SFH3 Run #1830
|:||Sir Menage-a-Lot & Weekend At Abba's|
|:||Do Her Well|
“This is deplorable! Who got this bullshit in their heads?” Lost In Foreskin slammed the door of the shop open, bells jingling wildly. Do Her Well looked up, removing her eyepiece and quickly setting down her tools. The motherboard on the counter was smoking suspiciously, and she blew away the plume and moved to intercept the man who was now pacing down the crowded aisle towards her.
“Who said that?” she asked carefully.
“Cut the crap, Do Her Well, you know what I’m here about. I want names. I want details. And most of all I want an explanation. And I’ll have some of that before I leave this pile of junk you call a computer store.”
“Sometimes people act against their best interests, like that time that you had that whiskey AND a can of 4Loko. So until we understand basic stuff like that, I doubt we’ll be able to conceive how this political climate…”
“No! Not that-- The hash!”
“Well you see, people’s actions are typically guided by the ego and modulated by the superego, but when you have alcohol involved you get more id-driven behavior. When arriving at the hash, much like Pavlov’s dog with the bell, hashers immediately give up all modulation whatsoever and immediately engage in lewd and lascivious behavior, alcohol or no— ”
“Do Her Well, what am I known for—no, don’t answer that,” Lost In Foreskin read the look on her face all too well. “The Beer Mile. Exceptional taste in sunglasses. And…”
“Tour de Franzia?”
“Yes. And what did I find at Huntington Square Park?” He pulled from his satchel a crumpled and dirty box.
“You know they sold over 12.3 million cases last year, right?”
“This has the smell of hashers all over it—look at the glitter on the spout! I want information, I want names. I want to know who is co-opting my event.”
Do Her Well pulled up a stool to a terminal. “Fine, I’ll see what my sources can pull up.”
“Sources? You weren’t there?”
“I don’t live at the hash.” She rolled her eyes at Lost In Foreskin’s incredulous look. “I went on vacation. Yes—I did. And it was good. And there was much rejoicing.”
She sighed as he continued to stare. “Ok, well you have the location correct,” she muttered to herself. “The SF alcohol detectors registered a strong signal from Nob Hill beginning around 6, tapering around 7, and picking up again an hour later. This coincides with the GPS signals from the probe I implanted in Chicken Bone Her. Stop looking offended, she totally consented when I told her it was a cooking thermometer.”
“Let’s see—looks like Sir Menage A Lot and Weekend At Abba’s were FRBs of the night—over 15 minutes ahead of everyone else, not even stopping with the pack at Coit Tower…” She leveled a steady gaze at Lost In Foreskin. “Your suspicions were correct. Let me tune into Mouth Down South—he wanted a bionic upgrade, ok!” She said defensively.
“No, no, it’s too blurry. Tech and alcohol never mix well.” Do Her Well tapped a few buttons. “It’s no use, I’ll have to switch over to security footage. Oh, oh no. Dick Ass Mother Fucker can’t get the Franzia open. He looks really desperate. Someone help him, that man needs alcohol. Ska Skank, don’t laugh at that poor man… oh good, Whorifist to the rescue. Ocean Spray’s helping him squirt, and Hoseblower has his pipe open to receive it all.”
“God it sounds like a porno—can you be less explicit?” Lost In Foreskin groaned.
“With Resting Slut Face involved? Ok, fine, I’ll try… nope looks like they’re going down again one by one, Circle Jerk looks like he’s ready to get real sweaty. And Dickweed is right behind him. And then they fucked. They fucked for hours, uprooting trees and shrubs and flowers. Looks like Dick Simmons has full video of the encounter up close, you’re lucky I haven’t subscribed to his services or you’d be subjected to a lot worse. Shaft’s a lot cheaper and easier access when you’re coming from behind anyway.”
“Look can you just tell me who hared the goddamn r*n?”
“I’m getting there, I’m getting there, I bet if I triangulate the path that Fuck Buddy took and divide by Udder Moron’s mileage, I’ll be able to predict the square root of Primal Vagina…”
“What does that do?”
“Well, it’s clearly an imaginary number, so it will give me a hint to the location of Pepe Le Poop’s deodorant.”
“Why don’t you just throw in Fucker while you’re at it?”
“That’s just irrational, Lost In Foreskin. Next you’ll ask me how Vikings fuck,” She turned back to the monitor. “With horns on their head!”
“La la la, I Cunt Hear You, la la la…” Lost In Foreskin covered his ears. “If you aren’t going to be helpful I’ll just call Saigon Sally…”
“Last hash, he won’t remember.” Do Her Well was unreasonably smug.
“Big Cock Chains?”
“He doesn’t even tell his wife, why would he tell you?”
“Ru Ru Rimmin, then.”
“He’ll rue the day he undercuts me.”
“Hareraisers have a duty of confidentiality to their hares. It’s like attorney-client privilege.”
“Wait a minute… aren’t you…”
“This isn’t fun, Do Her Well. It isn’t funny. It’s—”
“Dangerous. So I guess you should just take your wife, your dog, and your football and go home.”
“Fuck you, you fucking fuck.”