Hares: FMR, L’il Pussy, Geek

Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his monster burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you’ve had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean…

It was a great start to my first epic novel, but I had been stuck on the second sentence for the past two years. The pressure was starting to mount; my publisher wanted a refund on the advance if I
was not finished by Monday and I had led him to believe it was slightly more complete than it was in reality. The advance was long since spent along with the rest of my savings. I needed something to relive the stress so I could settle in and focus on my writing. It was then that I realized it was a hashing day!

I quickly stuffed my essential hash gear in a bag; funny hat, beer mug, hash necklace… It was a cold day so packing was especially complicated; warm PJ bottoms, dirty sweatshirt, mis-matched gloves. I glanced up at the clock as I strained to zip the bag shut. Damn, I was running late!

Seconds later, I was on my way. Minutes later, I was back at the house looking the running clothes I had forgotten to pack. Leaving the house for what I hoped would be the last time, I punched the hash line phone number into my cell phone to figure out where I was going. The recording was slightly garbled, but the beginning of the directions said it was “just south of Houston”. The directions made
no sense whatsoever until the 3rd time I called the line back and realized it was “just south of LAKE Houston”.

I called Heartache to tell him to stall for time so the pack did not leave me. He actually arrived at the start AFTER me, but by the grace of G the pack was still there.

We were off soon thereafter. The first 2/3 of the rail consisted of sections piney woods stitched together by long sprints down power line and other right-of-ways.

In some strange Darwinian twist, the forested areas were full of mutant pine trees that had acquired the trait to grow evenly spaced in north-south rows with roots that pushed the soil into distinct troughs between each row. They had also obviously established some type of symbiotic relationship with brambles and saw vines. PP, John Boy & Womb Service were squealing like school girls every time they hit one; Black Bush and Salt Water Taffy were cursing like sailors. No screams from me as I moved forward with grim determination, but I was down about 3 pints of blood by the end.

Eventually, we hit the split and headed East on the Eagle Trail, while the Turkey trail veered to the South. We finally left the mutant pines behind and began to move faster through less dense shiggy. After a short time, we emerged from the wooded area just west of the start. It was here that JohnBoy left us to “go to work”. Later, we would realize the sheer genius of this move. From there, we headed to the east along S. Lake Houston Parkway. As we ran, we noticed a car parked in the grass immediately in front of us; a possible beer check?

However, as we approached, a hideous monster emerged from the car! It’s blazing red eyes were shooting laser beams at the pack and vile filthiness poured from it’s mouth. We had inadvertently stirred the much feared mutant redneck monster from his liar! The pack valiantly tried to continue in the direction of true trail, but it was to no avail; the monster blocked our every move.

After some debate, the pack decided to turn around and run west down S Lake Houston parkway under the assumption that we would eventually cross the turkey trial. It was a long straightaway, but it essentially led us straight to the end.

The hares had procured an assortment of fine St. Arnold’s beer, so there was much rejoicing. A fine fire was built and brisket was lavished on the pack, putting the pack in a charitable mood by the time the circle began. Soon, the Hares transgressions on trail were forgiven (after several therapeutic accusations by the pack).

Regrettably, I was unable to stay for the end of the circle or the on-on-on as I had to be sharp for the important work ahead of me. After a sensible 13 beers, I departed; thinking much more clearly than I had on arrival that day. The creative juices are finally flowing and I am ready to WRITE!

Epilogue:
Monday morning. I just woke up on the kitchen floor. My head hurts too bad to keep my eyes open. For some unknown reason, there is a typewriter on the floor next to me and a sheet full of unintelligible text. It seems like I had something to do today, but I’ll deal with that later. For now I must rest.

ON ON – SaraN CRaP