Once there were four hashers named Millimeter Peter, Primal Vagina, Just Doesn’t Get It, and Cockamole. This story is about something that happened to them when they were sent out of the Mission because of the hipster invasion. They were sent to the house of Crabs at the end of the earth, who lived at least ten miles from the nearest coffee and cronuts shop along with a housekeeper called Fucker and three servants (Shaft, Brown Eye, and a groundskeeper named Masterbaster, but they do not come into this story very much).
Due to their extreme boredom (exacerbated by very short attention spans) the group quickly began to make games of exploring the old house they were stationed in. First they were soldiers waging war against Allahu Aqbark (the groundskeeper’s dog), next they were exploring the depths of an untouched rainforest—which ended abruptly when the neighbor Mrs. Do Her Well shouted to them to get off her lawn.
But the greatest adventure came when they found Crabs’ restroom, nestled at the heart of the house. Opening the creaking door, they looked at the long hallway lined with mirrors and a row of dripping faucets.
“Cor, it sure is long,” Just Doesn’t Get It remarked to Millimeter Peter’s snickers. And the further in they went, the longer the restroom seemed to go. At the very end was a stall. Eventually the three eldest children got bored and returned to the rest of the house, but not Cockamole. She tried at the door, pushing it open slowly. The light was so dim she could not see past the end of her hands, so she held them out before her. Her fingertips did not brush cold tile, but something warm and soft, and since she had not been given The Talk by her parents, she simply kept going.
“Oh, my!” She exclaimed, as her eyes were suddenly forced to adjust to bright light, and she blinked at the blowing sand from the cold, desolate beach before her.
“Oh, my!” A strange figure stood before her, with bright red locks and wearing a strangely colorful vest. Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring bowed dramatically. “Good evening. Are you a…” she hesitated as if sounding out a word she had only read in books. “A girl?”
“Um,” Cockamole suddenly remembered that perhaps her Great Aunt Chicken Bone Her had told her something about not talking to strangers unless they were going to buy you a drink. “I really should find my siblings?”
“Cockamole!” shouted Millimeter Peter. “There you are!”
“Oh, isn’t this them?” Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring grinned widely. A flash came from the nearby bushes. “Oh, that’s Dick Simmons. Pay no mind, he’s rather shy.”
“Where’s the loo then?” Just Doesn’t Get It piped up. “I have to take a whiz.”
“Just… just go in the scrub,” Primal Vagina ordered.
“My, it’s cold,” Millimeter Peter realized suddenly that neither he nor any of the others had come dressed for leaving the house.
“Oh, that’s because of the dread Bloqueen! He has made it always winter and never Christmas!” wailed Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring. “Come, children, come, we must take you to see Hand Pump in his burrow.” And suddenly with great alacrity the children found themselves whisked away.
“Hey guys?” Just Doesn’t Get It popped out of the bushes. “Guys?”
The jingling of bells was the only answer that greeted him, and he turned to see a giant sledge slide up next to him. Holding the ropes to draw the sledge forward were Dickweed, Fuck Norris, Backside Banger, and Who’s Your Daddy. Inside it sat an imposing figure in a white fur.
“Isn’t that cruel?” Just Doesn’t Get It blurted out.
“It’s imitation fur,” huffed Bloqueen. “I don’t know why everyone in this country has to assume the worst. I got it from Rent Whore, and you know she wouldn’t harm a fly.”
“No,” Just Doesn’t Get It waved at the four figures pulling the sledge.
“I know their taxes are steep but you have to remember that this country now has universal health care, protections for the adversity we all experience in life, and the quality of living is very high.” Bloqueen paused. “Would you like some Swedish liqueur?”
Meanwhile the other three children had made their way to the burrow of Hand Pump. At the door, Muff Daddy popped up abruptly. “Seven dollars?”
“No, no Mr. Muff Daddy,” Sleazy shushed him. “These are human children.” It was difficult to say which word she emphasized more.
“Oh, of course,” Muff Daddy replied, but he crossed his arms with a vague sense of dissatisfaction.
“Children, children,” Hand Pump welcomed them into his home, which was quite comfortable indeed. Several kegs provided a barricade from the worst of the wind, and some very fine orange food indeed was being prepared by Tuna On Top.
“We are so glad to have you in our fair country, though long have been the days since we have seen it show its graces to us,” began Hand Pump, pouring himself a pint and settling himself down as if to tell a long tale.
“But how can we help?” Primal Vagina cut to the chase.
“By the Lion’s own mane, you are our only hope,” Hand Pump nodded at her. “Long has it been foretold…”
“By who?” asked Primal Vagina.
“By the prophecy…”
“I mean, there’s lots of children out there…”
“Lots of children?” Hand Pump stopped. “You mean there are more human children?” He leaned over to whisper something to Muff Daddy.
“Um…” Millimeter Peter stepped forward. “But we are known as the… the most childish children out there.”
“Cockamole still sleeps with a nightlight,” Primal Vagina offered.
“Hey, you still have an imaginary friend named Whorifist!” Cockamole retorted. “Who names their imaginary friend Whorifist?”
“And Just Doesn’t Get It…” they looked around. “Where’s Just Doesn’t Get It?”
Tuna On Top sighed. “I’ll get the rescue party sorted out.”
Scarcely ten minutes later she had assembled Udder Moron, Roman Showers, Cream Chugger and Rent Whore, who were apparently the only ones in the country willing to go out into the cold. The small group proceeded forth, ushering the children in the center of their party out into the harsh winds of the beach. After traveling back and forth, nearly falling off a cliff’s edge, and stumbling onto a homeless camp (Hand Pump muttering something about poor personal choices all the while), they came to a dramatic scene.
“Oh! Oh no! And my virgin is lost in the wilderness!” Tonya Hardon cried in fear, quaking before the wild dachshund. Ru Ru Rimmin was gasping for breath as he beat a miniature poodle off with a branch of driftwood. Dick Ass Mother Fucker shook his head in chagrin.
“It’s Bloqueen’s dastardly forces of darkness!” The small dogs heard the fear in Muff Daddy’s voice, and scrambled towards him. Just Doesn’t Get It sat up from where he had been covered by the pile of small doggies.
“It is bloody well not!” Bloqueen protested from a couple of feet away where he had been standing unnoticed. “I would have all of these dogs be properly licensed and trained before they would be allowed to go to their owners.”
“This country has suffered far too long under your unjust rule!” cried Sleazy. “You have made it always winter and never Christmas!”
“No, no, no!” Bloqueen stomped on the ground. “I never said you couldn’t celebrate Christmas, I just said it was unfair for people who did not want to celebrate Christmas to be expected to participate.”
“Huh, I guess that’s pretty reasonable.”
The group turned at the words. “The Lion!” whispered Tuna on Top.
“Am I seeing double?” wondered Hand Pump in awe.
The children looked too, for before them was a wonderous sight—not one, but two fantastic creatures with dark flowing locks, shining in the fading light of the sun.
“It is I, Buck Fucka, returned after long absence!” announced one.
“Ahem, you mean it is I, Cosmopolitits, returned after never living here!” pointed out the other.
“So we have two Lions now?” grumbled Hot Dick, who had emerged with Ice Box out of the shadows. “I thought we were doing just fine with none.”
“You’re lucky I’m not in my prime,” remarked Goldilocks, “or else we’d have three.”
Just Josh looked at Just Ben. “I’m so fucking lost.”
“The Lion’s roar will defeat the dread Bloqueen!” announced Backwash, whose words were heralded by the trumpeting of Cowlick. Cowlick moved aside to reveal four beautifully painted chairs. Backwash continued, “The rightful kings and queens of SFH3 will sit on the thrones.”
“But wait!” shouted Cum Test Dummy. “How can we allow Just Doesn’t Get It to ascend to the throne if his sins are not atoned for?”
The other three children looked at Just Doesn’t Get It, who honestly had no idea what was going on.
“He has supped from the hand of Bloqueen—he has quaffed the Swedish liqueur!” yelled Bloody Good Head.
“What’s the crime?” slurred ABBAH, throwing an arm around his virgin.
“The crime,” announced Cockamole. “Is the liqueur is now all gone, and there is none for the rest of us.”
Good Shit Lollicock gasped in astonishment, and even Wee Wee could not look Just Doesn’t Get It in the eye. It seemed that Bloqueen would go unopposed, and that the land would be Swedish forever.
“But wait!” Gloryhole stepped forward. “Perhaps a sacrifice is in order.”
“A sacrifice?” Minor 69er wondered. “Who’d be dumb enough to agree to that.”
“Perhaps if one as blameless as the Lion shall lay themselves before us in the place of Just Doesn’t Get It, his soul will be cleansed.” Gloryhole continued. “The land shall be freed from the dreaded Bloqueen.”
Buck Fucka and Cosmopolitits looked at each other and slunk slowly backwards into the crowd.
“Did someone say pubic lice?” Crabs popped up from the bushes, an elegantly groomed Pomeranian draped over his ears.
“No, sacrifice!” shouted Tuna on Top.
“Sacred rice?” Crabs yelled. “I’ll take two!”
Tuna on Top looked at the beautifully coiffed dog he was sporting, back at the crowd, and shrugged. “Close enough,” She brought a firm finger towards the two. “You’ve been very bad. Very very bad.” The poor pooch whimpered. Crabs belched.
And so Just Doesn’t Get It’s soul was cleansed and Bloqueen was chased from the land by the firm ruling of four young children who had happened into an imaginary world by accident and proceeded to have very grand adventures there. Of course, six months later, when they discovered they could not both eliminate taxes and run a government they had to let him back in, but that is a tale for another time.