The next morning we commandeered a bus for the "ball buster" run in New Territories, set by Sir Roger, ...er Sir Huey Puke, ...er The Grand Masterbator (Sir Huey, have you met the Bator Brothers of LA?--I've never seen the two of them in one room together and from all reports it's a dangerous combination of one-upsmanship) and Latent Blatant or Blatant Latent, a.k.a. Mr. No-Yes (Suteki Buns hit that nail right on the head, rest her sweet soul; at any rate, he's reinvented himself as something more innocuous, "corn-something:" "Cornball" or "Cornhole" or something), who actually thought he could scare people off by calling it a ball buster. People, yes; Hashers, no: four busloads of Hashers showed up, helping Carlsberg clear out their Christmas beer, and a fine beer it was. The trail ran straight up the hill and along a ridge, where we could look from the ridge trail over the border to Shenjen, and then continued along that ridge, with a detour down and then up again for those animals from Taipei Hash--and Swiss Piss and Good Tail--and Sir Whooey's great down downs and to a hangar the military was kind enough to lend us (what do they care? they're leaving soon anyway) and of course carrying on long into the night....