PRINCETON HHH HASH #697.4


Date: January 24, 1999
Weather: post-deluvian
Venue: Pennington
Time: 1:06
Set By: Uranus
Hashers:  Pete Dayton (Natural Born Lesbian), Speed Bumps, Geezer, LLLoda,
Rubberalan,Tabletoes, Wacko, Hey Yo!! Paully,Tropical Repression, Ice Blue
Balls, Juicy, A Joy to his Mutha, Table Toad, Throat Deep, Road Jaundice,
Grant Wallace, Hand Solo, OuiPui



                        Descriptions, Polemics, and Lies:



        It was 5 am; dawn was breaking but light was still visible through
the cracks of the boarded up House of Shih. I'd just come from the Belle
Meade Inn, where I'd found that the FBI was still watching after all these
months. I'd learned enough from the Assassin and Zaire to spot them a mile
away. Pitiful - just can't get good help these days. There they were,
"sleeping" in their 18-wheelers. It was the "Impeach Gore!" bumper stickers
that gave them away. They didn't see me, I made sure of that - lessons
learned long ago. Clearly neither Zaire nor the old Cuban could be there.
Where else might they be but the H of S? I knew the place was closed, but I
also knew that both Zaire and the Assassin had the goods on the chef, the
redoubtable Tu Huang Lo, and he would work up a passable meal whenever they
wanted. He'd better, thought I, just remember what happened to that dwarf.



        I knocked discretely, and was relieved to see the curtains pulled
aside to reveal the scarred face of old Jorge, the erstwhile waiter and
general factotum at the BMI. Zaire had to be there. And so he was. I made
my way in through a boarded up window, and followed Jorge down into the
cellar, savoring smells that promised much - Tu was surely still around.
Deep in the recesses I found what by now I expected - Zaire and the
Assassin, nodding over a table laden with plates of dumplings and Zaire's
favorite, those half-liter bottles of Stegmaier that no one but he could
get anymore. They were both in their cups, and thus somewhat less dangerous
than usual; it was just possible that I could make it up the stairs before
they could respond if things went awry. But Zaire's first words were
ominous.


        "What's this I hear about Rambo showing up for the 700th? And Dr.
No? Well,  that's OK, I know where he comes from" - a slow wink here from
the Assassin as he raised his head from its resting place among the
detritus on the table - he'd been on many missions with No, and was
personally responsible for saving his ass more than once when an aroused
citizenry was getting the tar and feathers ready. "I can't believe that
RoJo would put up with that. I'll have a word with her." The notion of
Zaire and the Grande Dominatrix "having words" was an interesting one, to
say the least. Zaire continued in a distracted way - he was obviously
preoccupied with how to deal with the potential attentions of the
peripatetic Love Kommando,  "What was it today like? Did Uranus bring any
beer this time? I would have shown up, but there's been so much road
running lately that I figured it probably wasn't worth it."


        So, I told him of an hour spent in flooded swamps, I sang to him of
gentle rains falling from leaden skies, of golfball graveyards and
graveball golfyards. I spoke of muddy hashers disrobing in the gloom, of
beer too decent to use for down downs, of the freeze descending, and of the
brightly colored Spandex Set running by us, haughty, with noses in the air.
I regaled him with tales of flesh-cookies from The Argentine, and of
Natural Born Lesbians, newly named. I whispered that the Geezer told again
the Tale of the Elephant with Three Balls. In short, I spoke in glowing
phrases of this shitty hash. I neglected to reveal that we ran down the
hound, and did not speak of her craven check to nowhere at the end.


        "Caramba!" said the Assassin, I wish I'd been there.  More
Stegmeiers all around, Jorge."


        Just one more Tale From The Belle Meade Inn.


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