“Drink it down, down, down, down!”, the cries echoed into the darkening twilight sky. I hadn’t realized how late it was until just now, the group’s curious eyes and inviting grins had been replaced by dark, angry shadows. I was surrounded by creatures less than human – raw animalistic instinct gone mad within God’s most sophisticated form.
The virgin next to me was already halfway through the “holy vessel” – a glistening silver bedpan filled to the brim will every poison known to man. I wasn’t sure if I would make it – my body and mind clocked out a long time ago. I was in a dim tunnel that kept sharply curving – never letting me see the end.
“Why are we waiting? Could be masturbating! Oh why, are we waiting so God! Damn! Long!” The head Hare, or ‘religious advisor’ as they’re sometimes called, shoved the foul bedpan into my face. My nose recoiled at the smell of Natural Light, Keystone, High Life, tequila, Wild Turkey, and something similar to Tabasco mixed together to form the eighth deadly sin.
But you’d be surprised what physical exhaustion, excessive drinking, and extreme peer pressure can force one to do. I tilted my head back and drank this evil elixir like some sort of unholy baptism of fire.
I had become a hasher.
Saturday, 2:40 pm. Being in the middle of the runner pack is a larger responsibility than it seems. Get too far ahead, and the folks behind you could easily lose the trail – get too far behind and you lose the trail yourself. I was beginning to regret my decision to do this so called, “Hash Run” – all it’d gotten me was 3 miles of running and a red solo cup of beer. I thought it was a drinking club with a running problem, not vice versa.
Hell, at this point, I was pretty close to my house. I could pull this plug on this ludicrous adventure right now if I wanted; turn back to cultured society and do my taxes early. But that’s when I saw two large letters scrawled on the concrete beneath my wary feet: BN. Beer Near.
Following the waving pirate flag, I made my way into Jubilee, where several six-packs of High Life were waiting for us at the bar. Something about a strong thirst and tired legs makes beer taste like the mana of the gods. I had just begun to enjoy myself when I learned it was time for the ‘virgin sacrifice’.
“Does she have the rug-burned knees? Yes she has the rug-burned knees!”, the crowd of mostly college-aged guys shouted as they spun in circles holding their beers high above their heads. “Does she have the swinging tits? Yes she has the swinging tits! Does she have the blowjob lips? Yes she has the blowjob lips!” The howling and dancing continued as the virgin sacrifice, a new female member stood atop a chair being jeered by the crowd.
Her expression was a mixture of laughter and self-conscious meekness. But there was something beautiful in that, something strong. Maybe it was just the two bottles High Life quickly absorbing into my blood stream. But as illogical, insensitive, and cruel it seemed…
Once you start hashing, it all starts to make sense. Sort of.
No time to figure it out, the head of the pack was already out the door on the way to the next ‘check’. And I’m feeling it now.
Continued in Part Two…