. Behind them, the sirens grew louder. He reversed onto the sidewalk, parking directly under a slightly damp tarp that was not currently in use.

“They’re sure to see us,” Dick Simmons cautioned from somewhere beneath the bags that had been tossed around in the melee of Hand Pump’s driving.

“How did you get in here?” Do Her Well stared at him.

“It’s for my documentary, The Thin Red Line: A Strava Story,” Dick Simmons explained.

“They’re here,” Hand Pump interrupted. “Everyone act natural.”

A cruiser slowed down as it turned the corner. A flashlight shone on their faces, and the intercom resonated within the van. “Step out of the vehicle, folks.”

At that very moment, Circle Jerk and Just Liz came cartwheeling down the sidewalk, dodging syringes and the odd abandoned shoe with startling accuracy. Circle Jerk used the bent fence as a pommel horse, risking sterilization at every revolution of his hips. Just Liz stopped and raised her hands in victory, third grade cardigan proudly stretched across her chest and pleated plaid skit still twirling with the inertia of her gymnastic rhythm.

The officer stared for a second, considering the fact that he had unwisely left his partner at the last crime scene and thus was now alone with a seemingly underage girl, and sped off into the distance.

“My Reverse Schoolgirl always gets ‘em.” She winked. “In fact, you might say I’m…”

***

The Perfect Woman patted Vagina Dentata’s back and handed him a full, ice-cold beer.

“What about trail?” Vagina Dentata wondered. He was sure Just Get It Over With was worried about him. 

“You don’t need to worry about trail,” The Perfect Woman assured him. “Everything you need is right here.”

Vagina Dentata peered into the haze of the bar. He thought he could see Roman Showers and Cockamole celebrating their birthdays in one corner with an amazing five-tiered chocolate *vegan cake. In the other, Ska Skank was cozying up to a big bronze hunk of a man, and Good Shit Lollicock was clinking glasses with Shaft and Fucker. Deadbeat and Saigon Sally were switching outfits, and Sleazy had figured out how to display her wares on the inside of a trench coat—business was booming, so to speak.

Vagina Dentata sighed. His friends were together, everyone was warm and happy, even Pole Her Bare, and there was nothing at all to worry about… except he was still missing Just Get It Over With…

“Like I said,” The Perfect Woman insisted. “Don’t worry about her, she’ll be here in a bit. All you need to do is focus on me. There is nothing wrong with this hash. Do not to attempt to adjust the trail. We are controlling the flour. If we wish to make it longer, we will set more marks. If we wish to make it shorter, we will tune it with a beer check. We will control the horizontal. We will control the vertical. We can shake the keg, make it foam. We can change your focus to a soft blur or sober you up to crystal clarity. For the next hour, we will control all that you see and hear…

***

Whorifist tripped over his feet but was scooped up last minute by Primal Vagina. Together, they looked around the ballroom, taking in the sight of some fairly odd pairings. Big Cock Chains, in a floor length gown, was leading Cirque du So Lame carefully around the dance floor, while Dick Ass Mother Fucker spun Yes Sir Yesshesfat into a dizzying twirl. Sir Menage was at the front of an orchestra composed of Mouth Down South, Blowqueen, and Chain Bang, who had managed to find an app for that. The music was amplified by the sound system Millimeter Peter had bartered for at the nearby encampment. What he had offered was left to the group’s collective imagination.

“Good sir, my lady,” Stinky Floss nodded to them as she twirled by with Leave It To Cleavage. Brown Eye and Twerxes stepped lively after them in perfect timing.

“I picked this week to come back?” Sister Fister angrily whispered to Masterbaster, who winced slightly but refused to cower. “All this formal shit is not my thing.”

Primal Vagina edged Whorifist her way as they danced. She noticed Ru Ru Rimmin and Just Arno were also convening on the pair.

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” Primal Vagina grabbed Sister Fister’s lace cuff. “But what’s say let’s…” she jerked her head towards the door.

“Fucking A plus idea,” Sister Fister declared loudly.

Don’t Go Down There winced. “Quiet down—he might notice!”

But it was too late, and Menage’s attention had been drawn. He jerked his conductor’s baton, and even Cockagami and Tears of Semen, who had avoided detection until that moment, were forced into the waltz.

“Dance my puppets, dance!” Menage cried, and the electronic orchestra played them into the night.