Run 1665, Diamond Hill, 19 November 2014

How I Became Hasher

By a guest writer

bw

When that scut Wells invited me into his gizmo, called time machine, I never knew I would end up as something called hasher. He took me away from the world, where everybody walked naked and free, and we knew the names of trees and rocks and we sang our dreaming and we slept under the sky, and he threw me into a crazy place where people have second, flappy skins and no toes on their feet and live inside smooth tall rocks called flats.

It so happened that fat scut Wells, who had skin not like people but the colour of raw meat, disappeared in time machine and left me in a place between flats called Diamond Hill. There, a group of men, called hashers, gathered, talking loudly and laughing. Interesting was their second skin was much flimsier than Wells’, and I could see most of them had the same raw-meat skin, like ghosts. One of them, called Inflatadate, had a dog-animal, called Spencer, and indeed I did surmise that this dog-animal was the most intelligent of them all.

All of a sudden they were running away and on to a way of smooth dark rock, called road. They seemed to be looking for something, as I perceived them running hither and thither in a most confused manner, and shouting loudly to each other. There were more scuts here, but they just went about their own business, not like my scuts who I could see were greatly annoying to the others. I followed them, hidden, and moving lightly and easily like when you follow kangaroo for miles until he gets tired and then you spear him. These scuts were clumsy and fat. I wondered how they ate because they could never stalk and trap anything, not even possum.

Soon we went up into mountain, called Kowloon Peak, where the trees grew thick and there were many rocks. This made me feel better. I surmised that fat scut hashers were following white marks on the ground, that must lead to food. I tracked scuts over a stream and up a slope, where one scut, old and wizened but seemingly without the respect normally accorded to age, went a different way, called short cut. This hash scut was called Gunpowder Plod.

I decided to follow the main group and stalked them higher and higher up Kowloon Peak. These were good moments and I tracked the faster ones through the forest: Inflatadate, Mango Groove and the young one, called Gaele Says No. Only Spencer knew I was there and often sniffed me out, but stupid scut Inflatadate kept calling him back.

All too soon we came out to wide road, called Jats Incline. It was harder to conceal myself here so I waited until all others had gone by. They were called One Eyed Jack, Oranguwang, Eunuch (who I did not see at the beginning) and Shamus O’Pressed. After some short time I followed them and did surmise by the white marks that they had left Jats Incline and gone down many smooth rock platforms, called steps. This was better than road, but oft times the white marks went in two ways and sometimes ran out. On such occasions I tried the other way and found more marks. Then, wondrous to behold, I found a large rock like a cave with paintings on the side. These I scrutinized closely for clues to people, such as ancestors or pathways to water holes, but I could not fathom out the meaningless squiggles and surmised these were ignorant scut paintings showing they knew nothing of the world. Still, it was comforting to be in a place that resembled the world.

Suddenly I heard snufflings and gruntings, like when wombat is crashing through bush, and there emerged fat hash scut Golden Balls, the worst tracker of them all. Luckily I had sat down in the cave and Golden Balls staggered past oblivious to my scrutiny. It was then an easy matter to follow his gruntings and gaspings, and I wondered what foods he would lead me to, as I had seen nobody catch anything or even dig up roots.

Then a most strange thing confronted me. Arrows went two ways, one down steps and one into a scut place for shittings and pissings. I could not understand this as there were no signs of any shittings or pissings in the hole, called toilet, which had no sides and was open for all to see. This indeed was a mighty mystery to me.

Soon I had followed Golden Balls to the finish, which confounded me, as it was the start. At least the mystery of sustenance was solved, as they all were drinking pissings-coloured water which I surmised to be some kind of soup or brew. Wondrous to behold, it came not from a water hole but was contained in a smooth, shiny log beautiful to look upon. It was no problem for me to steal one of these brews, called beer, and it gave me another shock as it was not just cool like delicious water from stream, but cold like frost of winter. My final surprise was when I sipped at it. It did taste like amber nectar and made me feel good, very good. So this is how fat hash scuts get foods!

Another scut was there, but this one was different, taller than the rest and with hair the colour of spinifex. I perceived bubies but could see no fluff, this one also having a second loose skin, but decided this was a scut warrior queen come to lead her foot soldiers. A strange primitive ritual ensued whereby fat hash scuts gathered in a circle around this woman, called Velcro Lips, deferring to her as she allocated beers first to one then the other. All the while a sort of surf, called Stingray, poured beer into smaller containers for fat hash scuts to drink from. Each time a scut had foods the others chanted raucously. It was passing strange.

Finally the human Mango Groove called upon Oranguwang, who was old and quiet and had some dignity, unlike other hash scuts. Mango Groove made Oranguwang kneel before him and chanted an incantation. Thus did I surmise that Mango Groove was some sort of priest or religious advisor. After the incantation he poured beer onto Oranguwang’s baldy head while other fat hash scuts laughed. This was heinous to behold as Oranguwang did not seem to understand what was happening and looked confused in the way of old men. It transpired that religious advisor Mango Groove had given him a new name: Penile Dementia.

Fat hash scuts looked mightily pleased with themselves and drank beers and shouted raucously in the night. I stole another beer and hid in the shadows awaiting the return of fat scut Wells, who had promised to take me back to the world and away from this crazy place. Then Golden Balls discovered me.

Thus I became hasher.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s