Gather round, all you children, and sit close by me, as I tell the story of the sordid affairs of the Friday the 13th 169th SOH4 Hash, that took place this 13th of November, 2015.

Imagine you find yourself in the middle of a dark parking lot on a chilly November Friday night with 60 other idiots decked out in running clothes and weird accessories. A mustachioed man named Kicky hands you a pair of bright orange gloves in return for $10 hash cash. You thank him and step backward into the horde. Everyone is chattering about an anniversary of some sort. People and dogs keep arriving, as if called by some supernatural force. A man in a Michael Myers mask eyes you up and down. You shiver. “It’s from the cold,” you tell yourself. “It’s just from the cold.” But deep down, there’s something discomforting you.

Two dogs begin to brawl. Then, the crowd forms a circle and begins a strange ritual called “chalk talk”. A man called Table It, who appears to be in charge, requires four “virgins” to do unconscionable things in the middle of this ritual, while Kicky drops piles of a white substance on the ground. The crowd becomes restless and chants loudly “no matter what happens, it’s my own fucking fault” before taking off into the woods like ghouls. You follow, ripping through through the brambles and thorns as you struggle to keep up. No matter how strange the group is you are with, you’re sure it’s better than being alone. As you scamper over a hill, you realize with horror that you’re in a massive graveyard, eerily illuminated by only the night’s moon. The pause in the midst of the chaos is peculiar and before you decide what to make of it, your companions are frantic once more, soon clamoring on about some “beer near” or something you don’t understand. Finally there, they stop, and you rest cautiously before taking off once again.

Up ahead on the ground is a mark you don’t recognize. A circle jerk, says a nearby deviant. You watch as the group splits in two, attacking the area ahead as if a two-headed devil dog. Around they ran, possessed by the spirit of the beer near, until the two heads appeared to crash into each other. Chaos erupted at the center! Men and women took to running around and around and around, screeching and howling with sinister laughter. A man called Bushy and one called Chickpea wrestled wildly. With no one to take control, this circle jerk appeared to be unstoppable. It is maddening and you want to scream! And then, just as quickly as it started, men and women dispersed, returning to a more normal running style. You try to shrug this bizarre activity off, but you know you are forever changed.

As you move forward with the others, the graveyard tells its stories, daring you to move among its stones without regard. Then, all gather around to hear a certain pair of Just Mikes tell their stories. These strange, perverted tales about cats and mothers cause hooting and howling from your companions. It appears they are delighted, for a reason you cannot fathom. A man in a pickup truck eyes the horde, and you are conflicted between being relieved to feeling distress. The group senses impeding danger and moves quickly to its next stop location, on to another so-called “beer near” as you follow limply behind. “Charles in Charge,” you hear whispered among the others. You will soon find out that one of these Just Mikes doesn’t make it out of the evening alive. He was replaced by this Charles in Charge, much to the delight of the pack.

The tumultuous evening appears to be ending, as you come to recognize the parking lot you started from. Relief waves over you, only to be replaced with sadness. “There isn’t enough beer,” you hear all around you. “Please, share some beer with others. We only have a little left.” This twist in events leaves you queasy, and you wonder how it can be that so many people have such free time on Friday evenings to traverse through forests and cemeteries, all for this drink they call “beer”.

You plan to come back the following week and try it again.

Respectfully submitted,
Slip and Swallow