SFH3 Run #1847: Options are good
|:||Linda Ave (next to Mission Pool/Park off of 19th/Valencia)|
|:||Mouth Down South|
|:||Do Her Well|
“There are days when you are feeling your best.”
Buck Fucka’s hair blew gently in the breeze. Pole Her Bare ran her fingers through it lovingly.
And with our new formula, Pantene Pro LXIX, you’ll be looking your –“
“CUT!” Mouth Down South screamed into a megaphone, interference from a nearby walkie talkie squealing in the background. “This isn’t right, this isn’t my vision.” Just Keith patted his forehead with a towel, while Ru Ru Rimmin scrambled for a fresh Perrier.
“Something just isn’t flowing today,” Mouth continued.
“Is it my voiceover?” Muff Daddy asked worriedly. “I can sound sexier.”
“No, you’re fine, you’re just fine. You’re beautiful, babe.” Mouth gazed blankly at the scene before him, Little Sissy Pants Hasher Boy fanning the couple as they stood under harsh lights. “Vagina Dentata, tell Pole Her Bare to come over here.”
In the background, a falling light barely missed Weiner I Am. One Night Only grabbed a broom to clean up the broken glass, while Raspukin pocketed some of the debris to hock on his eBay store.
“It’s like this, Cuming Mutha,” Mouth Down South hopped out of his director’s chair, putting his arm around the man who had been passing by. “You start with a perfect vision, you plan everything right, you coordinate down to the last little detail… and?”
Cuming Mutha shrugged his arm away. “You think you’ve got it rough? It’s a bloody hair commercial, mate, On All Fours made me direct the latest Indiana Jones movie and you wouldn’t believe the divas I have to put up with.”
In the background, Tricrapylete walked by with Resting Slut Face and Crabs, going over the last pages of the script. “What does it mean, this Junior?” Tricrapylete asked.
“We named the dog Resting Bitch Face,” Crabs retorted.
“Giddyap!” Resting Slut Face replied, and they galloped away on their mops.
“Budget issues,” shrugged Cuming Mutha. “You’re lucky you got bankrolled by Good Shit Lollicock.”
“The contract is insane, though. Half of the shots today must include Hoseblower in a red plush bathrobe.” He looked pointedly at the man lounging on a couch, flicking an endless stream of dollar bills at Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring, Tonya Hardon, and Sir Menage A Lot. “Minor 69er must feature in my next five films, which would be great, except Shaft also has to play Sister Fister’s little dog, and the series is ‘Teeny Weenie Goes to Space.’”
“And then you should hear what I have to do for I’m Drunk’s birthday—” He paused abruptly, staring at Vagina Dentata who had Weekend At Abba’s firmly gripped by the shoulders. She trod firmly on his instep and scrambled away. “That wasn’t Pole Her Bare.”
“Um, right.” Vagina Dentata hurried away.
“As I was saying,” Mouth continued, but he found that Cuming Mutha had disappeared, only to be replaced by Dick Simmons’ camera and Just Get It Over With holding a boom microphone.
“It’s for our documentary,” Dick Simmons explained. “Mouth: The Opening Feature.”
“Who let you in here? Don’t Go Down There! Get them out of here!” But his bodyguard had been distracted by Just Doesn’t Get It’s thumb and Five Angry Inches… well… and Mouth could only groan in frustration. “Doesn’t anyone follow my directions around here?”
“What do you need?” Buck Fucka and Geordi La Foreskin popped up by his elbow.
“Buck Fucka… get Pepe Le Poop to give you a fluffing… your hair. And you… you look so familiar. Aren’t you that guy in that thing? Chicken Bone Her, isn’t he that guy?” Mouth Down South paused to glance at a returning Vagina Dentata. “No, that’s Reverse Schoolgirl.” He turned back to Geordi, who looked at him hopefully. “I Cunt Hear You, mike him up! You’ll play the part of Hotdog Vendor.”
The sight of Geordi had set some sort of creative lightning storm off in Mouth’s brain. He paced back and forth, and relying on Cirque du so Lame to write down his ramblings, demanded Fuck Norris get a new batch of extras, waved away Vagina Dentata (“That’s Fuck Buddy”), ignored Backside Banger’s catering issues, ordered Dick Ass Mother Fucker to bring in five hundred daisies, and called in Miss Delivery, My Little Porno, and Gondalerrhea from the set of The Young and the Restless.
Mouth Down South scrambled back into his director’s chair. “Ok, guys we’re getting ready to roll. Let’s use more spontaneity, more spark this time. Go with your guts, people! No, Vagina Dentata, that’s Cockamole. Muff Daddy, you good? Hand Pump’s on camera one, Tears of Semen be ready with the cue cards. And ready, set… rolling!”
“There are days when you are feeling your worst.”
Big Cock Chains looked sadly at a poop covered Caltrains vest. Roman Showers tipped the last drops from a wine bottle and gazed into the distance.
“And days when you are on top of the world.”
Just Pat stripped away his suit and took to the stage as Liverdance, tapping his little heart out. Six Tits a Week looked fondly at his child, resting in a crib.
But whatever the day may bring…
Buck Fucka looked into Pole Her Bare’s eyes, the world growing silent around them. They smiled at each other, a hint of vulnerability on each of their faces. Buck Fucka dropped down on one knee, pulling out a small box with shaking hands.
Vagina Dentata tackled Pole Her Bare into the artificial shrubbery. “Found her!”