It was a dark and stormy night. Hand Pump’s nose glowed red and dewdrops were scattered on his mustache, but otherwise he stood impassive and impartial to the terrible weather. The pack was not so lucky, with not a shirtless man in sight. Despite the fact that Hoseblower and Hand Pump’s chalk talk could not be heard over the gale force winds and the roaring of cars on the freeway, Wine Rack proclaimed ‘Screw the virgins!’ and threw her own to the metaphorical wolves that was trail.

Boner Marrow and Dick First Ass Up dove down the stairs and into the roaring river of Glen Park Canyon, where Blowfish had to save Can’t Kill Bill from drowning. Tuna on Top, Cockamole, Cum Test Dummy and Do Her Well formed a four person life raft.

“I brought water, we can’t get dehydrated,” Tuna offered.

“In this?” Do Her Well asked. “Just open your mouth.”

“Oooh, good idea,” Cockamole and Cum Test Dummy nodded.

Meanwhile, Pastel Gazelle and Three Fingers were focusing hard on solving trail. Luckily, the flour flowing downhill in the monsoon was so abundant that Just Fuck Off discovered she could climb up a sheer wall with it caking her fingers. Turbo Twat and Humpy Slowcumb instead opted to build a brick staircase using the caked flour, and Got Wood gleefully followed. Just Doesn’t Get It tried to round up the pack, but Dick Simmons couldn’t hear over the roaring thunder and was swept down Market Street by a rogue wave. Fortunately, this was just where the gin and tonics were being served. Cuming Mutha, whose FWB (that’s Front Walking Bastard) status was unbeaten, watched as Fuck Buddy and Sexxx-Ray rounded the bend, followed by Chicken Bone Her and Circle Jerk.

Five Angry Inches, devastated that trail had been so long, immediately went back to the start. It was only at Medium Sized Balls of Fire and Squeeze Box’s insistence that Look Who’s Coming To Dinner, On All Fours, and Muff Daddy didn’t do another lap. But after Fucker’s strip show, Bloqueen reasoned they needed some sustenance before any more activity.

Completely by surprise, Hand Pump’s elite catering staff swooped in to delivery a seven course meal. Pied Piper declared he had never eaten so well at a hash, and Goofy Fucking Cunt Extraordinaire affirmed that in all of her travels, she had never seen such a high class and intelligent group of hashers. Ginger Juice agreed, wondering where such a respectable lot of people would be going next.

“I heard it’s the Miraloma Club,” Cockulus Oculus told him.

“Do you think they’ll let us in?” wondered Wash This Asshole. E=McFucked pulled out his suit and tie, while Dick Ass Mother Fucker spruced up the tips of his mustache.

“Of course they will!” Hand Pump gave a deep laugh. “You’re with me, aren’t you?”

The End