LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 08, 2009:
Woke up early to the shrill screams of a woman apparently disappointed that I slept in her car. Tried to explain that the other cars were locked and felt too tired to break the windows while she hit me with her purse. Broke off the radio knob and left. Showed her.
LOLSCHACH is the only hero this city has and this is how it repays me. Still tired, have to do something I'm sure I'll regret. Go to Dreiberg. The obese monstrosity answers the door, shove him aside, collapse on couch. Dreiberg starts talking, always talks, even when his mouth is full. Tells me Veidt has sent tickets to a charity event. Tell him to shut up, then curtains.
Wake up to the smell of beans. Nothing like it, save smell of Mother's cooking.Dreiberg hands me can, then starts talking again. Can hardly hear him over the CHLOP CHORP of beans, something about Veidt. Charity. Basketball. Harlem. Tell him good beans and go to leave only to see Dreiberg look more pathetic than usual. Make second mistake of the day, tell him I'll go to the basketball game.
Arrive at arena, a grotesque building Veidt has built for people to watch while men sweat. Similar to his other real-estate properties. Banners advertise The Harlem Globetrotters playing.. Dr. Harlem?!? Hurm. Dreiberg heads straight to the concession stand, leaves me to find our seats. Sit down next to hyperactive boy, his mother on a cell-phone, ignoring him. Boy bounces in his seat. Annoying. Pull out Babysitter, wrap it around boy, locking him in his seat. Mother still ignoring him.
Dreiberg sits next to me with giant bucket of popcorn drowning in liquid butter, then hands me nachos. CHOMP CLOMP. Cheesy. Minutes passed. Boy trying to break his restraint. Mother still on cellular phone.
Harlem Globetrotters run out on court, the people cheering like lowing cattle. Followed by five 6'4'' purple goateed men surprisingly clothed in basketball uniforms. Each perfecting a layup. Dreiberg goes to get more butter.
Then I'm caught by surprise. Kid breaks free of Babysitter and jumps on me, attempting to eat nachos. No. Not my nachos. Start punching boy in face fighting for the cheese, jalepenos, tortilla chips. His mother finally gets off the cellphone and shrieks. Scream sounds familiar, turn to look at her. Woman from the car. Punch boy harder, teach his mom to respect LOLSCHACH.
Then the arena booms with the voice of five purple men, "LOLSCHACH, stop." Pause momentarily. Stupid. Purple men point at me, I know what happens next. Grab Babysitter then find myself outside arena. Good. Don't need Veidt's charities, Dreiberg, Harlem's exhibition games. Just Babysitter.