The story you are about to read is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

It was Wednesday, July 26, 7:15pm. It was raining in Manhattan. We were off to a late start that night on account of the rain and I wasn’t sure the subways were running. Lucky for me they were. My name is Friday, I’m a cop. I was running the usual HHH summer Wednesday run when I got to the on-in and someone called out we’d lost The Londoner. “I’d like to report a missing hasher” she said to me. “Not another one” I responded. “I’m afraid so.”

Was it homicide? Kidnapping? Sprained ankle? Or just simply that the poor front running bastard couldn’t find his way around the Village. I didn’t know. My first instinct was to retrace our steps . . .

The start was at Union Square. About 15 hashers were huddled together under the subway gazebo to try and keep dry while Peter finished laying the trail over the rain-drenched streets of lower Manhattan. He arrived at the start dripping wet. In an act of brotherly love, Peter volunteered the on-in name and location to those who cared to know before the start. Only Dave Croft and I opted out. We were directed diagonally across the park in the wrong direction which neither he nor I noticed until the rest of the pack took-off due south towards 14^th Street to the first mark. We quickly found a check at the base of Union Square Park and promptly scattered in all directions in search of the trail. I remember seeing The Londoner at this point but I must admit I was more concerned about getting through the first few minutes of wetness than I was with his whereabouts. The pack reconvened running southeast. I was not yet comfortable with water dripping off the end of my nose so Steve Coleman offered his optimistic words of advise that things could be worse, “that dog for example” as he pointed down at the white powder puff in a raincoat, “he could have just bitten you leg off.” He’s right, I thought to myself. Wow. I’ll never complain again. The rest of the trail was well marked in paste. The three blobs signifying a turn was quite clever and the one lump of flour and you’re on was well received by all. The rain didn’t stop Peter from laying a plethora of checks however, taking us from west to east and back again. We weaved our way through the labyrinth known as the West Village then headed southwest to Antarctica (the on-in). That’s when I heard the hasher callout, “We’ve lost The Londoner!”

“Hmmmm” I murmured to myself, “retracing steps is helpful but I need to know if someone in the group might have wanted to rid our hash of The Londoner. If so, why?” My first thought was our Hare. He was all alone at the start and didn’t drive-up to the on-in for at least 15minutes after we’d all gotten there. Plenty of time to dispose of a body. But why? It didn’t make sense. A ruckus in the middle of the bar caught my attention. When I turned, Dave Croft was handing my unusual suspect a down-down. After taking credit for the trail, Peter resumed his position as JM and gave the first beer to Devo for being the rabbit and carrying a small aluminum tool case. It’s then I KNEW I had my man. I tried to get closer to examine the power drill Peter pulled out of Devo’s bag for traces of blood but I couldn’t find any obvious signs of foul play. That’s when Peter called my optimistic running pal to the podium for not hashing in over a year and choosing the rainiest night of the summer to resurface. Very suspicious . . . except he wasn’t out of my sight the entire run. Next on the list were Eva, Ariane and Devo who drank for changing into civilian clothes immediately upon entering Antarctica. Maybe it was a conspiracy and they didn’t want anyone recognizing them as runners so I wouldn’t consider them in my line-up -- possible but not probable. The final chug went to Sarah for inappropriately using her cellphone at the on-in possibly to call her hit man to make sure everything went ok. I doubt it. With the down-down’s ending and me without a viable suspect I turned to the others in the room. Stacey? Too sweet. Lawrence? Too gentle. Jill? No. Dave Hardy? No fuckn’ way. I just kept striking-out.

I reviewed the facts in my head and considered other possible dubious runners while I picked at my pizza and sipped my cost-effective domestic beer. John Burke? Lesley? Fireman Bob? Then like a flash it dawned on me: The bags!! There were no extra bags at the end of the night. Had The Londoner expected to make it to the on-in he surely would have packed a change of clothes to switch into once he got to the bar. He even knew the name of the on-in. Feeling relieved at solving yet another hash mystery, I rejoined the party already in progress and found the beer and conversation a welcome mix. Although Peter had done a great job, he was visibly anxious at the end of the night wondering what the scribe had in store for him, “What’s going to happen to me in the write-up Friday?” I wanted to reassure him but chose a less direct answer instead, “Let me put it to you this way Peter – that’s up to the scribe.” On-out.