Run Report for Run Number 100 -- January 18, 2015;
Hares: CUNSTUBBLE PANTLESS... and his shady accomplices
Numbers: Over 90 legitimates... and some illegal entries
It was Friday evening in Nha Trang. Mr Cac, a local ‘fixer’ for expats with problems was rubbing his hands with glee. This had been a lucrative week.
First, there had been the American guy with a beard, Doctor somebody or somebody Doctor, he wasn’t sure which. To be honest, it didn’t matter. Discretion was what his clients wanted and discretion was what they got. The doctor had been caught by the police goosing young ladies as they passed in the street. A couple of million dong, strategically distributed, had brought the matter to a swift and happy conclusion.
Then there was the tall Canadian pilot who had been caught, not for the first time, indulging in a bit of hanky-panky with a Russian tourist on Nha Trang’s sweeping beach. This time he had excelled himself and her excited squeals had attracted the attention of a passing patrol. Again a quick call to Mr Cac, a discreet redistribution of wealth and the matter was forgotten.
And, only yesterday, the Australian owner of a ladies’ clothing shop called Spicy Pepper or something similar had been caught with his pockets full of ladies’ underwear, recently removed from local washing lines. His protestations that he was collecting samples for his shop had fallen on deaf ears but Mr Cac’s swift intervention had left the Australian red-faced and significantly poorer but at least out of gaol.
And now he was waiting for the guy he referred to as the Idle Englishman. This guy had introduced him to a new scheme called ‘setting the hash’ which was going to earn him another million before the end of the weekend. Mr Cac had first met the Englishman a year or so ago. The guy was in a bit of a quandary. It appeared that every Sunday he and some friends would go for a walk in Nha Trang’s countryside, somebody having laid a trail to follow earlier that day. Now laying the trail meant an early start to the day and the Englishman had on this occasion volunteered to lay a trail without realising the early bird implications. He was now kicking himself for his impetuosity and was f#cked if he was going to break his lazy lie-in routine for the bunch of no-hopers that regularly turned up for the Hash. A chance meeting with Mr Cac in the adult section of a DVD store had provided a solution. Mr Cac was well connected and knew many locals who could lay such a trail in less than half an hour. A quick negotiation had taken place, two million dong had changed hands and the setting of the hash had been sorted. The Idle Englishman had his lie in, a couple of locals spent 30 minutes or so chalking arrows on pavements and throwing down shredded paper across a couple of paddy fields, Mr Cac took his cut and everyone was happy. The stupid Hashers, of course, knew no different.
This had now become a regular source of income for Mr Cac. It appeared that the Englishman had more money than sense as he kept volunteering to set the Hash, always forgetting the early start and, inevitably, turning to Mr Cac for assistance. Today was no different and Mr Cac leant back in his easy chair, took a puff on his fat cigar and waited for the knock at the door.
Across town, Cuntstubble Pantless of the Nha Trang Hash eased himself out of the sofa and walked over to the DVD player. He pressed the eject button and removed the disc. ‘Grannies with Fannies’, he had to admit, had been a bit of a disappointment. He usually got his porn from the DVD store but on this occasion his Hash buddy, WankMag, had supplied him. WankMag’s stuff was all second hand and this particular DVD had kept jumping just at the more interesting bits. CP shrugged resignedly and made a mental note not to buy any more of his fellow countryman’s goods. WankMag’s main commodity was books and magazines and CP felt that the recent venture into DVD’s was not going to be a success.
CP placed the DVD under the bed with all the others before putting on his jacket and wandering out into the front yard where he kept his motorbike. At the moment the motorbike was sharing the yard with a dog and ten puppies. CP felt the soft squish of a dog turd underfoot and winced at the odour that greeted him. He really should get round to clearing up, he thought. Maybe later. He fired up the bike and, making sure the gate was locked behind him, set off into the night.
His journey was a familiar one; he had made it many times. Along Trang Phu northward then across town through back streets and alleys until he came to a stop in a quiet hem. He locked his bike and walked over to a small but smart house and knocked on the door.
The door opened and a waft of cigar smoke greeted him. Through the fug, he made out the figure of his acquaintance, Mr Cac. “Come in, my friend,” Mr Cac smiled. “ Come in...”
A couple of days later, the usual bunch of loafers, louts and layabouts had gathered outside Patrick’s wine bar for the weekend hash. This was a hash with a difference, being both the 100th Hash and the second anniversary Hash. More astute readers will wonder how the 100th Hash could fall on the 104th week but in hashing, everything is possible.
The previous night had seen the Hashers carousing the night away at a celebratory bash where the roughness of the bottles of spirits at each table was matched only by the roughness of the women drinking it. As a result, more than one hasher was looking more than a little bit worse for wear. But, undaunted by the alcoholic hammers in their heads, the Hashers were looking forward to the walk ahead. Constable Pantless, this week’s hare, drove into Patrick’s bike park, chalk hanging from one pocket and a small trail of shredded paper falling from the other. The Hashers looked at each other and nodded their approval. Good old CP had obviously been up early setting the Hash. Just look at the bags under his eyes and his unshaven face.
CP was a bit flustered. Mr Cac normally gave him a map of each Hash so he could pretend he knew where he was going. But on this occasion, an emergency call from a client whom he only knew as Accident Prone Pete, who had once again been caught peeing from his balcony into the hem below, meant that Mr Cac was unable to meet up with CP. He had, though, made a quick call telling CP where the Hash started and finished. CP wasn’t sure exactly where Mr Cac meant but he had a reasonable idea and had come up with a cunning plan (in the words of Baldric, to whom many said CP had more than a passing resemblance) to follow the Hash on his motor bike. This way he could pretend to be shepherding the Hashers whilst, in fact, looking ahead to see where the Hash went.
And so the Hashers set off in two buses. The route to the Hash took them south west out of Town towards Diamond Bay. For some inexplicable reason, Mr Cac’s trail-setters had today chosen a different start for the runners and the walkers. This had added to CP’s stress and he was hugely relieved to notice an arrow at the place where the runners were due to start. The runners leapt from the buses like so many gazelles and before you could say “You want massage? Massage baby...” they had disappeared into the distance. CP was less sure of the walkers’ start and had to get the buses to do an emergency U-turn on the main highway out of town before dispensing their passengers into the middle of various streams of oncoming traffic. Miraculously, all survived the disembarkation before setting off on the Hash proper.
The trail took the Hashers through scrubland where they had to scramble over rocks by a stagnant pond before emerging onto a rural path which in turn led to a disused mining area which, in fairness, was more picturesque than it sounds. Hash GM, Dingo, a former gold miner, gazed at the quartz crystals scattered on the floor of the old mine and tears came to his eyes as he reminisced on the good old days before Lady Luck had dealt him a bum hand and washed him up on the shores of Nha Trang. Tears came to the eyes of several other Hashers too as the loose ground under their feet resulted in many a tumble. Fortunately, for most Hashers, well padded backsides and thighs meant that no serious damage was done. The trail then led along footpaths, through fish farms and up slopes before emerging above the Diamond Bay Golf Course. The final straight with views over the course and to the sea beyond meant that most Hashers had forgotten just how shitty the first part of the trail had been and they reached the finish point at Diamond Bay beach with, for the most part, happy smiles on their faces.
The smiles were almost certainly helped by the sizzling sound and fantastic smell coming from the barbecue where chef Just Paul and two beautiful Harriett assistants were cooking pigs in blankets. After a last minute panic over where the salad was and who had done what with the limbo pole, an obedient queue formed at the barbecue. Sadly, not everyone had realised that you were only supposed to queue once whilst others had failed to realise that if you didn’t queue once before the greedy bastards queued twice, your memory of the pigs in blankets would be one of smell and no taste.
The delightful Dosage poured oil on hungry waters and the Hash moved onto its final phase, games and swimming. Various of the Harriettes repaired to the changing rooms to change into skimpy bikinis and their wiggle down to the beach was accompanied by the popping sound of middle-aged and elderly Hashers eyeballs emerging from their heads in strained and fruitless lust.
Others of the Hash enjoyed a limbo competition and a sack race on a concrete floor, narrowly avoiding a requirement for facial surgical reconstruction. Many beers were quaffed and much merriment was had. The final circle included an icing of the now mightily relieved CP. The guys had done a decent job on the trail and he was hoping for a good mark. But the Gods had been looking down with disapproval on his deception and an initially promising run report somehow ended up with a record low score of minus 101. Dingo and Doggy Style were iced for having a threesome with CP’s Thai Ridgeback dog resulting in an unwanted double pregnancy (paternity suits to follow). Hash GMs and ex-GMs were iced for their general knobbiness and various others were punished for reasons far to obscure and ridiculous to follow or even contemplate. And so it came to an end. A great weekend of celebration, fun and jollity. The Hashers collected up their belongings and disposed of their detritus before climbing onto the buses and heading back to Patrick’s for the final On On.
It was Sunday, 10pm. Mr Cac had just taken a call from an annoyed Idle Englishman. “Minus 101. That’s what I got! I’m not paying you 2 million dong for a lousy minus 101! I need better next time. You need to up your game!” Mr Cac smiled to himself and soothed the Englishman with the promise of better to come. He knew that the Englishman needed him more than he did the Englishman.
And anyway, he had just pocketed another 3 million dong from another of his regular clients. Receiving a frantic call from the client only an hour ago, Mr Cac had raced round to his house. There he found the client and two police officers gazing at a DVD taken, according to the writing at the bottom of the screen, by security camera 7 at Diamond Bay Beach earlier that afternoon. The DVD clearly showed his client clambering onto the roof of the ladies’ changing room before hanging over the edge of the roof and peering in through the window to the changing area inside. Mr Cac smiled. Easy money. A brief conversation with the police officers, a nod and a wink to his client, a discreet passing of a brown envelope and it was over. Sorted.
His client shook his hand in gratitude as Mr Cac left. Swinging his leg over his motor bike, Mr Cac looked back at the house fondly. This was the sort of client he needed. Regular and grateful. Always in trouble and always keen to get out of it. Yes, he wished he had a few more clients like good old Irish Alan...
ON ON...... ON ON........ ON ON/////
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If you like a regular social (or anti-social) gathering with a couple of drinks (or more) and a bit of sweat, the Hash might be something for you. The Hash is a very social and international, recreational cross-country running for fun activity. Put simply: we run, socialize and drink a little beer.
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