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ZH3 Hash #1117 – Un Hash italiano

ZH3 Hash #1117 – Un Hash italiano
Hare: Soaked Baloney
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Scribe: How do you define Veird

Hashie, the Hash Stick

Hi, my name is Hashie, the hash stick! Before I became a hash stick, I was chillaxing for about 1-10 years (nobody can really tell how many exactly) in the woods of Oerlikon. I had quite a calm life until that one day #1117, when a stupid hasher, who goes by the name How Do You Define Veird, picked me up from my cozy, shiggy spot in the woods during another ZH3 trail! I was just in the middle of my annual hibernation, when that f****** tosser molested me and took me with him! He dragged me along all the damn trail and performed all kind of veird wanna-be martial arts movements from the Matrix. Veird banged me against trees, hash cars, hash bikes, hash brownies, other hashers and especially against each and every harriettes’s T&As – what a creep! Rumour has it, Veird even abused me to smash a window of a local immigrant shop owner who just got his C permit after trying so hard for continuous 25 years! I can’t really remember much of it coz it went all blurry after contracting a severe concussion when Veird threw me down 500 feet from Milchbuck bridge after soaking me in white gas and setting me on fire with his f***** fag.

I already thought it was over, but it took only a matter of seconds and Veird was in the starting blocks to continue his diabolic torturing of me! He dragged me around all of Kreis 11 until finally arriving at the Beer Stop at the old MFO park next to Oerlikon train station. I remember this place only from stories: My great-great-grandfather had served here years ago until the moment when they sliced him up into pieces in order for him to serve his final duty as wooden plank in Uto Kulm’s hotel on Uetliberg.

Veird had put me in the middle of the circle for everyone to see my tormented and hash-raped existence. Just when I started feeling a little bit more at ease for the first time in the long time, a f****** hash dog grabbed my by the pussy and aggressively cut my throat with his choppers in one go. All hashers, except Veird, got instantly disgusted by the massive amount of tree flesh and liquid that splattered all over the place – some even threw up or fainted. Luckily, a hash doctor stopped by to treat the incapacitated.

I am not sure what I have done wrong in my life to upset Gaia this much, but somehow I feel like I am doomed to live this life in darkness for an eternity…!


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ZH3 Hash #1111: Annals Scavenger Hunt

ZH3 Hash #1111: Annals Scavenger Hunt
Hare: Asphalt Liquor & MeMe
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Scribe: Cheesy Balls

Where am I? Zurich I think. No jelly shots.
New beer cooler in hand. Magic. No jelly shots.
Top of a hill. No car. No jelly shots.
People cycling up the hill. Why? Mad! No jelly shots.
Young girls giving stickers. No jelly shots.
Different colour stickers. Yellow for walkers. No jelly shots.
Sticky coloured teams. Only one purple. No jelly shots.
It’s cold and wet. Shorts and T-shirts for some. No jelly shots.
Circle up. Italians complaining ‘it’s cold’. No jelly shots.
I’m sure there were virgins. Did someone say ‘prizes’. No jelly shots.
No clue what’s going on. Some kind of hunt. No jelly shots.
Off we go. No markings. Hare lost. No jelly shots.
Accosted by scooter. Two front wheels. No jelly shots.
First stop and questions. No clue. Two jelly shots.
Blue pen for blue team. Makes sense. One jelly shot.
Paper gone and off we went. No jelly shots.
Up hills and down roads. Never saw any flour. No jelly shots.
Stop two and more questions. No clue. Three jelly shots.
Woods and some shiggy. Wrong way. No jelly shots.
Stop three and questions. Saved by an expert. Three jelly shots.
More trees and some paths. Light headed. No jelly shots.
More questions. Did someone say ‘Lik-em’. Three jelly shots.
Were we supposed to be running? No jelly shots.
Last quiz before beer. I think there were questions. Three jelly shots.
Found the BS. Yeah! Time for a beer. Cold and wet. Two jelly shots.
Circle was dark. Snacks were scavenged. Two jelly shots.
Hares magnificent. Down downs deserved. One jelly shot.
Walkers triumphant. The prize was given. Two jelly shots.
How long is the circle? ‘Who cares’. Three jelly shots.
Swing low and walk down. Many jelly shots.
How wonderful is the hash?

Thank you for moments of my life I cannot remember, but know were great!


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ZH3 Hash #1115: don’t know what I’m doing

ZH3 Hash #1115: don’t know what I’m doing
Hare: Tall Balls
RA: Asphalt Liquor
Scribe: What cums in Vega stays in Vega

Life rarely presents one with stark choices. This trail was an exception. As the pack raced merrily down a smooth and wide hiking trail in the mountains towering above triemli, a check-back led the pack to a point that asked hashers to leave the relative security of said smooth and wide trail, and descend down a formidable 50% slope consisting of mud, covered with loose leaves and hidden twigs and twines. Faced with this life-or-death fork in the road, the pack sensibly chose to spare life-and-limb. Except, that is, for a handful of daredevils who were subsequently rewarded with down-downs for their foolhardy election.

This suicidal shiggy run was the highlight (or was it the lowlight?) of this otherwise uneventful r*n (well mostly uneventful, but more on that later). It began in quite fair weather and broad daylight on a lovely green patch between a parking lot and a concrete underpass. The hare hastily drew some random circles on the grass to describe the trail markings, which made complete sense to veteran hashers and no sense whatsoever to the lone virgin.

Presently, the pack set off and was right away presented with an uphill climb. The climb culminated in a checkpoint that led part of the pack to fearlessly cross the railroad tracks of death, only to find themselves misled. Just as they prepared to cross back and rejoin the true trail, the gates of the crossing of the railroad tracks of death descended, and nearly decapitated an unsuspecting “smoking member” of our tribe. Rest assured, dear reader, that though he escaped unharmed on this occasion, he nevertheless faced the consequences during the circle.

The trail bobbed and weaved and descended and climbed (though it mostly climbed) through a bit of pavement, a bit of trail, and a whole bunch of shiggy, until the pack practically made its way to the top of Uetliberg. The hare won a lot of plaudits (angrily expressed throughout the ordeal by most of the pack) for leading us on this effortless journey.

At the end of the day, everyone miraculously made it back (though not everyone chose the path ambitiously laid out by the hare). Much merry was made at the circle, helmed by erstwhile and intermittent RA Asphalt Liquor. Cavity Search and Climbidia did a fine job as beer bitches.

Notable down-downs:

Slippery Digit: For Cunning Linguistics Involving a Canine.

Smoking Cock: For not dying by railroad crossing gate

Grab My Sack, WCIVSIV, Just Scott: Suicidal Shiggy Run

Squatty Potty and WCIVSIV: Due to the former accusing the latter of running like a gazelle (and then recreating the alleged long springy graceful strides for the benefit of the encircled assemblage).

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ZH3 Hash #1113 National Chicken Wing Appreciation Day Hash

Name: Hash #1113 National Chicken Wing Appreciation Day Hash
Location: Started at Kreuzplatz, ended in a dubious, dark wood
Hares: Christian Harlot and Grab My Sack
RA: Asphalt Liquor
Attendance: ~20
Scribe: Just Nina

Expecting idyllic spring weather, Christian Harlot wished to honour this momentous day by providing the Hash with chicken wings grilled out in the wilds. Her Co-Hare, Grab My Sack, led the runners up a steep trail to a secret mystery location whilst the secret chicken team ferried supplies up the mountain, foraged for booze in the wilderness of Denner, and prepared to light the fire.

It was cold. Very cold.

It started to snow.

The runners arrived at the end of the trail before the fire was lit, and there were a few desperate attempts to light strips of cardboard with magical invocations before the wood arrived. Everyone huddled around pitifully until the flames rose high.

It continued to snow. The alcohol, being stored in an icy trough of water, was also very cold. Despite the RA’s best efforts to detach people from the new and beautiful and warm and golden and shiny and WONDERFUL fire, the Circle was formed around it, as it proved both physiologically and psychologically impossible for people to move more than a foot away from it. It was warm. Not like the snow.

At one point during the numerous down downs, the chicken song was sung. This seemed appropriate. Shamefully, several of the hashers on one side of the circle refused to participate in this culturally significant ritual and managed to look vaguely uncomfortable and embarrassed.

By this point, snow had blanketed everything around us, including benches, bags, and any hashers foolish enough to have wandered off. In the meantime, chicken wings had been expertly tended to by Smoking Cock, and only occasionally fallen into the fire. Once ready, they were devoured voraciously. With a variety of sauces. This may have been very messy, and there was a period of silence broken only by moans, grunts and slobbering noises. Then the second round. Then the third. Then the… I lost count, there was a vast quantity of delicious wings.

Eventually the beer was drunk, the wings were gone, and the increasing risk of hypothermia drove even the most dedicated hashers home.

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ZH3 Hash #1107: The French Revolution of 1848 – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1107: The French Revolution of 1848
Location: Restaurant Swaad
Hares: Smoking Cock
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Attendance: 19 hashers + 1 Canine
Scribe: D.E.Floured

As I came round I could see stars behind the silhouettes of treetops. It was night. Where was I?

Close to my right a voice. “Can you move your toes?”

The voice said it was Just Ottmar. A figure helped me to my feet and told me we had to keep moving — despite the sheet ice — otherwise eagles would trail us. Or the eagles would catch the rabbits. What rabbits? Which eagles? Nothing seemed to make sense. I was cold. My head hurt. I didn’t know where I was. The man insisted we run.

I stumbled on the uneven and slippery path as he ran effortlessly. He kept mentioning flowers. I couldn’t see any. He seemed worried about not losing a flower in his hair. I could make out lines, what looked like insignia on his bodysuit. Military? It was dark, my head hurt, my spine hurt, I was in an unfamiliar forest without flowers and an imposing soldier was worried about his hair. I decided to keep quiet and obey. I don’t know how long we ran. Later, at the tree-line I saw the movement of lights, then figures. Ottmar called a signal as we approached. We were nearing a city.

It seemed to be a paramilitary commando. Outlines of a score of people, interspersed in pairs or trios at irregular intervals along a road, some holding muted flashlights. Parachutists perhaps. Parachuted into the forest, where they must have stowed their equipment. Only one was carrying a rucksack. The rest, wrapped head-to-toe in material so one could only see eyes, were unarmed. They had a dog with them, and hadn’t been looking for us, so I think they were hunting the rabbits. Or one rabbit’s flowers.

I was jostled into the middle of the group. Behind me someone spoke ominously about widows, a naked and wasted body, and chalk outlines. A silhouette shouted menacingly that there were “no criminals in Tsvitzerlan.” They were vigilantes!

A gang of vigilantes, hunting in the peri-urban region of whatever settlement lay ahead of us, hunting and murdering the families of the seditious and the insouciant. My life was obviously endangered every second I spent among this militia. Despite my disorientation I had to escape. I tried to run. Vision blurry and feet unsteady I attempted to flee down the paths branching from their route. Yet whenever I started in one direction, the pack would double-back or change course. I tried a few times, they persisted; and insisted “Be near, be near!” I cannot remember how long this continued, nor do I understand why they did not kill me on the spot. Only that we ran until weariness overcame my entire body.

Next in my recollections is the gang standing in a clearing. They were angry. They were discussing supplies, they were meant to restock with super-dense, nutritious energy and multivitamin rations. This was the rendezvous where an agent had been supposed meet them. In their hunger and thirst they cursed the name of ‘mimi’ their treacherous ally. The only hint of provender was shitty beer. And yet — on this coldest of nights — the beer was warm, so ‘meme’ must have been here recently. Growing evermore vociferous the vigilantes repeated the syllables: mee-mee, měi-měi, měi-méi.

In a flash of lucidity amid the cacophony and the throbbing at the base of my skull I realised they were shouting mèi mei (妹妹) and that their collaborator was surely the younger sister of a vigilante.

At that moment I felt dizzy and cold. I lay down. I may have slept.

At some point in the night there was food — baguettes and a variety of rather nice cheeses — combined with the macabre celebration of the capture of their prey, Carlos and LAM. I don’t know where they found the food, yet this night’s hunt had evidently yielded a protesting hispaniard and a subdued visitor by way of Hanoi.

A ringleader made a mocking lunge-pose and drank some kind of hallucinatory from a special glass, while the vigilantes chanted. They forced Carlos to do the same, while shouting oaths and curses. Then LAM was made to follow suit. Subsequently each of the vigilantes took the mixture to their lips in turn. Through the crowd of bodies it seemed as if with every sip the draght changed color: at times the glass was yellowish, then appeared to be blue, then redder. Until I was made to drink. The lukewarm fuzzy foam stuck to my palate and I swallowed the bitter substance with difficulty. My head spun. The cold wind seemed to cut deeper. I became dizzy. I lay down.

The next thing I know, I woke up in here.

As dictated by D. E. Floured, from the Triemlispital on February 22nd, 2018.


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ZH3 Hash #1100: The not quite special numbered hash – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1100 The not quite special numbered hash
Location: Triemli / Meskerem
Hares: Meme, Just Sean
RA: Thirsty Thursday
Attendance: ~20 hashers
Scribe: BerZürerk

Little did the Hash House Harriers know, this hash would turn out to be so hare razing.

The clouds parted on the morn of the 3rd day of February, and unique band from far and wide gathered. After some hijinks in the car park and narrowly avoiding the parking cars MeMe and Just Sean stepped in as the regular Hares had been out having too much fun.

After instructions were given the troupe departed in search of their precious … beer.

Some hashers were caught pretending to be FRB when they decided to avoid fish hooks. Yes Dog Woody this means you here 🙂

Others valiantly made it along trail pushing prams over carefully placed tree obstacles – great idea Hares

Some assumed wrongly the goal to get to the top of Uetliberg or die trying. Instead the Hares had another idea- although they may have just forgotten the route halfway. See chatting hare below

Unfortunately the sledding run was closed so we had to pretend to be Mountain bikes on the way down.

Those who made it past the gruelling uphill climbs (we didn’t quite make the top of Uetliberg) managed to join and assemble again for a merry circle. Songs were sung down downs were drunk. Some special down downs were also given and beer chin drippling was observed.

After the circle the good upstanding hashers were treated to On-Inn: Restaurant Meskerem (Ethiopian) food and a long party at the Last pub still standing in Wiedikon. We have to get the hatted new friends to sing at our next circle. The entertainments here included endless quantities (and tittys) of mead and Chili Wine.

On out

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ZH3 Hash #1097 The Blah Hash – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1097 The Blah Hash
Location: Hare’s Hutch
Hares: Stick A Dick In It and Late Cummer
RA: Asphalt Liquor
Attendance: ~25 hashers, 2 virgins, 1 visitor
Scribe: Fishy Hooker

Q: What did you think of the trail?

A: There were two check points.

Q: How was the circle?

Lively circle animated by AL in the cold and after a good r*n.

DD for:

  • The hare for abusing flour, being hungover is not an excuse
  • The virgins who eventually got the point that we are not a r*nning club
  • The visitor who sang a lengthy anthem from his kennel pretty similar to ours
  • The two lovers, Just Sean and Naked & Wasted, who demonstrated their ability to squat
  • The bitches because it was the right time

Some wine of doubtful quality was poured down and hats were allowed in the circle (!).

The on-inn was of high level with great food and spirits.

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ZH3 Hash #1094: Freyza Bolokov – write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1094: Freyza Bolokov
Location: Hare’s Hutch (Saddam) Schaffhauserstrasse 80
Hares: Saddam, Squatty Potty
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Attendance: ~25 hashers, 2.5 virgins
Scribe: Naked & Wasted

A terrible storm descended on Zürich. Rain lashed down, commuters froze, and trees uprooted themselves. Little did the Hash House Harriers know, this disturbance was conjured up by the dark wizard Saddam, setting the stage for an epic quest.

The clouds parted on the morn of the 6th day of February, and a sundry band from far and wide gathered. Their goal: to enter the mystic woods of Zürichberg, cursed by the wizard Saddam, and return, alive. The band gathered for council in a timely manner, except LIDU, who rocked up late having consumed too much Butterbeer on the prior eve. Unwittingly, two virgins from mythical lands stumbled into fray: Just Mitul from the Big Smoke, and Just Gary from Old Hampshire. Just Nina, having only ever partaken in post-quest celebrations and not a quest itself, was also considered chaste. Saddam explained mysterious glyphs that had appeared, and were to appear, in the woods and swamps. The merry troupe departed in search of their precious … beer.

However, merriment soon faded as the easy paved exit from the shire gave way to the wizard’s dastardly tricks. A long check-back at the top of a stairway afforded no smiles (except Saddam’s); neither did the second nor the third. The adventurers battled through the destruction; mud, splintered logs, and felled trees barred the path. The fellowship demonstrated determination: bold alternative routes were explored (Dog Woody heroically scrambled up off-piste after Shamcock). Fallen warriors rose back to their feet, and lost soldiers rediscovered their path. The stress of the trail caused the hashers to turn on each other (for which Slippery’s abuse of the seniors earned him a DD). Nevertheless, the gang’s steady progress could not be abated. The aquatic duo, Fishy H and Fish F, with no hooks to catch them, led the pack from the front, closely followed by Just Tobias. Everyone (probably, nobody was counting) returned to find their precious.

At the post-adventure council gathering, misdemeanours were identified by the elders and punished (rewarded) by ale (cheap lager). Primary culprits earned deadbugs: Dog Woody had hoppy medicine tenderly administered by Virgin Hunter, and How Do You Define Veird was doused much less tenderly by Squatty Potty. To lift spirits, the council sang hymns: the Chicken Song raised the proverbial roof, but Weapons of Ass Destruction’s improvised “Forestiality is best boys, … stick your log in a log” fell a little (lot) flat.

Formalities completed, the company retired to the dark wizard’s hutch. He and sorceress Squatty Potty had brewed three cauldrons of spicy potion. The hashers tucked in readily. Well fed and off their guard, Saddam attempted to poison the remaining survivors with homemade red elixir. Failing that, he attempted again with stronger transparent elixir. It worked.

Hangover aside, many thanks to Saddam, Squatty, and the other organizers for a great hash, circle, curry, and on after!

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ZH3 Hash #1093: The Hangover Continues Hash – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1093: The Hangover Continues Hash
Location: The Alehouse – Palmhof, Universitätstrasse 23, 8001 Zürich
Hares: Slippery Digit and MeMe
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Attendance: 15 hashers, 2 just drinkers
Scribe: Kneels Sporadically

It was a dark and stormy night.  Five-and-ten reckless souls braved the torrential elements in a bid to find that most vaunted and sought-after prize of all: the golden elixir of life.

Was masochism, optimism, or alcoholism the impetus? Would they live to tell their tale?  Sit back, grab yourself a tipple, and I will reveal the true exploits of the “Hangover Continues Hash”.

Climbidia and I took a bus into the Hinterberg. On foot we zigzagged down empty lanes and abandoned (at night) buildings, as we hunched defenseless against the violent gusts of wind that pelted us with the Almighty’s post-New Year’s Eve piss. Grateful, we ducked inside the warm and welcoming Alehouse. In the private backroom, Slippery Digit collected Hash Cash like a whore (no touching until you’ve paid up), while the RA did a furious Dance of the Crochet Hook. A bedraggled Sticky Fingers, recently blown in and resembling a drowned rat, dared to suggest eschewing the run in favor of harboring cozily inside sampling the mouthwatering grub, ales on tap and board games on offer. Oh, she of soft will, and meager faith in her other half’s skills! For when we went outside, lo and behold, stillness reigned. The tide had turned.

The Quest
Our leaders, Slippery Digit and MeMe, sent us scurrying, right from the outset, in every possible direction, to track the hare’s spirituous scent. Before long a course was established and we forged ahead. The white blotches of finely ground and molted meal of wheat had not been washed away, had not converted to paste; indeed, they were visible and regular. The post-tempestuous weather and steps and Steigs soon had us shedding our layers like lepers casting off their fingers and toes.

Our luck and the weather held as we pressed deeper into the area known as the Land of Knowledge with the twin peaks of ETH and UZH and its neighboring Land of Sickness and Pain, commonly referred to as Unispital. On more than one occasion, we caught our breaths and feasted on the glittering views of the city below, the twinkling lights heralding civilization.

Although of average length and endeavor, paved and un-depraved, the path to the barrel of liquid gold at the end of the rainbow was neither direct nor without its perils: At one point, as the crew began to grow clamorous and thirsty, we chanced upon markings that resembled the X that marks the spot. But alas, it looked too erect to be, curves were clearly missing; for it read KS, not BS, to the disappointment of everyone save Slippery Digit, Shamcock and Loves It Down Under. The former rejoiced that we had stumbled upon a Kant Stop despite the lack of any Cunts to the naked eye; to prove his point, he shone his light on the sign above to reveal the word “Kantstrasse”.  Shamcock and LIDU insisted it stood for Kissing Stop, and proceeded to demonstrate; the lack of other Kissing Stops had never stopped them before. We paid them no heed and kept our eyes on the treasure.

Not long after, we arrived at a clearing upon which stood half a dozen giant, cubical metal structures. They looked innocent enough, though perplexing. But soon, their evil intentions were clear: As if drawn by an invisible force, Climbidia was sucked inside one of these cage-like beasts. In an epic tug of war, our leader, Slippery Digit yanked and pulled to release Climbidia from the beast’s belly while risking life and limb not to get dragged into the structure himself. Slippery Digit prevailed and with heroic effort pulled Climbidia out to safety.

Paradise Found
It was all that we could ask for: A clean(ish), well-lighted place; a safe oasis, where this band of weary misfits could shelter from the cold, hostile world outside.  Zweifel potato chips were like manna from the gods. The frothy golden liquid flowed cold and strong; we had found the key to continuing our hangovers. We had entered Circle Paradise; we would not leave for a while.

After our initial hunger and thirst were slaked, the RA declared that the moment of reckoning was upon us. It was like an opening of floodgates as accusations of every stripe and shape flew: ass-slapping, mistaken identities, racial discrimination, sexual harassment; the usual allegations and then some.

The rebounds, too, abounded; nearly every time Shamcock opened his mouth, mayhap? Everything was a drinking offense and every offense was drunken to. From the very late arrival of Butt Bugger to the always timely arrival of Miss Michigan. From the smile that was plastered on our virgin Bram from Amsterdam’s face to the three Justs for being just Justs. From Dog Woody, WAD and Saddam’s knees (bare) to LIDU’s great tits (not bare). Punishment was meted out by the skillful or simply lazy and slovenly Beer Wench, aka Sticky Fingers, who managed to dispense the contents of a dozen cans of beer, some apple wine and hot sweet cider to 16 circlers while sitting in a puddle of beer.
Most disconcerting of all, Climbidia, despite brand-new contacts, mistook a wringed-out lime for a Shamcocked condom; in Climbidia’s defense, Weapons related that lemons were used as contraceptives in ancient times. The evening further devolved when Just Sean, by dint of bad positioning, became used as target practice (or perhaps a mis-used lime? or an abused kiwi?) by catching Shamcock and several other tossers’ froth on his good person and great hair.

Back at port, flush with victory, we partook of the well-earned comforts there for our pleasure. Those who enjoyed camaraderie had plenty of jolly sailors to share boasts and a drink with. Those who enjoyed cards were drawn into a game of swashbuckling fun. Those who wanted to satisfy their hunger were able to choose from ramen, chicken wings, fish burgers and the like. Those who wanted to sample the taverns’ goods could choose from multiple beers on tap, from sour Michigans to chocolatey stouts. Those who desired another type of goods had to, well, take matters into their own hand. To wit: Climbidia’s slippery digits slipping into Slippery Digit’s shorts and making contact with actual flesh and … no, let’s not go (down) there …

One thing was clear: We had completed our quest and the hangover would continue. And we would be back for more, come hell or high water.

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ZH3 Hash #1089 – #1092

Four hashes occurred occurred at various times and various places, but any records languish on the ash heap of history.

ZH3 Hash #1089: X-MAS MARKET HASH – 17 December 2017

ZH3 Hash #1090: Longest Night – 21 December 2017

ZH3 Hash #1091: The Holiday Hookup – 28 December 2017

ZH3 Hash #1092: The New Year’s Eve Hash – 31 December 2017

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