PRINCETON HHH HASH #922.2

Date: February 23, 2003
Weather: snow/rain
Venue: Princeton Shopping Centre to Communist Park North
Set: Geezer
Time: ca. 1 h
Hashers:  HYP,  Lady Macbeth,  Solo, Steve Andrews, Brain Injury Volunteer, Captain Lame-O, 
WeePee, Dancin' Fool



Descriptions, Polemics, and Lies:


Geezer set in the rain and the pack ran through the ice water in snow and rain. HYP and the 
Captain arrived late, guessed the start, but found the end.

Both 921.2 and 922.2 were brilliant run-ups to Hard Core XI, of which no one expects much 
given the quality of the hares. Pity.

And speaking of Inns........here's


Another Tale From the Belle Meade Inn

It was 3 am as I approached the collapsing back door of the Belle Meade Inn. The Inn was 
closed. The Inn is always closed. There were no lights, of course. Zaire and The Assassin 
learned long ago that duct tape has more uses than trussing up Belgian dwarves who are 
reluctant to talk. I knocked in the old way and Jorge let me in. There had been so many 
omens and rumors lately that I was not surprised to see him - older maybe, a bit more 
shopworn - was that a new gap in his teeth? No matter. Down we went to the once lavish 
basement, now in the same decline that grips us all. A. G. Zaire sat in his wheelchair 
with the Assassin at his side. The Big Cuban fetched me a Stegmaier and I sat down beside 
them. Where do they get that stuff, I wondered, it's not been made for years. Must be a 
stash somewhere. 

Zaire gave me his famous look - the one that makes you feel you are being sized up by the 
coldest hearted lizard in hell - one that is deciding if it is full enough to let you pass, 
or just hungry enough to slurp you up with one zap of its hideous, raspy tongue. "What's 
this I hear about Rambo setting Hard Core XI? Did you let that happen?"  Even The Assassin 
was taken aback. I could tell because the great scar that crosses his bald head began to 
throb. Jorge vanished. Zaire continued his malevolent stare, fingering the worry beads that 
he affects now that RoJo is gone. One bead for every year she's been away, they say. "If 
Rambo fucks up the way he did before, it won't go well for you, me boyo, I can tell you 
that." Zaire casually flipped his empty Stegmaier bottle against the picture of Ronald 
Reagan on the wall, and Jorge scurried in with another.  "So no coppers this time, eh? 
And make sure he can find the end of his own trail - that's been a problem, you know. OK, 
now beat it, I've got work to do." I left in something of a scramble, but as I made my way 
up the dark stairs, the next of Zaire's visitors was coming down. A fat guy in a fancy 
uniform with a whole lot of folks wearing towels on their heads. Or so it looked. It was 
dark, you know, and I couldn't be sure.