March 22, 2009: Albert's Abattoir

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: March 22, 2009

The city screams at me like an abbatoir of retarded children.

I look across the street. "Albert's Abattoir". Could it be?

I creep around back. Smell of meat byproducts; blood, skin, entrails, bone marrow; nearly subdues me. This is not the first slaughterhouse I have infiltrated. It is by far the smelliest.

Test locks on rear entrance. Secured tight. Smash window with brick. Still got it.

Enter small, dark, empty chamber. Zone for loading and unloading of cattle. Odor becoming progressively more noxious. Face blocks some from entering nostrils. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Floor covered in thick, clear, viscous fluid. Drool. What could produce such large quantities of drool?

Hear noise coming from behind door at east end of room. Words muffled. Sound like "Raarrghh urrgghhh Coco Puffs!" Move toward end of room. Sounds become louder. Clearer. Kick in door and prepare for inevitable brawl. What I find startles even LOLSCHACH.





Retarded children. Packed like witless, babbling sardines as far as the eye can see. They scream about Nick Jr. and breakfast cereals. An endless sea of paste-eating mongoloids, writhing and lapping upon one-another. No concept of boundaries. Personal space. Haven't the brain power to comprehend such matters. Concerned only with Dora the Explorer and finger painting.

I scan area. Find far left corner of room empty and uncluttered. Standing in corner is middle-aged man. Possibly "Albert". Nametag on tattered, blood-stained jumpsuit confirms this.

A retarded child approaches him. Yanks on his sleeve and asks "Where da baffroom?" Albert silently points toward door clearly labeled "Meat Grinder". Blithering simpleton skips over to door. Pushes at it. Unable to read letters indicating he must "pull" in order to succeed. Minutes pass. Child becomes frustrated. Gives up. Soils self. Albert sighs and flicks cigarette into horde of gurgling idiots. Walks over to door, pulls it open and shoves child inside.

The "bathroom" screams at me like a meat grinder of retarded children.

Have seen enough.

Wade through room of squirming, slobbering, groping imbeciles. Reach Albert and deliver a fierce, unrelentling, merciless beating. All the while I shout the usual questions. "Why?" "How could you?" and "Do you want to die?"

Albert, now within an inch of his life, reaches into pocket and pulls out package of "Down's Synsational Jerky". Offers me bite. Raise fist and prepare to drive it directly through skull, but odor of jerky overpowers me. Find my mouth watering, despite my disgust. Almost against own will, I snatch the jerky from his quivering mit and bite into it. Tastebuds are treated to a symphony of flavor, the likes of which they have never experienced before.

Through choking breaths, Albert explains his misguided moral viewpoint to me.

Says that humans eat cattle, poultry, pork; all manner of living, breathing creatures. They think nothing of it, as livestock are stupid and inferior to us. Retarded children boast intellects on par with those of average bovine or chicken. If kept alive, they are drains on the State. If ground up and served between two slices of bread, they are delicious.

I finish my jerky and drag Albert kicking and screaming over to the "bathroom". Toss him in. Albert screams at me like a middle aged abbatoir employee with a belly full of retarded children. Difficult noise to describe, but unmistakable. You will know it when you hear it.

Open bay doors and gesture unwashed, chortling masses toward freedom. They remain stationary. Freedom cannot compete with television set playing Spongebob Squarepants DVD. Retarded child waddles toward me. Perhaps there is hope, yet.

Heavy-browed mouth-breather tugs on scarf. "Where da baffroom?"

Leave Albert's Abbatoir. Foolish of me to hope. Hope is for the retarded.

My stomach growls at me like a digestive tract of retarded children. Go over to McDonald's. Order double quarter pounder with cheese. Can taste the mongoloids. They taste phenominal.