Retar'd's Lovecraftian Horror 69-mile Hash
Run #1491, Oct 27, 2014
Location: The Wild Colonial , Providence, RI
Weather: No gloves needed. Sickle moon.
Present: Caesar, Jack Sparrow, Pirates Pirate, Monk, Witch, Creepy Makeup Witch, Giant Bee 1, Giant Bee 2, Black and White Udder Monster, Troll Doll, Gypsy Lady, Fidel Castro, Orange Food, Caped Vampire in Tights, Runner 1, Runner 2, Homeless Dude and Frito Bandito
Backsliders: Convict, Beekeeper, Busty Ribbon Damsel
Virgin: Nightgown Girl
[A warning to all who may be foolishly inclined to read this missive! This document is long and horrible, as was this Hash! Readers risk their eyes, their peace of mind, quite possibly their sanity.... and even their continence, although upon review, that last may simply be a personal failing of the author.]
"Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod earth's fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread."
-H. P. Lovecraft, "The Dunwich Horror"
It all started innocently enough. Some of the pack hunched by the reeds acrost the way from the tavern, and some had free beer out there, while others quaffed a pint inside. We all knew it was going to be a Retar'd hash, but the true horror was yet to unfold. Your humble reporter cringes as he reflects on the cheerful camaraderie as we gathered in front of the photographer's tripod. Cringes yet amplified upon recall of the warm tripod Jack Sparrow pressed against me as the photographic plates were exposed, below the Wild Colonial Sign. We would ne'er again see this brave group intact.
The Hare provided a garbled explanation of his marks, explaining that there would be chalk left for documenting the checks and that his marks would simply end after two or more on false trail but that three or more marks would probably be true. This was tragically not borne out, at least in this dimension.
The pack set off, heading southerly, toward the cobbled streets of Corliss Landing, only to find checks even prior to marks, an ominous start. At Cowpen Point, some harriers went right, over the Point St Bridge; some of those disappeared for the duration. One of those was Homeless Dude. Always a sad character, he ended up wandering alone among the post-apocalyptic empty lots of the Jewelry District for the whole evening, where some misguided Samaritans offered to help out the destitute vagabond.
The trail turned east up Wickenden St and after a few checks ran out entirely. We dashed up and down Gano St as our vigor declined, identifying all of the great missed opportunities for trail and beer in any number of parks, like India Point Park, Gano Park, and Roger Williams Square. Ultimately we made our way back to Ives, where we picked up the trail, which wended past Captain Seaweed's and ultimately DID bring us back to Gano. Apparently the pestilent FRBs were able to discern this easily, but then left very faint and inscrutable scratching in light chalk on the checks, which served more to mislead than to abet. Some might say this was the desired outcome. Others might suggest that the FRBs may have been influenced by dark entities.
The placement of marks on alternating sides of the street may have led some of our party down the path of envisioning bloody sacrifice of the Hare to the Elder Gods or Great Cthulu. Others might have said, "But where's the fucking beer?" Yet many miles would be traveled before this most important query was answered.
After running past neighborhoods redolent with the smells of fried foods from uncountable foreign lands, we were jerked around Wayland Square. Once again the opportunity to seek refuge from pavement in a dark Blackstone Park was squandered. Up the demonic Angell St hill and onto Thayer, where the true horror of the situation became clear: a group of symbols too arcane to be deciphered by the rational was discovered. Luckily Jack Sparrow was available to jibber incoherently and then start running. This was a desperate juncture for those whose tenuous grip on reality reminded them that the first law of the RIH3 is to never follow the Dread Pirate Jack Sparrow! The moment was recovered by the realization that the wisdom, "When in doubt, run uphill," might still hold true even in an interdimensional fucking train wreck, so we ran uphill, not with, but in spite of that Pirate.
And we verily did miss the opportunity to invade the Brown University Green, and worse: we missed HP Lovecraft Square entirely. ¡Que desgracia! But at some length the tattered remains of the pack arrived at Prospect Terrace Park, where the VC lay marked for all to see. Alas! Hardened veteran hashers were seen to cry when the true intent of the symbol VC was explained, and the Vag Check failed to materialize, but rather the perfidious Scenic View Check. Worse, as we peeked between the legs of the gigantor Roger Williams, we perceived through our eyes, ears and certain unlucky other senses, many other hashers lounging among the broken glass and swilling beer meant for us.
Heaving our carcasses down the steep Weaton St and up the burgeoning mound of grass, the remnants of the pack came upon the bloated and noisome FRBs and heard the dire words, "We've run out of beer! The Hare went to get more, but the liquor store may be closed." Our blood ran cold and madness threatened. Our frayed nerves were jangled and a sense of hideous, faceless horror approached. However, it was not WIPOS as feared, but only the Refere'e Hare, toting the nectar of life in its dark nipply bosoms of glass. We sang Huzzah! and more songs than that, including "Asshole" for the Hare and an arousing rendition of "Pubic Hair" for the virgin. Sickly sweet orange maize and peanut brickle was provided to drive the amassed crowd into a state of sugar-crazed abandon.
It was in this state of hungry delirium that the true horror of our situation became clear. The virgin declared she was able to discern through the use of forbidden arcane knowledge (not Forbidden Unlawful Carnal Knowledge) that the trail had been 6.9 miles! We were all aghast. The weird witch of the west left in disgust and we eventually all tromped down the steep incline to the start for the Circle. The Pirates Pirate took a digger down the precipice and left with bloody stumps.
En route to our final rewards, the Virgin discovered that her identification and currency had been devoured by unknowable horrors from beyond time. Later investigations confirmed this.
We circled up in the festering swamp downs, where unknowable horrors approached us as the river water rose up the primitive boat ramp and creatures with too many tentacles reached for the boots of the more unlucky of the group. It was at this moment that the true horror of our situation became clear. A sense of faceless, hideous horror approached. Was it a creature from other dimensions, waving limbs with too many joints? No, worse it was Homeless Dude, who had outrun his erstwhile redeemers and their offers of "three hots and a cot."
An arcane religious ceremony commenced. It was at this point that the true horror of the scene became everclear. A demonic beekeeper appeared, driving before her two unnatural and hideously large members of the species Bombus dahlbomii, which the scientific community had thought and hoped to be extinct. When has humanity been so lucky? How she managed to keep them from devouring their victims is either a miracle or a sign of unholy communion with nameless interdimensional beings.
The Hare was called into the circle. The run was rated and found to be a nameless horror. Deconstruction of the trail suggested: too much pavement, too much shiggy, too little pavement and shiggy, only 6.5 miles, too much WIPOS, too many cow puns, moo many marks, and on and on. One positive highlight was blood on trail, which excited the be-tighted Vampire at least. Somehow Jack Sparrow ended up kneeling to suck the udders of the cow. No one was surprised. The total may have been a positive 6.9, but no one believed this hokum.
Throughout the rating, the Hare grinned, wild eyed, and gripped his cheat sheet tightly in his hand. Those of us who assumed this might be a tool through which the Hare could actually divine the words to a song were disappointed. It was at this moment that the true horror of our situation became clear -- the Hare was about to recite some of the prose of HP Lovecraft, a former denizen of Providence, loved and hated by many lo so many years. The Hare then mumbled some lines but was shouted down in derision. This was a foolish move, for he came back strong with a hearty Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn: "In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming." He cursed us, citing the nightmare corpse-city of R'lyeh, built in measureless eons behind history by the vast, loathsome shapes that seeped down from the dark stars. There lay great Cthulhu and his hordes, hidden in green slimy vaults.
Hare out of the Circle! Virgin in the Circle!
As questioning of the Virgin was about to commence, someone came to his right mind and called for Backsliders.
There were indeed, many Backsliders. Three hot harriettes, to wit: a prisoner at hard labour, a beekeeper and a be-ribboned Lady in a Renaissance bustier. The dread creepy pirate Jack Sparrow questioned them lasciviously and inchoate answers returned. A song may have been sung, but the proffering of boobs was more enticing to the unruly crowd and it may be that the sight of a beer bottle ensconced between a lovely pair distracted attention away from other happenings.
Now, questioning of the Virgin recommenced, led by a Troll Doll. There were at least four of the three questions, to be answered in reverse alphabetical order of punctuation, an onerous task. The Virgin schoolgirl in her nightgown was reduced to gibbering and was unable to answer the actual questions. She, however, did entertain the Circle with a demonstration of her giant furry dildo which lives up to its name: Thunderbuddy! The Virgin, refused to sing but provided all with a lovely view of her underwear: pink inside black, which reminded the Pirates Pirate of someone he knew.
The Hashit, Dread Pirate Jack Sparrow, entered the circle and began nominations and accusations. In an interesting twist, and a sign that dark horrors infest the minds around us, the Hare was initially singled out with the lawyerly (shudder) explanation that although Hares are generally immune from Hashit, Refere'e had committed a grievous wrong on Saturday.
In fact, it was a crime against nature, nay, against time itself, in that he had directed a hasher, with his family no less, to travel from some far-off place, possibly Wilmington, to Creepy Makeup Witch's house for a party bygone these last four years. Now whilst it is true that the sybilline dryfootfairy message board is arcane and abstruse, it is also true that this is never to be spoken of! Even thinking of it may drive a man to insanity.
However, this charge was dismissed because Refere'e is really Retar'd and what did we expect?
Other accusations were brought, including Caesar because he's Dr. WHO, and Homeless Dude for being WIPOS and Jack Sparrow because he's Basket. That last wisdom almost held, with good cause. But suddenly the Creepy Painted Witch (or possibly the Unitard Vampire) drew our attention to two extremely fit female Runners and noted that they were not wearing costumes! The cry was taken up and someone else allowed as how they were clearly raceist, blatantly displaying their shameful philosophy emblazoned on their garments! As it turns out, this was an ill-fated accusation: upon later reflection, it becomes obvious that "raceist" was simply the costume of these innocents! They were actually hashers just pretending to be raceists, a sick joke upon us all.
Suddenly, all were taken aback by the cry of "Communist!" And like a flash, the Hashit flew to the head of the unfortunate who had come in his fancy-dress as El Caballo of Cuba, Fidel Castro. There was no counter to this denouncement and the Hashit was settled immediately. That poor bastard was so surprised and flummoxed that he could only stutter out the name "Sophie," like some demented village idiot. The Hash, attempting to assist him, somehow took his ejaculation to be some eldritch corruption of "Dinah," and somewhat successfully sang that song while substituting the former name for the latter. As it happens, the Hashit was really thinking of "On Top of Old Sophie," but was so gobsmacked that he was unable to gather whatsoever thoughts he had had.
Announcements were few and incoherent, the Dragon Boat training for September of 2014 figuring prominently.
Swing Low was sung, the Hash went in peace, and the on-after was held at the Wild Colonial, that tavern of a single barkeep-waitron, wobbly tables, and cheese plates to be fetched from Wisconsin (explaining why the cheese took far longer than the Reubens). But there were pitchers, so all ended as well as could be expected.
Please forgive me, your servant, if I have forgotten anything of moment. As H.P. Lovecraft was wont to note, "Ultimate horror often paralyses memory in a merciful way."