PHHH #959.9 

Date: Sunday, October 26, 2003 

Place: Some godforsaken light industrial park behind Mrs. G's 

Weather: Grim but not unpleasant 

Hare: Pyroman 

Hounds: Hey Yo! Paully, Speedbumps, Geezer, Weepee, Dave Driscoll, Ben Elias, 
        Safe Sweats, Polish Twin C 

Why Geezer never returned from the Belle Mead Inn 

Geezer came to on his back, sweating bullets, a blindfold--no, a wet cloth, covering his eyes.  
The rich smell of Stegmaier's finest filled his nostrils.  He tried to lift a hand to remove 
the cloth but he was too weak.  Not faintly enough he heard a familiar cackling laugh. 

"So, Grandmaster Geezairr!  A teepically shitty Pyro hash and you're heestory!" 

"Damn you, Assassin . . .Where . . . where am I?" 

"Not to worry, we will geeve you the best of care, here at Captain Kirkuk's Cafe and Infirmary!  
Your every need will be tended to by highly trained medical perrrsonnel--" 

"Jesus H. Christ in a casket, Jorge wouldn't know my ass from his elbow." 

"--supervised by myself and your old compadre, A. G. Zaire." 

"Good evening, Geezer, it's so nice to have you back with the living." 

Geezer groaned at the thought. 

"I get off my deathbed, riven with plague, ticks, gout, pertussis, colic, the blind staggers--
all this to fly the flag on a hash and end up with you?  What the hell happened?" 

"Maybe your Lyme Disease disagreed with the toxic wasteland that dissolved all those crappers.  
Who's ever seen porcelain dissolve like that?  Perhaps there was a reason that land was 
fenced off from ageing morons like yourself?  Of course, Pyroman wouldn't know," Zaire hissed 
in Geezer's ear, "but then, he's a chemist." 

A pall of silence descended on the room before the David B. Jones Professor of Chemistry 
responded with all the authority he could muster from his prone position. 

"Balls.  Speaking of which, what the hell did you do to that deer to bloat its gut like that?  
Thank god Paully didn't jump on it." 

The Cuban Assassin rubbed a dry eye. 

"And we had such hopes, such hopes. . . Steeel," he brightened, "maybe you stepped in 
something else?" 

"If Weepee squeezes out another one of Bumps's shit-filled Easter egg Peeps at me, I'll fold 
him like a paper clip.  Auuggh," Geezer groaned at the memory, sweat pooling on the wooden 
picnic table he lay on.  He felt a cool hand dab at him with another cloth.  "Who is that?" 
he asked, convinced that the tender, almost sensual, application of care couldn't be that of 
Zaire and the Assassin's loyal adjutant. 

"Why, Geezairr, you recognize old friends as well you do old students, like that Double D, 
Seņor Driscoll!"  The Assassin laughed heartily.  "Permit me to reintroduce you to . . . 
Our Wanda!" 

The cloth pulled away, the grandmaster of the Princeton Hash looked up in awe at the figure 
apparently poured into the RN uniform.  She leaned over him to mop his matted brow and he 
passed out. 

"Clara Barton she's not," observed Zaire, "but at least he could have thanked her." 



NEXT HASHES:
Volunteer now for your favorite dates!
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