Brooklyn Hash House Harriers
Run # 415, June 30 2008
Hares: FMIG and House of Weenies
On In: R Bar
It was a dark and stormy night. I waited under the bus shelter, dragging on my cigarette, watching the down-trodden Brooklyn masses slogging home through the streets. Poor suckers, they never had a chance. Not with the group that I knew would arrive at any moment, the group I had been assigned to watch: the Hashers. That cruel and fearless gang, the Hashers were known to knife a man, just for looking at them cross-eyed. They would smoke you for a mislaid look, would buzz you for blocking their path to the bar. The old-timers said that once you saw their chalk marks, you were a goner. I had been hired to watch them, to suss out their game, and to report back to the Big Man. What would go down tonight?
I had to have my wits about me, but I needed a bit of courage. Even for a detective like myself-6'2, a beefy 220, one squinty eye and a penchant for cheap liquor and even cheaper dames-even for me the Hashers would be a risky game. Taking a pull of rye from my flask, out of the corner of my eye I saw them start to gather, eyeing each other with their little beady eyes.
Suddenly, one of them was on to me: "Just Laurel," a gum-snapping, wiseacre broad long on sarcasm and even longer on looks.
"You made it!" she said, "but where's your partner in crime? How long ya think this run'll be? And why are you wearing that ridiculous trench coat?" How the dame sighted me, I'll never know. But before she could probe me for any more of what I don't know, the pack was off, running through the wet and crumbling streets of Williamsburg, following their marks and howling in their devilish secret code. They followed their marks, and I followed mine. Somewhere around hard-bitten Bushwick Avenue their trail went cold, and a new mystery was born: where did the trail go? Who was responsible for setting it, anyway? Why hadn't they used flour in this downpour?
Who knows? Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Only the Shadow knows, but seeing as he had an "accident" on his last assignment, I was the one left to solve this damn mystery. The Hashers, lazy, shiftless bastards every last one of them, gathered on that street corner and loitered, silently, as if waiting for a signal. The tall limey, "Hedgehog," grinning his evil grimace, pulled out what appeared to be a map and called several of the men to him. "Dogface," "Altered Boy," and "Riding Big Jake" conferred, then suddenly dashed off in the direction of that soot and fire-breathing monster, the BQE. The Pack followed. And so did I.
Down side streets, through twisting alleys, around swirls of brushed-up garbage and past youths milling and menacing about in packs, The Pack continued. Hopping a fence, "Blackout" nearly missed a tangle with a fierce growling four-legged beast. The fence bit him instead. But that was not the way the trail went.
Confused now, The Pack slogged on, running through parks and projects, briefly racing some of the local swells, when SUDDENLY, a shot rang out. Who dared to challenge the Hashers? Who would rumble with them in their own city, their own borough?
I'll tell ya who. Kids. Kids with firecrackers. "Just Shani," the bravest of the pack, howled in pain as exploding pieces flew into her face, leaving trails of soot and probably blinding her for life, and yet she ran on. She was no coward, and no fool either.
And then they found them.
Pack marks, left by one of their compadres, "Eager for Beaver." Where had he come from? And how did he know the trail? Another mystery. And even more mysterious: those little marks went right to the final hit: the R Bar (451 Meeker Ave), conveniently located right under the tracks of the BQE.
I'd trailed my prey to their hideout, and now I would see what Trouble ensued. Would there be blood? Would it be the big shake-down? Peering in the smudged windows of the saloon, this is what I saw: down-downs and pizza. More of the former than the latter, and this was what they were for:
- Hares: for the usual. During the song. "House of Weenies" insisted he really WAS a joy to his mother since he is a Jewish doctor. Just as "FMIG" began berating "HoW" for this dimness, his own cell rang: Momma FMIG was calling.
- "Just Jeremy" made a comment that FMIG's mother was looking for him and drank for the two of them instead. Spare the yo mamma jokes at the hash.
- "FMIG," AOTW: for being a walking example that Hell really IS other people (and for stealing pepperoni from "Just Mika," and when she protested, putting it back on her slice).
- "Just Jeremy," aka "Birthday Boy," aka "Always AT LEAST 15 minutes late to the Hash," for daring to have a birthday.
- "Blackout," for letting an Alaskan bear eat his beard. And for having a birthday.
- A virgin whose name I didn't catch, who was brought to the Hash by our favorite Cypriot, whose name I also never catch. Apparently, they met in the old country (Astoria).
- "Altered boy" for canceling a marriage counseling session to come out with the Hash. If those divorce rates go up, we know who to blame.
- "Just Laurel" for racing. Will she never learn?
Down-downs that should've been given:
- "Just Jack," for being a Brooklyn virgin and getting away with it
- "Smashmouth," for telling the scribe that "Daisy" has told him he's "not allowed to come home until he brings those f**king dog treats."
- "Just Nina," for making it rain AGAIN.
Perhaps this gang wasn't as fierce as I'd been led to believe. In fact, I was kinda starting to like them. I especially liked the fact that they closed the night with $8 in hash cash left over. So maybe I was wrong: maybe they grow on ya, like that rash I picked up in the war.
And so, at the end of the end, The Pack shouldered their bags and scattered to the winds, most likely to wreak havoc elsewhere. My job done, my dissipation complete, I dissipated into the streets.
Riding Big Jake