LX R^n

Boner had taken over as the second GM of HIV and a couple of months later had decided he couldn't wait until the 69th r^n to try his luck organising a big Hash bash.

So on a glorious spring afternoon one Saturday in late 2004, 18 HIV half-minds gathered at Sylvester's Nightclub at the top end of Hannan Street to set off for a pleasant day in the bush. Little did they realise the carnage that lay ahead of them.

Thirteen bottles of Glenfiddich scotch and 8 cases of beer lay waiting to ambush the pack as they boarded a brand new hire bus and headed out of town.

Lisa and Boner had set the bush r#n near Bardoc, north of town, earlier that morning and had ensured there would be numerous piss stops to test the pack. The testing began quickly. On the bus we tried in vain to resist the single malt until we got to the r*n site, but alas, the HIVers were weak in spirit and cracked the first bottle on the outskirts of North Boulder.

Bad, bad mistake. Like nectar, the scotch flowed freely from that point. As we got to the start of the trail, the pack was already well lubed. On the r^n, 6 more bottles of scotch went down. At the top of each minor hill and rise, an ode to our Scottish brethren was recited as we downed a shot of the Glenfiddich.

As we reached the circle, mayhem was beginning to break out. Boner was assisted by Lisa to absolutely cane every half-mind that dared to present themselves that fateful day. There was ice and beer and sawdust and scotch and beer and scotch and vomit and beer and blood and scotch and ice and fuck me, where the hell did it end.

Next thing we knew we were on the bus again, heading back to North Boulder. Bodily fluids spurted out of every orifice and rained down. Piss and spew and blood were splattered everywhere.

As we hit the pavement outside Sylvester's again, it was a scene from the trenches of Gallipoli in World War I. Tortured and bloodied bodies lay everywhere. Scotch-shocked HIVers stumbled around like spastic three-legged dogs.

A few barely conscious survivors made it to the back of the club where a delictable stripper had been waiting patiently for us. But what a waste. Out of the 18 starters, hardly 3 or 4 can remember what the stripper looked like. There was some food there, but who gave a fuck.

As the ambulances, taxis and infuriated wives arrived to scoop up what remainded of the hardy 18 men who commenced the LX R^n earlier that day, a legend was already being born.

Like all legendary events in our otherwise dreary lives, the LX R#n just happened. Sure, there was a bit of effort to plan the thing, but nobody ever expected the incredible outcome.

What a joy to behold, those magificent men battling the single malt with determination and sacrifical brain cells. What a price that was paid by those valiant Hashers. What legends were born from the stupidity of those HIVers on the day of the LX R^n!!!