On a stormy April evening, the pack gathered way out West for a lovely midget trail, featuring three wee ladies as hares. The start location was apparently switched back and forth several times to the different parking lots on both sides of Sugar Creek Park. This ensured a real shitty start to the night, and an especially pissed off Whiney Bitch.
Visitors and Virgins were brought in and introduced, the hares were sent away and took off setting a an apparently live trail from a speeding Hummer. Norman Bates, attending his 502nd Big Hump Hash, received kudos, a cranium band and a flask full of 100% Missouri oxygen in commemoration of 500 runs. No early departure was getting him out of it this time!
As the clouds closed in, the pack was away. The trail quickly crossed the park to the aforementioned parking lot, then up Des Peres Road. Trail to this point was marked only with pink chalk, making for a difficult to see trail, see Bitch, Whiney. Coming to a dick check, Puke Halt paused to whip it out under a streetlight, making his dong look slightly larger in the shadows. Alas he was thwarted by the oncoming traffic. Most of the pack was able to locate trail, while some of the DFLs later had to solve the dick check by encountering a CB11 which apparently was the wrong number.
On down the hill into residential Des Peres where we cut into a small park, straight into the muddy Bittersweet Woods Wilderness area for a much needed Beer Halt. Much high gravity beer was consumed as the sky threatened to open up with a wild display of lightning and a wee tinkle of rain. The pack was off again, this time into the Phantom Forest, a fantastic little stretch of wilderness formerly owned by Ray Moore, the illustrator of The Phantom comic. Slipping and sliding through some shoe sucking mud, we finally made it to the Beer Stop, where the Hummer had safely deposited the dry and unusually fresh hares.
Refreshments were had as the lighting threatened to burn the pack to a crisp. Peepole kept a watchful eye for wayward bolts and for disrespectful hashers crushing cans. Don't you mess with a man's retirement like that, folks! As the rain started to come down in sheets, the pack made the short run back to the park running straight into oncoming rain and speeding soccer moms.
An efficient circle was conducted by Master of Ceremonies Stink Palm, Norman Bates graciously gave a stealthy by remarkably firm hand job to a local park ranger in exchange for us being able to use a pavilion a midst the downpour.
The On After took place at the soon to be shuddered Village Bar on Manchester. We quickly drove out the normal patrons and took over. Postage took advantage of an over served bartender and got a huge glass of Maker's Mark for a song. The Village Bar's last ever burger was brought out, and Dewey jumped over two tables to get a bite out of it before it landed in Postage's grimy hands.
We shut the bar down forever, and there was much rejoicing. All in all, just another shitty midget trail.