From the Black Book of LUVSCHACH, July 24, 1989:
15 miles out, the pink VW van passes a faded sign at the side of the road. Three young blondes flash their ivory smiles. Looking for fun. Might get trouble instead.
Rev up my Chrysler. She's as big as a whale, big enough to seat about twenty. Midgets.
She and I, about to set sail down the Atlanta Highway, a concrete canal harboring hot-rod sirens calling vehicles to their impending doom. And all their jukebox money can't buy back what these harpies will take from them: can barely pay for the State to scrape their smashed carcasses from their twisted metal tombs.
Sign outside my hideout is clear: "Stay Away". Fools. The young blondes have heard the local rumors, try anyway. "Funky" old shack in the middle of a field, supposedly a secret hideaway for indulging in libidinous pleasures and acquainting licentious persons.
Park the Chrysler around the back and sneak behind my dumpster to take a look. The blondes look around my abode, intrigued with what they see. They are not the first. The trail of their lust stretches far and wide, miles of perfume and estrogen and pheromones and glitter. Glitter on the highway. Glitter on the front porch. Glitter in the hallway. Glitter on the mattress.
Go down into the basement, flip the levers in the power box to "off." Lights out. The screams of teenage girls fills the night sky, like a shack full of retarded children. Quickly I fly up the stairs, to the front door.
Bang the door. Keep banging. The whole shack shimmies. Wails of terror saturate the air and the thrill of the hunt sends shivers up my spine. I bang a little louder and the rusted tin roof accompanies the high pitched squeals within. The shabby tenement responds as if rattled by the blast of a bomb from a B-52.
"HEY! Cut that out, LUVSCHACH!" says one of my regulars, Dr. Miami. Infamous swinger known for his flower-patterned thong. Only thing he wears.
They form a small line outside, waiting to get in. "Disco" Dreiberg is there as well. So is "Swinger" Sally. They're all lining up outside, just to get down.
My home. My place of solitude. This is the place they all come to get together. It is a hot summer's day and this place is the hottest of all. Hot like an oven. There will be hugging and kissing and dancing and loving, dirty people wearing next to nothing. Everyone moving. Everyone grooving. Generosity cannot be compromised: in face of such immorality, the vomit rising up my throat is held back, the facade of a forced smile and "come in, dudes!" masks my displeasure.
"Vinyl" Veidt approaches, slaps me on the butt, winks. Hate him. Charge him $2 extra admission.
LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 2, 2009
Interest in family genealogy led LOLSCHACH to chronicles of my ancestors. From the journal of my uncle, LUVSCHACH. Possibly had indecent relationship with my mother, MILFSCHACH. Embarrassing stain on family heritage. Do not wish to investigate further.