LOLSCHACH'S JOURNAL

December 06, 2009: Commercial Christmas

2009-12-06T00:03:00.002-06:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: December 06, 2009:

According to children at the park, Christmas time is here. Happiness and cheers.
Lies.

Looked everywhere for meaning of Christmas. Macy's, Kohl's, Veidt-Mart. Nothing. Nothing except angry shoppers arguing over the last Tickle Me Knight Fowl. Purple Basketballs endorsed by Dr. Harlem were recently named by Sports Illustrated as the "it" gift for sports fans everywhere. All Veidt's doing. Bastard. Only comfort is in seeing his movie sitting on shelves, fully stocked and unwanted.

People can't even look LOLSCHACH in the face and wish a Merry Christmas! Instead, hear "Happy Holidays!" What holiday? Who has the power to intimidate people to wish a happy nondescript holiday? Have made list of possible suspects:

Jewish Ninjas?
Islamic Jihadists?
*Islam is a great and true religion revealed in the Holy Koran which was dictated by the angel Gabriel to the final prophet Mohammed, Blessing and Peace be upon him.*
The Meanest Man in Town?

Hurm. Must remember to investigate further.

Remember Christmas the way it used to be, the way it's supposed to be.

Sitting in front of television, watching Animated Christmas special. Green creature (Frankenstein?) attempted to steal Christmas from... can't remember who. Remember it being first case that inspired LOLSCHACH to become crime fighter. Looked forward to solving case and dishing out punishment. Ho. Ho. Ho.

Then MILFSCHACH threw a bottle of Christmas Juice at LOLSCHACH's head. Missed, broke television.

Curtains.

October 21, 2009: The Mouse Must Die

2009-10-21T21:07:00.011-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: October 21, 2009:

Received call from Dreiberg today. Haven't heard from him in quite a while. Found it odd. Rumor he's currently touring the world. Asked LOLSCHACH to ship him chocolate-covered bacon. Fatty.

Denied his request. Told him about new exercise routine LOLSCHACH has started, P90x. Gets LOLSCHACH pumped. Dreiberg did not seem enthusiastic. Quickly changed subject.

"LOLLY (hate that), Have you heard? About the coolest game ever? I mean it's like Disney grew some balls-"

Hung up on Dreiberg immediately. Cannot stand corporate whores. Remind me of Veidt.
Sucker children in young age. Suck the life blood out of Americans. Get them hooked on inferior products.

Veidt. Hate him.

Remember good old days of Disney. Important Part of LOLSCHACH's youth. Now Disney shills out whores with identity conflicts and boys who preach abstinence while grinding against their guitars.

Decide Disney must be stopped once and for all. Decide to be ironic and cause the Mouse to fall to his death like so many others.

But first, must do some research. Seems the Mouse had embarrassed himself in a recent incident, revealing to the masses that he had been playing them like a harp from hell. Public quickly forgot. But LOLSCHACH never forgets.

Look for Disney's next step after previous incident. Codenamed "Epic Disney".

Wow. Impressed. All is forgiven, Disney.

September 15, 2009: The Mercy of LOLSCHACH

2009-09-14T21:44:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: September 15, 2009

Tonight is the night. Cannot abide Veidt's wrong-doings any longer. Will end him tonight. No distractions. Veidt must die for the good of mankind. For the good of LOLSCHACH. Slow night, anyway.

Night has fallen. Under cover of darkness, hop gate into front yard of Cinnamon Sprinkles Manor. Why Veidt chose to name mansion such a thing, LOLSCHACH may never understand.

Approach study. Prepare to launch SCHACH-erang through window, burst into study, catch Veidt by surprise and end him with firepoker through eye-socket.

Remember there is no such thing as SCHACH-erang. Stupid idea. Use front door, instead. Veidt gave LOLSCHACH spare keys earlier this year.

Enter manor. Begin creeping down hall toward study. Hear strange noise. Unearthly. Tragic. The sound of...a grown man crying?

Peek through crack in door into study. Veidt is on knees at the feet of his life-size Patrick Swayze statue. Veidt is sobbing uncontrollably. Weeping a streaming torrent of tears into shimmering puddle, pooling at Swayze's marble toes.

Heard the news. Patrick Swayze has died this day. He is now a ghost. Like in that movie. Can't remember title. "Point Break"?

Had forgotten Veidt's everlasting emotional bond with Swayze. Has taken death hard. Veidt is weak. Defenseless. Could dispatch him now.

No. This is not LOLSCHACH's way. Have been adversaries with Veidt for decades. Ending him in such a manner would be...anticlimactic.

Besides, Veidt is suffering. Veidt's suffering pleases LOLSCHACH. Veidt is likely praying for Swayze's spirit to come to him, perhaps while he is making pottery. Hurm.

Leave Cinnamon Sprinkles Manor. Will return another night. Final showdown with Veidt has been postponed.

September 14, 2009: Veidt Sighting

2009-09-14T11:30:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: September 4, 2009:

Have been busy. No time to collect notes on congressman's health-care "Town Hell" meeting.

Have just enough time to post breaking news. Been monitoring New York Fashion Week, expecting Veidt to surface. Felt likely. Not sure why.

Unpleasant experience. Am more at home in ghettos and dive bars. Better class of people. Tend to leave fashionistas to their heroin and appletinis.

But sometimes, patience rewarded.

See here. Photographic proof.

Hiding behind assumed identity and dark glasses, true. But who else could it be? Thought he could fool LOLSCHACH by leaving off his trademark "V" cufflinks.

Hurm. LOLSCHACH is no fool.

Cool breeze last night, like icy groans of Lucifer from pit of Inferno. Reminded me of holes in overcoat. Fall approaching. Possibly time to update look? Must remember to investigate.

September 4, 2009: Government Plan

2009-09-04T02:04:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH’s Journal: September 4, 2009:

Went to newsstand, picked up today’s Morning Minuteman. Saw editorial, stuck between advertisements for disaster survival kits and Bible prophecy videos. Said congressman would be holding “town hall” meeting this weekend. Would be asking constituents for feedback on health-care reform. Editorial called on readers to show up in force, voice opposition to “government plan.”

Hurm. LOLSCHACH does not share some right-wingers’ blanket distaste for government plans. Was always fond of Manhattan Project. Even approved of adulterer Kennedy’s plan to beat Communists to moon. Liked Star Wars.

Still, many government plans terrible. For example, despise Jack Bauer. Bad planning. Mollycoddles terrorists. Sometimes even lets them live.

Am now planning to attend this “town hall” meeting, investigate this “government plan.” Congressman is liberal smooth-talker. Will enjoy seeing him heckled by honest men, men like my father and President Truman, who believe in a day’s work for a day’s pay. But will also be glad if hecklers turn violent: will justify my use of force in subduing them. Possibly a can’t-lose scenario?

Good plan.

Spent evening hunting for purse-snatchers. Success. Many credit cards. Used one to order disaster survival kit.

September 02, 2009: Veidt's Whereabouts.

2009-09-02T00:01:00.003-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: September 02, 2009:

Been a rough summer. Blake seems to have dropped off the face of the earth, rumors swirl of his daughter's affair with a Congressman or possibly working at a "gentlemen's club" in New Orleans. Whore. No clue on whereabouts of Dreiberg, possibly still at an all you can eat buffet. Went to investigate Veidt at his penthouse. Found something of interest among all of toys used for sexual pleasure. Blueprints dealing with time travel.

No, not like this.

Or this:

More like it:

No doubt Veidt has gone back in time for many reasons. Improve ticket sales of his abysmal film, introduce pederasty as an essential right in American culture, influence Baum to include him as character in OZ series. Must be stopped.

Will look for a means to investigate further.

September 01, 2009: PBS Town

2009-09-01T10:21:00.008-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: September 01, 2009.

Sent twelve prepubescents to the emergency room before lunch. Four were stripping cars. Six were mugging. Two were raping. Hurm. American youth. Gone down toilet. These punks are the future of this country? Not happy.

Need reassurance American youth can be salvaged. Decide to take a trip to PBS Town, the last place in America where children are brought up right, properly educated and grown into constructive members of society.

Decide to take trolly to Imagination Land first and visit Mr. Rogers. Good friend back in the old days. Taught LOLSCHACH how to use imagination to solve everyday problems, like where to hide the bodies. Unfortunately, visit is short.

Hurm. Depressing. Can't be helped. Rogers was possible homosexual, anyway.

Next stop: the Reading Rainbow in the sky. To get there, LOLSCHACH must fly twice as high.

No need. Reading Rainbow has been cancelled, apparently. Show cultivated love of reading in America's youth. Unfortunately, majority of America's youth do not know how to read, thus rendering Reading Rainbow obsolete.

Damn. Now nothing will keep Lavarr Burton off the streets. Will be keeping eye on him.

Saved most important stop for last: Seseme Street. Last remaining vestage of morality and education in American entertainment. Concerned. Last time LOLSCHACH visited Seseme Street was 1991. Upon leaving, noticed Grover observing animated primetime television program marketed toward adults.

Brushed it off at time. Certainly nothing could currupt the wholesome neighborhood of Seseme Stree--

Damn. It is small mercy that Jim Henson did not live to see Seseme Street become a ghetto.

PBS Town is beyond saving. Will have to cleanse it. Not with lessons learned from PBS Town: reading, writing, arithmatic. But with lessons learned on street: fire.

August 31, 2009: Psychotics (Update)

2009-08-31T10:12:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: August 31, 2009:

Did not catch any madmen last night. Had to make do with intoxicated fraternity boys leaving Happy Harry's. One of them was wearing polo shirt with popped collar. Popped his neck.

Have been coming to Happy Harry's more frequently in recent weeks. Always someone there who deserves to be terrorized. Refreshing. Takes edge off disappointments of day.

Sometimes, want to go where everybody knows your name.

August 30, 2009: Psychotics

2009-08-30T01:03:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: August 30, 2009:

Night before last, checked glue trap in Park Place alley. Arrived too late. Thief had escaped. Did not leave many clues: fake Rolex, left arm, blood. Disappointing. Followed blood trail to nearby emergency room. Hurm. Must remember to investigate.

Yesterday, checked my drop. Received cryptic message. Postcard told me to "catch Mad Men this Sunday night." Probably warning from employee at insane asylum who has caught wind of escape plan. (Possibly my old therapist, Dr. Melvin Stout? Unlikely. Informant's initials are "amc.") Employee tried to warn his superiors. Shunted aside by bureaucracy. Knows the system is powerless to stop those who play by their own rules. Knows the bureaucrats' system is as mad and meaningless as rantings of the men in padded cells. Self-obsessed, like dog chasing own tail. Unmoored from black-and-white of objective reality.

Must remain vigilant throughout Sunday. Must catch these "madmen," put away the nightmares so that the other madmen, the madmen with lab coats and badges and three-piece suits, can retreat into their delusional dreamworld. Will be prowling rooftops while they sit in their snug homes, anaesthetizing selves with their heroin needles and "mature" cable television.

Only LOLSCHACH has the strength to face world as it really is.

Only LOLSCHACH is not mad.

August 27, 2009: Never Compromise

2009-08-27T22:59:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: August 27, 2009:

Yesterday, discovered efficient new way to apprehend neighborhood thieves. Involves fake bank bags and superglue. Got idea while looking at mice caught in glue trap. Obvious, really. Saved time. Gave me first spare half-hour I've had in weeks. Checked blog. Surprised to find comments. Anonymous readers concerned LOLSCHACH had quit.

Sickening thought. Invited comparison with Dreiberg. Very bad.

Have not quit. Could not quit. Compelled. But have been busy. Taking time to blog about current activities would leave too little time to carry them out. Too little time to investigate. Too few punishments to inflict. Would force me to compromise.

Will never compromise. Even in the face of Armageddon.

Appreciate your recent support, but Veidt has vanished, and headlines are meshing like gears of giant clock, approaching midnight.

Hurm. Think I hear distant whining. Possible coming from alley behind Park Place? Seem to remember leaving glue trap there. Must take Babysitter and investigate.

Like MacArthur, shall return. Will leave you with comment I posted to July 12 entry:

Busy summer. Heat brings out vermin like worms after August rain. Carjackings, burglaries, reality TV shows spread like mildew in the stagnant humidity. There are so many deserving of retribution. And there is so little time to blog about it.

Still have many questions to investigate. Veidt disappeared 57 days ago. Dreiberg, Uranjek, Blake all lying low. Disturbing pattern emerging. Again, higher priority than blog.

Been almost two months since last journal entry. Thought nobody cared but me. Wrong. Anonymous messages indicate readers noticed. Hurm.

Anonymous readers: You are good friends. I am sorry that it is sometimes difficult.

Will resume updates when possible. Nothing is hopeless. Not while there's life.

Be seeing you. Keep out of trouble.

l.o.l

July 12, 2009: Season 1

2009-07-12T00:01:00.000-05:00

July 7, 2009: Mutant Pug

2009-07-07T10:01:00.001-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: July 7, 2009

What has Veidt done?

July 4, 2009: Independence Day

2009-07-04T00:01:00.000-05:00

July 2, 2009: Zombie Follow-Up

2009-07-02T11:00:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: July 02, 2009:

Heard some rumors about additional encounters with zombies from June 11 incident. News stations with their plastic blondes and middle-aged men with fake laughs seem busy reporting on it. Decided to follow up. First stop: Washington D.C.

June 28, 2009: Ghost Game

2009-06-28T00:01:00.000-05:00

June 24, 2009: Metropolis

2009-06-24T15:03:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: June 24, 2009

Local activity has not been out of the ordinary. Have been looking for places to go. Places with crime. Filth. Depravity. The cry for justice. Disney amusement parks.

Someone suggested Metropolis. Don't know about that. Have heard tales of its most prominent citizen. Must be a detective: is referred to as a "dick" quite often.

Cases in point:

Much research has been done on this individual. Perhaps best to avoid Metropolis for the time being.

June 22, 2009: Missing Baby

2009-06-22T10:00:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: June 22, 2009

Heard an account today of a missing baby. Will recount tale here.

June 21, 2009: Father's Day

2009-06-21T00:01:00.000-05:00

June 19, 2009: Video Games Again

2009-06-19T15:45:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: June 19, 2009:

Overheard fat man and Asian kid talking during a ride on subway. Something about a "sex box". Then recalled Japanese penchant for perverted materials. Knew that it warranted investigation. Followed the two men back to apartment. Listened to them rant about wide variety of topics, nachos, Batman, ghosts, Batman, etc. Boring. Tackle the two men as soon as they open the door to apartment. Walk in and start to investigate. Hurm. Surprisingly, nothing sexual.

Instead, lots of video games... and Batman. Hate video games, misleading little "realities", even known to cause death in past. Decide to see what got the fat man excited. Turn on "sex box". Graphic comes up. Oh no. Another piece of Veidt's merchandising. "Watchmen: The End is Nigh". Hate it. Looks nothing like LOLSCHACH, and Dreiberg is portrayed as rippling 215 pound man, not the massive overweight beast that he truly is. Probably Veidt's fantasy of him. Grab "sex box" and throw it out window. Walk out of apartment, overhearing far man complain that he just got it fixed. Heh.

June 17, 2009: Traffic Problem

2009-06-17T08:34:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: June 17, 2009

Was riding bus to pay a visit to one of Dreiberg's furry-loving acquaintances in Springfield, Virginia, when I saw this:

Hippie Veidt probably in league with the Japanese. Figures.

Got off the bus and commandeered a passing vehicle. Owner wasn't too happy. Owner should be grateful to be lending his automobile to an upstanding crusader of justice.

Will take shortcut to the city.

Hopefully will not run into any other problems.

June 14, 2009: Ghetto

2009-06-14T00:01:00.000-05:00

June 11, 2009: Zombie Encounter

2009-06-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: June 11, 2009:

Went out for exercise, brought along sidekick. Late at night, no doubt I would run into some criminal or pervert. Looked forward to it. Disappointed. Streets were as deserted as a cathedral on a Monday morning. Pigschach led the way down to subway station, apparently smelling food. Follow him, bored. Nothing better to do

Sidekick scurries around, dragging me behind him. A mist starts to creep in, causing Sidekick to scurry more. Then an oddly familiar voice booms through the station.

Darkness falls across the land
The midnight hour is close at hand
Creatures crawl in search of blood
To terrorize y'awl's neighborhood
And whosoever shall be found
Without the soul for getting down
Must stand and face the hounds of hell
And rot inside a corpse's shell
The foulest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom
And though you fight to stay alive
Your body starts to shiver
For no mere mortal can resist
The evil of the thriller

Hmm, recall criminal's voice sounding similar to this "thriller". Short, tubby, dressed in black. Called The Raven. Used to regularly combat Dreiberg. Obsessed with some author. Danielle Steele? No. Tom Clancy? Possibly, can't remember. Will ask Dreiberg about it later. First, must combat these men shuffling into station.

Slow, stumbling, blank glassy eyes. Reminds me of father coming home after long night on the town. Right before he demanded it was "Goofy Time!" Enjoyed it in my youth, much too old for it now. Launch myself into the crowd of these zombies, throwing punches left and right. They try to bite me, reminding me of first pet MILFSCHACH gave me.

Didn't like it then, still don't like it now. Punch harder, then grab the leash of Sidekick, performing what lonely goateed men in too tight t shirts call a team up. Knocking the fiends into the path of a speeding train. They look around, stupidly. Unaware of what awaits them. Heh. Train hits, leaving nothing behind but zombie bean juice.

Leave subway station, stop on way home to get Sidekick a treat. Good night.

June 10, 2009: The Undead

2009-06-10T00:01:00.001-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: June 10, 2009

Burned drug dealer on a funeral pyre today. Had a vision.

Still uncertain what it meant.

Why is the ghost of Rosie O'Donnell trying to contact me?

June 9, 2009: Japanese Offensive

2009-06-09T10:00:00.003-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: June 9, 2009

They did it.

Years of military sterility has led Japan to circumvent their warrior proclivities into scientific application. Who could have seen this coming?

The world will look up and shout, "save us!" And the robot will answer, "iie."

June 7, 2009: Video Games

2009-06-07T00:01:00.000-05:00

June 06, 2009: Veidt Sighting?

2009-06-06T00:01:00.000-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: June 06, 2009:

Been keeping tabs on Veidt's whereabouts. Supposedly in California for a video game expo. No doubt planning a visit to San Francisco as well.Keep hopes that he could run into the Terminator while out in the "Golden State".

Received a picture from a well placed source. Possibly Veidt.

Appears to be storming a beach. How frighteningly appropriate considering the date. Will file away to investigate further.

September 15, 1392: The Ballad of the Guardians

2009-06-02T03:41:00.010-05:00

Men sing of Maiden Uranjek,
And rumored of her parentage.
Many thought it was Baron Blake
Who that great fiend tossed o'er the edge.

Fewer sing of poulter Dreiberg
And how he was consumed with lust
For the Maiden Uranjek, oh fool,
For it left naught but dreams of dust.

All marvel at that bless'ed Veidt,
The man of power and great wealth.
For he defended them from all
And was aid to those in bad health.

But few remember the poor 'Schach.
Though in their time of greatest woe,
All nobles and wenches would shout,
"Save us!" and he would whisper, "No."

------------------------------------
LOLSCHACH's Journal: June 02, 2009:

Found a fragment of an old scroll. Supposedly a record of distant relative, Minstrelschach. Remember MILFSCHACH telling me childhood stories of Robin Hood and his merry men, possible connection? Hurm. Must remember to investigate further.

June 1, 2009: Nightmare

2009-06-01T10:15:00.003-05:00

Had a nightmare last night. It happens.

Basically went like this:

May 31, 2009: Cocaine Factory

2009-05-31T00:01:00.002-05:00

May 30, 2009: Delinquent

2009-05-30T00:01:00.000-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 30, 2009:

Went out for exercise down the sin swollen streets, passed prostitutes offering love in wet kisses and fumbling fingers. Filthy. Waited outside Happy Harry's. No need to go in, last call, closing time. My attention was soon drawn to stumbling boy emerging from the bar, mumbling while his lips clenched a cigarette. Drunk. Underage. Not good. Must be made example of.

Delinquent nearly tripped on sidewalk and fell into LOLSCHACH, proceeded to slam him against wall, cigarette falling from his gaping lips. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down. Boy mumbles again, can barely make out his drunken ramblings. "Phony." Hurm. Uses odd vernacular for boy no older than sixteen. Possibly a midget, similar to other criminals? Ask him for identification, look for contraband. No need to take risks. Seems dangerous. Boy too drunk to stand, starts to fall again, catch him.

Boy starts crying, mumbling again, something about a sister. LOLSCHACH cannot stand crying, reminds me too much of Dreiberg's whimpering, Veidt's acceptance speech for global warming film award, odd man-girl internet ranting. Hate it.

Slap boy across face, knocking his silly hat off. Tell him to go home, be good, stop drinking. Illegal. Or next run in with LOLSCHACH will not be so pleasant. Nods his head, turns to walk off, hear him uttering, "Phony," again. Tackle him.

May 29, 2009: Robot Sighting

2009-05-29T00:01:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: May 29, 2009

Dreiberg left his computer on. Apparently was doing research on top-secret military schematics as opposed to toys and pornography. Curiosity got the better of me.

Led me to this site. Had to wade through Japanese encoding and lewd pop-ups before finding something... shocking.

A new clue to add to the Mission City investigation. Truckers appear to be conspiring with military, aliens: donating flame-painted, homosexual Peterbuilt trucks for use to create robotic titans capable of mating with fighter jets. Result is horrific, undeniably awesome amalgamation of the two.

Comment under top-secret photos only said, "Revenge is Coming... in My Pants."

Do not understand this cryptic statement. Wish to not explore whose pants, exactly.

Will keep possibility of robot Armageddon in mind.

May 28, 2009: Disney--Further Investigation

2009-05-28T10:51:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 28, 2009

Recent investigations into the world of Walt Disney have uncovered a terrible darkside. Racism. Sexism. Antisemitism. Siamese cats playing the piano with chopsticks.

Exhumed Walt Disney. Empty casket. Hurm. Fear the dark spectre of his shadow continues to loom over generations of youth, corrupting them with a never ending stream of bile and hate.

"Never ending"... Of Course.

The Jew-hating zombie of Walt Disney is behind the endless cascade of quality-challenged straight-to-video sequels of classic Disney films. So long as film series continue, their malignent messages of paranoia and despair can continue perpetually onward.

Must stop this. Make it a priority. After The Simpsons.

May 27, 2009: The Manburger

2009-05-27T10:09:00.003-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 27, 2009

Observe horror at local eatery. Ever since canister of green ooze from the Techno Cosmic Research Institute was thrown from that truck, there have been Millions of Unusual Small Creatures Lurking Everywhere.

I dubbed this one, "The Manburger". Probable mutant. Or possibly from the land of Rand McNally, where they wear hats on their feet and hamburgers eat people.

Further investigation required. After lunch.

May 25, 2009: Nightmare

2009-05-25T00:01:00.000-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 25, 2009:

Another nightmare, this one about robots and dystopian futures. For some reason, Bruce Wayne and Russian Star Fleet member from previous nightmare run rampant through my dream. Odd. Russian Star Fleet member reminds me of another character from a dream long ago.

Dream leaves LOLSCHACH with nothing but confusion. Half man/Half machine wanders around through dream, yells occasionally for no reason. Bruce Wayne barks orders over radio. Half man/Half machine seems to develop relationship with prostitute. Dream poorly edited, jumps from place to place. Would prefer that dreams make logical sense. Unfortunately doesn't seem to occur too often. Ehhh.

Dream ends, nothing seems accomplished. No story told. Disappointed. Woke up, found Dreiberg had returned from hospital. Apparently disappointed in my upkeep of Roost. Call him ungrateful, turn over his couch. Show him. Now time to look for new hideout.

May 24, 2009: Yakuza Encounter

2009-05-24T00:01:00.000-05:00

May 23, 2009: Mother

2009-05-23T00:01:00.001-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 23, 2009:

Sentimentality. Dumb, foolish. Yes sometimes can't help but think about my life, my past, my mother, MILFSCHACH. Great woman. Well established.

Raised me alone after Father's demise. Courageous. Great cook. Remember her reaction to news of LOLSCHACH appearing as super hero.

Can't imagine what she would think of LOLSCHACH today. Continuing to be hero even after fellow adventurers are retired, fat, rich, or worse. Sure she would love it.

April 20, 1955: The Ballad of Wild Willy Warschach

2009-05-22T00:01:00.003-05:00

"The Ballad of Wild Willy Warschach" by Davey 'the Dude' Dreiberg. Released on Columbia Records, April 20, 1955.

It was the dead of night and beneath moonlight, Warschach was cuttin' loose.
This feller, he never compromised, cuz only cowards make a truce.

Off he rode in the bitter cold, over hills 'n 'cross the plains.
Been ridin' straight two days 'n' nights, grippin' hard down on the reigns.

Just why he did, well it's been said, Warschach had a score to settle.
'Gainst some cuss named Nikola Veidt, who'd dared to test his mettle.

Now it's a fact, that feller Warschach, never backed down from a fight.
He'd hunt that polecat Veidt on down 'n teach him wrong from right.

'N teach him wrong from right.

Warschach! The name's Warschach!
Don't know it? Well then, son, you'd better learn!
Cuz Warschach! Yes, Warschach!
He can tear you down with nothin' but a "Hurm"!

Well it's the truth, says my aunt Ruth, so you listen well 'n good.
Warschach's persistence, it paid off, when he caught up to that hood.

Veidt was a man who had a plan to save the Wild West,
By blowin' up the towns 'n farms 'n make a heapin' mess!

The dude was nuts, but had some guts to threaten Wild Willy Warshach.
He figured himself the best there was 'n proclaimed it matter-of-fact.

But Warschach was no fool 'n kept his cool in the face of certain death.
He'd fight that ornery Veidt all night, even to his dyin' breath.

Even to his dyin' breath.

Warschach! The name's Warschach!
A tougher man the West had never seen!
Warschach! That's Warschach!
As ugly as his attitude was mean!

With his quarry met 'n of little threat, Warschach clenched both his fists.
When he was done, there'd be nothin' left, but a haze of bloody mist.

Now Veidt tweren't scared 'n came prepared, cuz he had a jaw made outta wicker.
He'd teamed up with some kinda freak; a glowin' blue city slicker!

This big blue man with the glowin' tan was naked as the day he was born,
'N with nothin' but the wave of his hand, he left Warschach ripped 'n torn!

Just like I said, Warschach was dead, in the blink of a heifer's eye,
But dyin' didn't bug him none, 'n let me tell you why.

'N let me tell you why.

Cuz Warschach! Yes, Warschach!
Looked the Reaper square between the eyes!
'N Warschach! That Warschach!
He still refused to ever compromise!

YEE-HAW!
-----------------------------------------
LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 22, 2009

Attempts to suppress existence of ancestor, Wild Willy Warschach, may prove to be impossible. Chart-topping ballad from 1955 has ensured his place in country music history.

Will never forgive Dreiberg bloodline for this. Never.

May 21, 2009: Cake

2009-05-21T00:01:00.000-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 21, 2009:

Apparently word is out that Dreiberg will be released soon. That Dr. Harlem regrets incident resulting in Dreiberg's hospitalization. Will visit hospital, use powers to shorten the healing process. Soon Dreibrg will return to eating, crying, and masturbating.

Veidt aware of Dreiberg's impending return. Sent "Welcome Home" gift to apartment. Remember welcome home gift I got once. Age nine, return from school, run to greet MILFSCHACH, grabbed me and threw me through window, told me, "Get the hell out." Heh. Mother, great sense of humor, left me fond memories.

Also remember Christmas gift Veidt sends me every year. Fruitcake. Ehhh. Hate fruitcake. Hate Veidt.

Veidt's gift to Dreiberg obviously meant to promote upcoming release of godforsaken DVD. Reportedly has graphic sex scene sure Dreiberg will love it.

Must eat cake, ensure Dreiberg will never know.

12 Iyar, 2345 B.C.E. : Decalogue

2009-05-20T00:01:00.002-05:00

Jewschach's Tablet: 12 Iyar, 2345 B.C.E.:

And lo, after conferring with the L-rd, Jewschach came down from the mountain and saw a terrible sight. All of the Hebrews, men and women, were writhing and grinding in front of a golden idol of Ramses II, the Pharaoh whom enslaved them. The women, painted up like prostitutes, exposed their breasts and the men were laying with one another all while a smile was set in the golden visage of Pharaoh.
And a great anger overcame Jewschach who raised the tablets on which the L-rd had inscribed the laws and hurled them at all of the Hebrews. A hole in the earth was opened and all of those who worshiped Ramses II were swallowed into it. They looked up at Jewschach and shouted, "Save us!" And feeling the L-rd guiding him, Jewschach replied, "No." And that was the end of those who worshiped the enslaver.
Jewschach then realized that he had broken the tablets on which the laws were written and decided he must return to the mountain and inform G-d that of which he had done. The L-rd then gave Jewschach new tablets inscribed with the laws which were to guide the people. And Jewschach returned from the mountain once again and pronounced the laws to the Hebrews:

I. Thou shalt impose meaning on this godless world.
II. Thou shalt not speak the word "Hurm" in vain.
III. Thou shalt not compromise.
IV. Thou shalt follow thy father's and mother's example. In their time of suffering, they ate their beans from a can. No heat was needed. Respect their example.
V. Thou shalt not kill... painlessly.
VI. Thou shalt not visit thy neighbor's whore. Except for information.
VII. Thou mayest borrow thy partner's food, especially if he is fat.
VIII. Thou shalt not tolerate false witnesses.
IX. Thou shalt remember to investigate thy neighbor's sodomy.
X. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's gadgets, save his gas powered suction cup gun. Don't worry, thou shalt not understand this for quite some time.

----------------------------------------------------
LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 20, 2009:

Find it surprising how well my family keeps track of their genealogy. Thankful for it. Provides excellent guidance and insight into modern life. Not surprised that people have forgotten Jewschach's laws. Everyone has, everyone but LOLSCHACH.

May 19, 2009: The Roaster

2009-05-19T00:01:00.005-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 19, 2009:

Been staying at Dreiberg's for last week or so, told him I would guard his Roost. Lied. Necessary though. Been going through old files of his, looking for insight into mindset that allowed for hero to become nothing more than a grease stain. Found audio recordings on Dreiberg's computer. Could prove useful. Transcribing contents now. Will continue to look for more information on this Roaster.

--------------------------------------------------------
Testing, testing, one-two, one-two...

All right, this is the Fowl File for October 31, 1984. Subject? My archenemy: The Roaster.

So, how's it going, Computer? How are things with you?

Me? Oh, I’m doing pretty good…. I tackled the Roaster the other night, and I did manage to get him in police custody, but he messed me up pretty bad. He said something about me having "crispy chicken legs," and then there was just this awful pain in my knees and a sort of crunching sound.

But I can walk again. Sort of. Maybe "toddle" is a better word? But you know what Old Knight Fowl always taught me: You gotta play through the pain. I let Addison examine my legs, and he thinks I'll be back to normal in another week or two. He's gonna give me another examination tomorrow, though....

Ow! Geez....

Normal? No, I do have chicken legs. Might as well admit it. And here I am wearing tights, showing them off to the whole world. Do you think that's why the Satin Succubus won't give me the time of day, Computer? Do you think Laura Uranjek hates these shrink-wrapped chicken legs? Or is it my beaky nose? (Come to think of it, that's something else the Roaster mentioned while I was wrestling him: my beaky nose. I looked in the mirror after wards, and you know what, he was right. Admit it, Computer.)

God, I need to stop thinking like this. It's like the Roaster knows how to get inside my mask and push all my buttons. Maybe that's what makes him my archenemy?

[sighs] It's funny, Computer. When I read comic books as a kid, I always loved the idea that every hero has an “archenemy.” I mean, Brainiac was cool and all, but ultimately? He was just the mashed potatoes. Lex Luthor was where it was at. Lex Luthor was the big, juicy drumstick, you know? [chuckles]

I mean, I’d even fantasize about who my archenemy would be when I became a superhero: his code name, his powers, the color of his cape. His tragic origin story. All the awesome gadget-packed fistfights we’d have, with the fate of the city hanging in the balance. It was kind of pathetic, I guess, like little girls plotting out the details of their weddings with some, you know, fairy-tale prince. But, God, it was fun.

It was fun until I actually got an archenemy. God…. [moans]

Anyway, I want to record all this so I don't forget. The Roaster's locked away in Usher Asylum now, but it's only a matter of time 'til he escapes again, and so right now, tonight, I'm going to put together all my information in one, comprehensive file. Starting with -- [Tape ends]

Hey, Computer. You on?

This is real embarrassing. So apparently I droned on for, like, three hours last night after the tape ran out. Oh, and while that was happening, I missed a bunch of calls from my hotline with the Commissioner. Yeah, the Roaster escaped last night from Usher Asylum. That's the seventh time in as many months. This time, they think he squeezed the oil out of a chunk of pound-cake, greased himself up, and squeezed through the bars of his cell.

'Scuse me, Computer. I just got hungry all of a sudden. Sorry about this.

[9 minutes of silence on tape.]

Sorry about that, Computer.

Snorf. So [smacking, chewing sounds] now he's at large again, plotting who knows what, and I still don't have a comprehensive file that pulls together everything I know about him. So, that's what we're working on tonight. I mean, again.

This is the Fowl File for November 1, 1984. Subject is the Roaster, my archenemy.

He first appeared around Christmas, 1981. This guy in a red-and-black sort of leisure suit or tux or disco suit or something (Ozzy would know what to call it), with this really odd face and wig that I can't even describe, starts popping up around town. He's an arsonist -- that's the first thing we know about him -- and he especially likes to burn down comedy lounges and fast-food places. I got involved after he burned down my favorite "Willie Nelson's Smokehouse" chicken place.

God, I miss that place. The chicken had this sort of ... mellow? ... this sort of mellow taste. And it always made you hungry for more. Thinking back on it now, I wish I had thought to do a chemical analysis here in the Roost, to figure out Willie Nelson's secret blend of herbs. But [sighs] that all went up in smoke.

So anyway, the first thing we knew about him was, he was an arsonist. The second thing was, he loved to insult people in the most obnoxious ways. I mean, he would say some really hurtful stuff. Like, there was a ... a sort of large-ish lady who wrote for the newspaper around that time. She had diabetes, and the doctors had to amputate her legs because of the, you know, the blood flow problem. So she's writing about it for the newspaper and spilling her heart out, and then the Roaster sends her this letter, and the letter says something like, "Congratulations on finally finding a good way to lose weight." Just awful stuff like that. There was even a story going around that he made LOLSCHACH cry. I mean, I don't think I actually believe that particular story, but that is pretty much the impression the Roaster gave everybody.

The third thing we learned about the Roaster was, he had it in for Old Knight Fowl and me. One morning, I think it was two weeks before Christmas, all over town as people were coming to work -- right now, I remember City Hall, subway stations, a bunch of schools, uh... the TV networks, some shopping centers, maybe a post office -- all over town, people found these giant, raw turkeys sitting on their desks. They all had a note attached. I have one here in an evidence bag. It says, "Merry Xmas, Giblets! --The Roaster".

At exactly 8:00, the turkeys all exploded. Afterward, I helped the police figure out that the turkeys had been stuffed with chickens, and the chickens had been stuffed with explosives, with these remote-controlled explosives. It was just an awful mess, a public health disaster. The whole city had to be scrubbed down for salmonella.

Poor Old Knight Fowl was just raring to go -- I mean, you can imagine, can't you! -- but honestly, he was in no shape to get involved. His emphysema was acting up, so I insisted he leave the whole Roaster thing to me. When I finally managed to track him down, it was at -- [Tape ends.]

May 18, 2009: Seusschach Goes Hollywood

2009-05-18T00:01:00.005-05:00

Excerpt from "SEUSSCHACH Goes Hollywood and Other Tales", originally published October 22, 1974.

It was a dark, lonely night and Veidt’s face was quite long,
Shouting over and over, “Where did I go wrong?

“My life’s halfway through and I’ve done nothing of merit,
A nobody forever? I simply can't bear it!”

So he pondered and thought and when he was through,
He sprang to his feet, “I know just what I’ll do!

“I’ll make a movie that’s about nothing but me!
Millions will go watch it and then they will see,

“How awesome I am and that Seusschach’s a big prick!
For accuracy’s sake, I’ll add a huge glowing dick!”

And with his film’s cast in mind, Veidt ran out the door,
He’d need a crazy, a fatty, a god and a whore.

He gathered them up, but they weren’t hard to find,
He’d written the parts with his friends all in mind.

Seusschach first refused, thinking Veidt’s script was weak,
“I die at the hands of a glowing blue freak!?”

But Veidt promised Seusschach he’d be back in ‘Part 2’,
“You’re too popular to kill off! No really, it’s true!”

An extra zero on his check, Seusschach shot the scene,
Veidt shouting all the while, “You’re the next Steve McQueen!”

A year and a half later, the movie was played,
But the returns were so bad, nobody got paid!

Veidt’s movie had bombed, but he had worse things to fear,
Seusscach was outside screaming, “Open up, you queer!

“I’ve got a bat in my hands, so prepare to be trounced,
Unless you can tell me why my paycheck just bounced!”

And so he beat Veidt to death, crying, “You cheapskate! You bum!
“I knew it would flop; there were script problems from Day One!”

-----------------------------------

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 18, 2009

Odd how the chronicles of Uncle Seusschach so closely resemble the life and times of LOLSCHACH. Suspicious. Precognition involved somehow? Must investigate Seusschach's personal life more thoroughly.

May 17, 2009: Pet Avenger

2009-05-17T00:01:00.000-05:00

May 16, 2009: Veidt Magazine Profile

2009-05-16T00:01:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH’s JOURNAL: May 16, 2009:

Gone to dentist’s office. Have brought shoplifter, along with Babysitter. Want to try using dentist’s tools to extract something from thief’s mouth: confession.

Old magazines in waiting room. Found profile/interview with Veidt in February 20 issue of New Voice Express. Puff piece. Magazine owned by Veidt. Liberal. Still, may contain insights. Will copy down intro today. Later, will copy down actual interview. If I can stand to. Ehhh.

* * *

From New Voice Express, February 20, 2009

Off to See the Wizard:

At Home with Oz the Great and Fabulous

Deb Ross Visits Munchkinland Ranch to Interview Addison Veidt

Nero didn’t actually fiddle while Rome burned. George Washington never actually chopped down that cherry tree. And Addison Veidt – superhero, supergenius, trillionaire bachelor philanthropist – is not actually an Egypt-obsessed mastermind named Ozyma—

“No need to say it,” interrupts Veidt, reaching across the table to touch my wrist. His hand is as warm as the disarming grin he allows to linger for several seconds. He’s definitely bemused – and maybe just a little weary.

He has a right to be. Half of what the public “knows” about Addison Veidt comes from a 1986 comic book that is, in Veidt’s estimation, “about 77.623% fiction, give or take.” Deeds he never did have earned him fan mail and hate mail. People have been known to call him “Adrian,” or even Ozyma… well, you know. So: Nero’s fiddle, Washington’s cherry tree.

But with a blockbuster adaptation of that seminal 1986 comic book headed to theaters, popular perceptions about Veidt are bound to become even more confused than they already are. We emailed Veidt three weeks ago, hoping he would give us a quote or two about his unusual situation. Instead, he offered to fly me across the country for an exclusive interview at his rural-getaway-cum-wayward-boys’-home, Munchkinland Ranch. Even my editor didn’t say no.

Comic-book fans may associate Veidt with the color purple, but celebrity-watchers know he’s all about green. That was, by far, the predominant color both inside and outside the limo, jet, and SUV that Veidt had sent to carry me from my office to his ranch. Somewhere over Kansas, I remarked sarcastically to the flight attendant (who wore a green uniform) about the disconnect between his employer’s famed environmental activism and his willingness to burn so much jet fuel to carry one reporter cross-country. The flight attendant looked hurt. “VeidtAir jets burn only 100% organic hydrocarbons,” he said, as if he’d rehearsed the line a hundred times, “and all our fuels are recycled from fossils. The Wizard wants us to be a green airline.”

“The Wizard.”

Munchkinland Ranch. A research base in Antarctica codenamed “Glenda.” The “Emerald City” headquarters campus. And, of course, the pseudonym Veidt hid behind, along with his mask, when he was still a costumed crime-fighter: “Oz-the-Fabulous”. He may not share his comic-book counterpart’s fascination with Egypt or Alexander the Great, but Addison Veidt certainly has a fixation of his own....

* * *

Time to stop writing. Dentist ready to see us. (Forgot to ask shoplifter about his dental insurance. Hurm.)

May 15, 2009: Childhood Nostalgia

2009-05-15T00:01:00.003-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 15, 2009

Lolschach is many things. "Nostalgic" is not one of them.

However, mind tends to wander from time to time, occasionally back to the days of my youth. Decent childhood. Efficient. No bells or whistles. Was fed, cleaned, clothed and given necessary provisions for survival. No child should ask for more. Those that do, the screaming spoiled wretches at the toy stores and the bawling sacks of excrement at Chuck E. Cheese's, they deserve a good paddling.

LOLSCHACH was not bad very often. Occasionally acted up. Hurm. Stupid brat. Failed. Failures I will never live down. Father put me in place. Taught me valuable lesson: unacceptable behavior requires extreme retaliation. Never made same mistakes twice. Shaped me into ideal, well-balanced adult male.

Father was patient as a saint. Never spanked LOLSCHACH. Did this, instead:

Father was a great man.

My mother, MILFSCHACH, cared for him deeply. She eventually stabbed him in the neck with a broken whiskey bottle, killing him. Still have not managed to rectify the first sentence with the second. Though I do recall photo father had framed on the mantle, taken during their honeymoon:

LOLSCHACH knows very little about love, though am pretty sure that mother and father embodied it completely.

May 14, 2009: Film Festival

2009-05-14T00:01:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: May 14, 2009

Was watching Unsolved Mysteries to compile list of things to investigate next weekend when Veidt called. Invited me to attend film festival this weekend, has two tickets to attend. Wanted to invite Dreiberg, who is currently incapacitated.

Declined. Do not like Veidt. Do not like Veidt's company. Especially detest any attempt for him to canoodle me in the dark abyss of the celluloid gods. Chance for hands, sweaty and sticky, hopefully from popcorn butter, to reach into my personal space.

But most of all, hate film festivals out of principle. Aggregate of independent movies filmed by conceited art students attempting to shove their misguided, ambiguous, bohemian world views down the visual gullets of equally turgid audiences desperately seeking significance in meaningless, self-righteous attempts at cinematic art.

Unique, just like everyone else. Not like big budget sell-outs they hope to be someday when not making crappy movies.

Movies always follow one of a set number of formulas. Will list here. Elucidate.

#1: A [positive adjective] look at how a young group of [minority or advocacy group] overcomes adversity in [small town or 3rd world country] and discover themselves.

#2: Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl does not. Awkward silences in between. Black and white, still shots. Crappy music. Along the way, discover themselves.

#3: Family / friends struggle as character / characters pursue dream to be [unsuccessful profession, never "doctor" or "lawyer"]. Seek to find themselves.

#4: Western progress is bad. America is bad. Must go back to stone age. Discover selves.

#5: [Whiny advocacy group] struggles against [generic oppressor] to overcome [social malady] and bring awareness to [cause]. Journey allows them to discover themselves.

#6: Foreign film.

#7: In lonely [not New York], [number] friends form an unlikely relationship that will change their lives forever. Try to discover themselves.

#8: A struggling author/ artist/ journalist finds himself in a bizarre series of events. Finds himself.

#9: A sad woman / man must embrace [lofty metaphor] to overcome tragedy/ adversity, discover him/ herself.

#10: Gay cowboys eating pudding.

May 13, 2009: Royalties

2009-05-13T06:04:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 13, 2009:

Received royalty check from Veidt today. $4.68. Came with note as well.

"LOLLY,

With this economy, I thought the safest place for your money would be in reliable stocks and bonds. So I have purchased on your behalf 3 shares in VeidtBrand. No need to thank me!

XOXOXOXO,
Addison Veidt"

Hate him.

Go to grocery store and attempt to buy bottle of carbonated beverage and candy bar. Pimply-faced cashier tells me items cost $4.73. Try to find spare change in coat, nothing but sugar cubes and lint. Hurm. Awkward teen aged boy seems to recognize me.

"Hey, you're that Rorsc-" Throw soda bottle at him and walk out. Can't stand it. Every person over age of fifteen seems to get me confused with psychopath that starred in book written by hairy man.

No. British man.

Sigh. No. Hairy British man.
All the hairs on his chin will look up and shout, "Shave us!" And he'll whisper, "No."

Yes.

One day will repay Veidt and Hairy British man for all the unwanted attention brought upon LOLSCHACH by their libel. Until then, must go back and retrieve carbonated beverage.

May 12, 2009: Hospital Visit

2009-05-12T00:01:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 12, 2009:

Never liked hospitals though they seem to love me. Could be that I keep them in business. Heh. Seems Dreiberg was involved in some mishap. Felt urge to pay visit. The smell of disinfectant and sex crazed doctors nearly overwhelmed me. Punched scrub tech. Nausea soon subsided.

Walked down hallway to Dreiberg's room. Passed a nurse who either moonlights as a prostitute or never had a mother to teach her how to apply makeup. Suggested to ease up on eye shadow. She didn't like that, not one bit. Seemed flustered though and scurried down the hall into a patient's room.

Walked into Dreiberg's room, seeing the slob asleep on a twin sized bed, his folds of flesh overhanging. "Lucky The Doctor prefers original recipe. Heh." Dreiberg manages a weak laugh. Tell him I came only to assure him his apartment would be safe, would protect his coop from the foxes. Turn to leave only to be stopped, Dreiberg asks to adjust his bed. Claims its unncomfortable. Start playing with buttons, hoping to teach the foul fowl to appreciate what you have.

Hope he learned lesson.

May 11, 2009: Internet Fad

2009-05-11T00:01:00.008-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: May 11, 2009:

Hate the Internet. A rabid she-wolf that devours the world so she can nurse the mangy pups nuzzled at her poison teat. But LOLSCHACH is immune to her contagion. Credit upbringing. Heh.

Went to library to use Internet. All computers occupied; a dozen diseased pups lined up and sucking away. Knew what to do. Stood behind schoolgirl. While waiting, peered over her shoulder. Saw her looking at websites on hydroelectric dams, scribbling notes in notebook marked "Science." (Possibly plotting terrorist acts? Must remember to investigate.) Within five minutes, schoolgirl left. Held her nose as she passed me. Common gang sign, seen it many times. Expresses fear of LOLSCHACH.

Sit down, do usual routine: One minute checking email. Ten minutes finding subliminal messages at Communist front HomestarRunner.com. One hour investigating murder of robotics engineer Evan Chan, still unsolved after eight years.

Suspect involvement of Anti-Robot Militia. Still no solid proof.

Finish with 30 minutes of web searches on old enemies. No news on Marduk. No news on Squid.

But Veidt had joined Twitter: http://twitter.com/AddisonVeidt

Vacuous.

Not surprising. Twitter is stage for prima donnas to parade egos before world. Emptiness disguised by sparkle of high technology. Success based on herd mentality, celebrity worship. Perfect fit for Veidt.

And useful for LOLSCHACH. By following Veidt's "Tweets," will see patterns emerge. Gaps in public image. Subconscious confessions of past crimes. Details of future ones. Weaknesses to exploit.

Admits having "miscalculated the popularity boom of Twitter by 3.5 months." Mentions fear of global warming, construction of "Ice Ray". Says he "dropped ... off" ex-Watchbuster Blake.

Hurm.

Try to add Veidt Twitter feed to sidebar of LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL. Can't. Need access to Veidt's Twitter account. Blocked. Call librarian for help. Tells me it would require "hacking Twitter." Not sure what that means. Have hacked many things, but never heard of hacking computers. Tell librarian to "hack Twitter" for me. Refuses, says illegal. Grab his pinkie, threaten to break it. Complies. Now able to view Viedt's thoughts on right-hand sidebar of LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL.

Before leaving, break librarian's pinkie. Punish him. Thought he could avoid pain by compromising his principles.

Don't tell me he didn't have a choice.

May 10, 2009: Disturbance at Dreiberg's

2009-05-10T00:01:00.000-05:00

May 09, 2009: Nightmare

2009-05-09T11:05:00.009-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: May 09, 2009

Night terrors grasp at me in flight, keeping me in the land of make-believe and unknown consciousness. Will attempt to reiterate details here.

Am not LOLSCHACH. Am young, self-assured, womanizing, belligerent youth lacking father figure. Father was killed by time-travelling adversary from the future.

No, not him. That was from dream long time ago.

Yes, him. Less Dreiberg-y, more LOLSCHACH-y. Handsome. Fit. Well dressed.

Exist as wanderer of utopian American midwest. Was arrested by Robocop in my youth. Past becomes a blur of bar fights and lectures. High-ranking officer approaches me after one particular brawl and begins to lecture me about my father. Am expecting him to tell me to go to college: am expecting to punch him in the face. Instead, talks about joining Starfleet. What? What is a starfleet? New cruise line, perhaps? Cannot possibly join: am neither Filipino nor from 3rd world country in need of financial assistance and good medical benefits. Neither can I fold towel animals. No, says he, 'tis very simple. Just show up at location tomorrow, take space shuttle to space school, graduate in 3 years. Too lucrative to be sure. Would make father proud, though. I acquiesce.

3 years past. No montage necessary. Befriend medical doctor who once single-handedly survived Martian space colony after it was invaded by hell-spawn. Licentiousness overpowers me, have unnatural urge to bed green-painted alien female and nubile African roomate. Seem to think with my nether regions, my fists, then my brain. In that order. Reminds me of a previous dream, but different.

Close enough.

Pass Starfleet exams with no problem, though nearly thwarted by pointy eared, emotionless alien and his trickery.

No, not him. He appears later.

Yes. HIM.

Dream progresses. Am surrounded by motley comrades, crewmembers, who make the dream vastly entertaining and suspenseful. Character development, action, and storyline flow mellifluously with no second wasted on petty, inconsequential moments. Guest cameo by Galvatron, narrator of History's Mysteries, fits into plot well. Not forced, not contrived. Perfect.

Strangest aspect of this particular nightmare: felt watched by an audience of normal people. Would have expected the flavor of this reverie to appeal mostly to fat, socially ignorant, smelly outcasts living in their mothers basements, speaking fictional fantasy languages and attending overpriced conventions to feed their nostalgia and need for rampant consummerism. No, not so. Audience was comprised of random sample of the population, citizens looking for good entertainment -- excellent entertainment. Got what they bargained for.

Strangely absent from this particular fantasy.

Production values of this nightmare of the highest caliber. Awoke, invigorated by the dream of space, the final frontier. Pumped, wanting to punch the nearest alien or use a phaser to shoot pointy eared, tattooed skinheads.

Not so. All was over. But wish to visit this particular nightmare again someday. Best I have had in a long, long time.

May 08, 2009: Basketball

2009-05-08T01:00:00.002-05:00

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.

May 07, 2009: Ghostbusters

2009-05-07T00:01:00.001-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 07, 2009

11:45 AM. Found myself in New York. Don't know how I got here. Last thing I remember, I was falling asleep on a Greyhound bus. Hurm. The plot thickens.

Walking across Central Park, today. Observe yuppies stuffing overpriced, mediocre-tasting food down their throats within Tavern on the Green. Launch a chair through the plate glass windows, then exit at Central Park West. Pass by the Shandor Building. See a sign next to the door:

"Meet the Ghostbusters in Person! May 7th at Noon!"

The Ghostbusters. Remember them well.

In 1984, they prevented the coming of an all-powerful supernatural entity named Gozer the Gozerian.

In 1989, they prevented the coming of an all-powerful supernatural entity named Vigo the Carpathian.

In 1997, they prevented the coming of an all-powerful supernatural entity named Jesus the Nazarian.

Clock strikes noon. Hear crowd cheering. Hadn't been paying attention to time. The Ghostbusters must be coming. Been years since I've seen them. Remember they used to look like this:

The Ecto-1 pulls up. They step out. It's been twenty-five years. Now, they look like this:

Hurm. Not sticking around for any autographs.

January 27, 1960: Green Cubes and Beans

2009-05-06T00:01:00.004-05:00

Excerpt from "Green Cubes and Beans" by Dr. Seusschach, originally published January 27, 1960:

Seusschach was fighting crime at the local bar,
When in stepped Dreiberg who had come from afar.

Dreiberg went to Seusschach and looked up and said,
"You simply won't believe what I've just been fed!

"A glorious meal by all manner and means:
A piping-hot platter of green cubes and beans!"

"Hurm", replied Seusschach. "That sounds gross, wretched and sick.
I would not eat such a dish; not even one lick!"

But Dreiberg loved his food and had to have his way,
So he grabbed Seusschach's shoulder and started to say,

"Would you, could you, in this saloon?
Amid all the dirt, dankness and gloom?"

Seusschach was annoyed, but tried to stay calm.
He turned to Dreiberg and held up his palm.

"I would not, could not, in this saloon.
Now leave me be, you obese buffoon!"

But Dreiberg was convinced Seusschach was all wrong,
One way or another, he'd eat them before long!

Then Seusschach stepped outside and found Dreiberg there waiting,
With a herpes-ridden hooker whom he'd been dating.

"Would you, could you, with this whore?
You could eat them off the floor!"

Seusschach knit his brow and began to get pissed,
What part of "Fuck off" did Dreiberg somehow miss?

"I would not, could not, with that bitch!
The more you ask, the more I twitch!

"I would not eat them in that bar!
I'd sooner eat a bowl of tar!

"I do not and could not like green cubes and beans,
No more than I could like a retarded kid's screams!"

Then Seusschach scaled a building and climbed to the roof,
Dreiberg could not bug him if he just stayed aloof.

But Seusschach saw something that just made him snap:
Dreiberg was right there with his platter of crap!

"Would you, could you, thirteen stories up?
C'mon, I've seen you drink piss from a cup!"

Instead of a rhyme, Seusschach let out a snarl,
Then grabbed Dreiberg by the throat and screamed a mad "RRAAARRL!"

Dreiberg had just pressed his luck and now he would suffer,
Seusschach never compromises, not even for supper!

"I would not, could not, with a slut!
Not on a roof or in a beer hut!

"I'll break both your arms and step on your spleen!
And I'll never eat your green cubes and beans!"

Bones splintered and broken, Dreiberg was left howling,
But all Seusschach could hear was his own stomach growling!

So he picked up a cube and gave it a bite,
"Hurm", he said. "Hey Dreiberg, this shit tastes alright."

---------------------------------
LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 06, 2009

Another one of my favorite childhood books written by uncle Seusschach. Gave a copy to Dreiberg for his birthday, last year. He didn't like it. Illiterate tub of lard. Greased his staircase in retaliation.

May 05, 2009: ShamWOW

2009-05-05T00:01:00.001-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 05, 2009

LOLSCHACH has been called many things in lifetime. Chief among them: "smelly". Not LOLSCHACH's fault. Armies of enemies constantly watching. Waiting. Waiting for LOLSCHACH's guard to drop. Waiting for LOLSCHACH to get naked. Have seen LOLSCHACH fanart on DeviantArt. LOLSCHACH knows what they want.

They will never have it.

Body odor is a problem, though.

Went to Dreiberg's place. Took batteries out of smoke alarms. Put sand in sugar bowl. Dry dog food in Coco Puffs. Usual Wednesday routine. Watched some TV when finished. Saw this guy:

Promised new miracle product. "ShamWOW". Not a towel. Not a shammy. A space-age fabric creation which literally sucks the moisture and filth from your body, somehow without killing you in the process. Solution to LOLSCHACH's problems. Instead of bathing and exposing perfectly chisled, rock-hard abdominal muscles to all the super villains, fangirls and Veidts of the world, can now simply wipe off all offending liquids with ShamWOW.

Call toll-free number. Pay with Dreiberg's credit card. Very excited about forthcoming addition to arsenal. Very excited about finally removing Ronald McDonald's blood from scarf.

Six to eight weeks pass. ShamWOW arrives. Anxiously rip open package. Never actually received any presents on Christmas, but imagine this is what the holiday felt like to all the fat, greedy children of the world. Remove soft yellow marvel from its cardboard prison.

The time is now.

Rub ShamWOW across blood stain on coat pocket. Nothing. Rub it across gravy stain on edge of scarf. Nothing. Rub it across froth, foaming rabidly out from between my furious, snarling teeth. Nothing.

ShamWOW is useless. Was duped into paying $29.99 for a washcloth. Someone is going to pay. Guy from commercial was annoying. Might as well mete out vengeance upon him.

ShamWOW guy got off light.

May 04, 2009: Super-Hero Wannabes

2009-05-04T00:01:00.003-05:00

LOLSCHACH'S JOURNAL: May 04, 2009

Visited a royal burger establishment today. The purchase of food products was satisfactory:

The only shots I will take.

Was immediately flocked by shapely females. Awkward. Embarrassing. Smell of perfume and bubble gum and alcohol was overwhelming.

They couldn't stop staring at my tiny burger.

Threw my 12 oz drink in their faces, shoved fries down one of their throats. Ran home.

Settled down in front of the television. No National Enquirer or The Sun newspapers in sight. Had to settle for the Communist News Network. Was treated to this disturbing footage:

Ehhhh.

Disturbing news, had to investigate further. Visited the "World Superhero Registry" for more news, amateur pictures.

Like Captain Planet, but stupider.

Entomo. Sole European super-hero. More concerned about environmentalism and activism than what matters most. Typical. Has probably never punched a hooker in the face or hurled a dog through a plate glass window.

Better hero than the Windows Explorer. Not as heroic as G. Chrome.

Fox Fire. Browser of the Internet. Firewall of justice. Keeper of adult sites.

Built, then rejected by, Dr. Wily

Polar-Man. Citizen of snow. Hero of hail. Will be powerful ally if polar bears decide to attack the city or when snow is blocking the entrance to Denny's. Ironically the only practical superhero listed.

Cannot look much longer, too painful. Could use less superheroes on the streets with braces, pit-stains, social disorders. Need more of my breed.

May 03, 2009: Discipline

2009-05-03T16:48:00.000-05:00

November 12, 1888: London

2009-05-02T00:01:00.009-05:00

From the case files of the London Metropolitan Police Service Criminal Investigation Department:

Note from Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline: Have called upon one of our best agents to help solve the Whitechapel Murders (aka The Ripper Case). Unfortunately doesn't seem to be much help. But I have constant faith we will solve these murders swiftly and without further fatalities.

Whitechapel Murders Report filed 12 November 1888 by Inspector Wordsworth Pennyschach III:

Upon the twilight of Friday's past, a prostitute (or "whore" as the juvenile sect refer to them) died in a most shocking and repugnant manner. Her throat was slit, her heart sliced out and I am fairly certain further mutilations of the ghastly, sexual variety were also perpetrated upon her person. Most uncouth, indeed.

Tis but one in a string of similar perpetrations to which I have been summoned to resolve. The evening gazettes have dubbed this fiend "Jack the Ripper". A most curious moniker, considering "Jack" does not so much "rip" the parts of his victims out, but neatly slices them like a fine piece of cutlery through a good blood pudding.

It would seem that every shilling-hungry bloke in London "knows" the identity of this madman, though naturally none of their stories corroborate. These mischievous miscreants scarcely leave me with any choice but to resort to fisticuffs to reach the root of the problem. Although I recover my spent shilling from the vermin, I shall never-the-less be forced to spend it at the cleaners to remove their crimson from my gloves. Hurm.

My nightly investigations have not been a fruitless endeavor. I have constructed a list of possible suspects and narrowed it down accordingly.

Dvir Dreiberg - A local poulterer. A popular speculation has it that the Ripper could be a butcher, considering his precision removal of select anatomical pieces. Stopped by his abode shortly following tea time. A terribly bloated man, most unsightly; he was shocked to see me and flustered easily. However, his weight reduces him to a poor candidate, as the Ripper has a propensity for quick work, and the only thing this Dreiberg fellow can accomplish quickly is the devouring of scones.

The American Doctor - Another common rumor carrying about the streets is that of an American doctor paying visits to the ladies of Whitechapel. As with Mr. Dreiberg, the American Doctor's knowledge of human anatomy would seem to sling well with the Ripper's. Following up on his case, however, proved that the Doctor had a solid alibi in New York on the nights of Mary Ann Nichols' and Annie Chapman's deaths. A man could not be in two places at once...could he?

Another Prostitute - A suspicion with, regrettably, the least amount of supporting evidence. It is entirely possible than an aging "whore" has grown jealous of her younger, more profitable peers. Or perhaps she has simply come to loathe the lifestyle. Hurm. The primary objection to this theory is that we all must question whether a woman has the courage to act on her own in such a daring fashion.

My final suspect is the most dangerous of them all. I dare say I almost did not include him in this report due to the possible consequences.

A.V. - A member of the royal family. Yes, this is a most grave accusation. But rumors have A.V. seen consorting among prostitutes; indeed there is even a persistent rumor he may have even had an illegitimate child with one of them. Perhaps this is a royal conspiracy launched in A.V.'s name. Have also heard tales of his involvement with the Cleveland Street brothel. Possible homosexual? Would certainly explain his hatred of women. Shall make specific note encouraging further investigations.

With all sincerity, I hope this report will aid in the discovery of the truth behind these murders, whatever its true nature. I realize my accusations, particularly those made toward the Crown, could have harsh consequences. But I am prepared to meet them.

Inspector Wordsworth Pennyschach III
12 November 1888

---------------------------------------------------
LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 02, 2009

Occasionally pull out case files of crimes committed. Aids in current cases. Find that crime is often repeated in patterns. Suspects tend to follow trends. Could be useful information in future encounters.

Regrettably, this is of no use what-so-ever. Pennyschach failed to solve crime. Jack the Ripper escaped justice. Case files written by failure are worse then useless; they are embarrassing.

May 01, 2009: Documentaries

2009-05-01T00:01:00.010-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: May 01, 2009

Looking for Marduk. Visit Happy Harry's for answers. Approach first person sitting at bar and slam head against counter-top. Man cries. Tell him it won't stop until LOLSCHACH gets answers. Between sobs, tells me to go to local gym. Thank him for his information, then slam his head again. Tip bartender. Give him $20 to continue slamming man's head against table in my absence. Will be back later to see if he did good job.

Walk across street to Jillian's Gym and Bakery. Enter. Man at desk asks for membership card. Slam his head against mirror. LOLSCHACH needs no membership card to enforce head-slamming justice. Slam man's head a second time. A third. A fou-

Oh. I do belong to this gym. Forgot. Show man LOLSCHACH's membership card. Man burbles something unintelligible and slams face first on floor.

Lots of slamming going on, today.

No sign of Marduk. Man at bar was lying. Heading for exit, pass by basketball court. Then I see him dribbling a basketball like he got game.

Recognize jiggling blob. Recall documentary made in early 90s about Jeff Goldblum's battle against genetically engineered dinosaurs.

Samuel L. Jackson was eaten by raptor. Odd. A few years later, another documentary showed him being eaten by a shark. Continuity errors in documentaries? Must look into this.

Whatever the case, recall crimes perpetrated by fat slob. Stole something from lizards. Can't remember what. Never finished watching. Residents of apartment came home, apparently disapproving that I was watching their TV, eating their leftover wedding cake and burning photo albums for warmth. Ungrateful vermin.

Never finished movie, but since world is not overrun by dinosaurs, presume Jeff Goldblum was triumphant. Shame he was later turned into fly and murdered by Geena Davis.

Geena Davis. Saw other documentary about her. Married Alec Baldwin. Died. Hired Michael Keaton to rape Winona Ryder. Giant worms were involved. And a fat guy.

Fat guy.

Had forgotten about fat guy. Stole items from dinosaurs. Must be brought to--

Look down. Have apparently killed fat man with garden hose while reminiscing about documentaries. Hurm. Completely lost track of what I was doing.

Garden hose? Gambrel rooftops? Plastic gnomes? Where am I?

Decide to stuff fat man's body in shed (which I am apparently standing next to) and leave. Quickly.

April 30, 2009: Animality

2009-04-30T00:01:00.003-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 30, 2009

Been keeping tabs on Veidt. Always keep tabs on Veidt. Thinks he's so smart. Will slip up eventually. Then LOLSCHACH will be there to break his nose. Only a matter of time.

Caught wind of latest scheme. This could be it. Veidt working on new machine. Called the "Animality". Ray gun. Turns people into animals.

Or something like that. Probably.

Need more concrete evidence. Tap Veidt's phonelines. Narcissistic scumbag spends hour and a half discussing his plans with someone named "The Poolboy". Who is "The Poolboy" and what is his involvement in the Animality caper? Much of conversation is drowned out by static. Cheap, faulty equipment. Borrowed from Dreiberg. Must remind self to punch Dreiberg in stomach, later.

Hours pass. Maintain resolve. Patience pays off. Though conversation is muddled, single word makes it through static. "Cochschach". It's meaning is obvious. Veidt intends to use the Animality ray on LOLSCHACH, turning me into a cochroach.

Presumably that is what it would look like.

Must locate Veidt's lab. Destroy Animality ray. Wait until dark. 8pm. Veidt exits home and begins walking several blocks into sleaziest part of city. Trenchcoat collar pulled up over face. Moving at swift, awkward, paranoid pace. Doesn't want anyone to know where he's going.

Jackpot.

Maintain surveillance of Veidt. Continue to shadow him. Eventually, track Veidt to his destination...

Hurm.

April 29, 2009: Day Off

2009-04-29T00:01:00.014-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 29, 2009

Busy few weeks. Need some time off. Recuperate back to peak crime-fighting condition. Acquire nachos.

Head to grocery store. Wednesday morning. Snivelling brats are in school. Soulless corporate zombies are at work. Only the elderly stand between LOLSCHACH and free reign of the super market.

Sight liver-spotted codger hobbling slowly-but-surely toward the store's single motorized shopping cart. Must get there before he does. Motorized shopping carts are entertaining to operate. Sprint. Shove senile old man to the ground. Pile into cart and hit ignition switch. Old man is screaming at me from the floor, "Dang-blast it you damn punk!" Tell him to go crawl in a coffin and die. Grab his cane and drive off with it. He'll never catch me, now.

First stop: Cereal Aisle. No store seems to carry Quisp anymore. Disappointing. Continue browsing. Stumble across unanticipated horror nestled between Honeycomb and Cocoa Krispies.

Damn Veidt. Selling LOLSCHACH's likeness. Hate him. Lose appetite for sugary, nutritionless corn-puffed styrafoam. Decide to just fill bowl with Betty Crocker fruit snacks and receive 700% of daily vitamin C requirement. Perhaps top it off with a bottle or two of Flintstones chewable vitamins.

Remainder of shopping experience uneventful. Make it home in time for banjo practice. No one must ever know.

April 28, 2009: Disney

2009-04-28T00:01:00.003-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 28, 2009

Went to movie theater again today. Not interested in seeing anything. Only place I can pour melted butter onto sugar cubes for free. While pouring butter, look up at big screen TV in lobby playing trailers. See teaser for latest Walt Disney animated feature film.

Disgusting. Woman contemplates having oral sex with small green amphibian. It is LOLSCHACH's understanding that kissing is what "oral sex" is. Wouldn't know. Avoid all things sexual. Whatever the case, it is sick and it is wrong. Have already dealt with furries and their bestiality-related cravings. Now impressionable children are being brainwashed into believing such heinous and immoral acts are acceptible?

No. Disney has crossed the line.

Tremendous shame. Seeing former bastion of wholesome family entertainment corrupted in such a fashion. Woman comitting unspeakable acts upon helpless animal is African American. Horrible. Racist. Recall days when Walt Disney was above such things. Treated African American characters with dignity. Respect.

Recall other Disney animated film made a few years back. "Mulan". About Oriental woman. Cross-dresser. Possible lesbian. Tremendously inappropriate and offensive portrayal of Orientals in general. Again reminded of better times, when Disney were above such ignorant generalizations.

Oddly, Disney has yet to make animated film focusing strictly on Jewish cast. Have not seen Jewish character in Disney animation since 1930s.

Simpler times. Better times.

Awareness of Disney's intent on corrupting children across the globe spurs me into action. Toss sugar cubes aside. Drink butter straight from tap. Am kicked out of movie theater. Hijack plane. Arrive in Hollywood. Busy day.

Turns out Walt Disney died in 1966. Hurm.

Resolve to exhume corpse and rough it up some. Locate Disney's grave. Had heard rumors he had been cryogenically frozen to be revived at later date. Preposterous. Dig up coffin.

Empty...?

Perhaps rumors warrant investigation. Begin closing coffin. Feel something strange; hidden in fabric lining. Pull it out. Framed picture.

Mystery thickens.

August 03, 1957: Wubbulous

2009-04-27T00:01:00.005-05:00

Excerpt from "The Wubbulous World of Dr. Seusschach", published August 03, 1957.

Veidt had an evil scheme he'd been plotting for months,
So Seusschach rushed right out to go stop him at once!

He hurried to Veidt's base at the peak of Mount Crumpet,
Veidt knew he was coming, but thought nothing of it.

Seusschach kicked the door in and found Veidt reclining,
To break all Veidt's bones is what he'd been pining!

Slowly Veidt stood up, his adversary now met,
Predictable as ever, Seusschach sounded a threat:

"You are no hero! You are only a clown!
You are a madman! A dog! You must be put down!"

And then Veidt chortled loudly, "Seusschach...You jest!
You came all the way here to put me to rest?!"

"You cannot thwart my plan. It's over! It's finished!
I did it one half hour ago...plus five minutes!"

Seusschach then felt a rage like none felt before,
A rage never induced by punk, thug or whore!

Burning up inside, he lunged fiercely at Veidt,
And so they engaged in a terrible fight!

To the balcony they fought, Veidt leading the stride,
But Seusschach was not beat; he kicked Veidt off the side!

Veidt clung to the edge, but was losing his grip,
He pouted and sobbed, yet continued to slip!

Veidt then gazed upward, crying "Save me, my foe!"
Seusschach looked back down and just whispered "No."

Veidt shrieked like a girl as he fell from the pulpit,
It was a five mile drop from the peak of Mount Crumpet!

To lose to a vagrant; Veidt had not forseen that,
But his musings were cut short by a THUD! and a SPLAT!

Seusschach was content having now saved the day,
Then he heard a DING! coming from kitchen's way!

Baked for thirty-five minutes was Veidt's "evil" plan:
A delectable cake made from real marzipan!

"Hurm", Seusschach said. "I guess I made a mistake.
But since Veidt's not around, I'll help myself to some cake."

--------------------------------
LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 27, 2009

Always enjoyed Uncle Seusschach's books as a child. LOLSCHACH's adulthood shaped by their valuable lessons: "No compromises", "Dogs get put down" and "Always OK to kill Veidt".

Morals to live by.

April 26, 2009: Doctor Harlem

2009-04-26T00:01:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: April 26, 2009

Hrm.

Have spent better part of sunny day lost in thought. America has super-weapon. Purple god-man. Locked away in top-secret research facility, a hamster spinning the military wheel. All in the name of science.

Should use science to make sun go away. Rain is much better. Haven't had shower in days. Weeks, maybe. Could use the rain. No hail, though. Doesn't mix well with shampoo. Hurts.

Perhaps pay Dr. Harlem a visit soon. Break monotony of constantly visiting Dreiberg. Convince him to teleport his whore-mistress to the Sun. Cold, steel floor of research facility may be change of pace from Dreiberg's grease-smothered sofa.

Muse over Dr. Harlem. Recall origin. Good times. Flashback.

April 25, 2009: Prologue to Tragedy

2009-04-25T00:01:00.025-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 25, 2009:

Yesterday, found paper scrap. Old. Brittle. Supposedly stolen from Oxford.

First page of lost English play. Written around 1600. Anonymous. Possibly Shakespeare? Must remember to investigate.

Italian ancestor ROLSHACCHIO is major character. Lived in Siena.

This rank and reeking city, this Siena!

How it doth scream, like Bedlam in a very butcher's-shop

A-teem with idiot changelings.

(Photo credit:jurvetson)

At library, read article. Professor thinks play is based on fact. Also thinks play is highly fictionalized. Hurm. Familiar situation.

First page lists major characters:

Don David Dreyburg -- Wealthy gentleman bachelor.

ROLSHACCHIO -- Bastard. [Hurm. -l.0.l] Companion of Dreyburg.

Edwin Blackstaff -- English mercenary. Also called "the Fool".

Lavinia -- Blackstaff's maiden daughter.

Duke Mantua -- Alchemist. Transformed into demigod while trying to create gold.

Title character is called "Oswaldo Magus."

History must be preserved. LOLSCHACH ancestor must not be forgotten. Lost pages of play must be found. May require time, broken bones.

For now, should copy into journal what I have. First fourteen lines of play. All spoken by ROLSHACCHIO.

* * *

The Tragicall Hiftorie of OSVVALDO, Wizard of Siena

Enter ROLSHACCHIO, as PROLOGUE.

PROLOGUE
Once-fair Siena, stirred now by the sword
Of Florence, flaileth lately like a dog
Ill-used, that, frantic, straineth ‘gainst his cord
And collar – choked to death, e’en ere he’s flogged.
Now beats in every breast the drum of war,
Echoes in every ear Bellona’s voice.
Mark them that march the streets to steal and whore,
And slay their neighbours – ’Struth, by their own choice!
Assassinations underneath the rose
Betwixt the cities’ spies doth multiply;
The flood-wall wavers, as the blood-tide flows,
And when ‘tis overtopped, then must men die.
The squires and strumpets, drowning down below,
Will clamor, "Save us!" And I’ll whisper, “No.”

"God's bodykins! 'Tis quite a drop!"

(Photo credit: robin.elaine)

April 24, 2009: Vicious Cabaret

2009-04-24T00:01:00.014-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 24, 2009:

Took rare trip to Broadway this afternoon. Seldom go anymore. Nothing to do, since Mayor McCheese cleaned up what was left of McDonald Land. See British tourists and Japanese tourists, but no smut peddlers. Smut … like Coke in glass bottles: easy to find on Internet.

Of course, Broadway still corrupt. Evil, like cockroaches, never destroyed: Flees light, only to nest deeper within walls.

Suspect that Veidt was using shell corporation to co-produce musical play Wicked. Title is plainly immoral. Possibly part of larger criminal enterprise, like Springtime for You-Know-Who. At very least, could provide insights into Veidt’s psyche. Weaknesses to exploit in future, schemes to thwart.

Whores.

At theatre, explained I was associate of Veidt, deserved free ticket for afternoon matinee. Ignored. Hurled stanchion through box-office window. Then forced to use security guards’ tasers against them. Eventually rewarded for persistence. Took seat before house lights went down.

Play was debased retelling of Wizard of Oz. Presented wicked witch as tragic heroine, mistreated for green skin.

Red herring. Her true color is color of the play’s confused morality: Grey.

At intermission, went to concession stand. Filled coat pockets with Veidt MmmushroomClouds candies while keeping eye out for thieves. Instead, caught whiff of absinthe. Childhood memory of odors from Mother’s contraband cabinet.

Whore with absinthe. Reminds me of mom.

Absinthe was illegal.

Followed advice of Toucan Sam. Led me across lobby to theatre’s bar. Pulled unsuspecting absinthe-fiend off his barstool. Flung him against shelves behind bar, showering lobby with alcohol and shattered glass. Bartender escaped, but managed to wing him with barstool from across lobby. For first time, began to understand concept of “happy hour.” Leapt over bar before absinthe-fiend could slither away. Dragged him under by sharp lapel of his checkered coat. Recognized me. Pink face turned bone white.

“Luh-luh-LOLSCHACH is ruh-real?!” he squealed. Grunted in affirmative. “I cuh-cuh-confess! I suh-suh-stole it from the Buh-Bodleian! Puh-please luh-let me go!”

Had no idea what he was confessing. Had never seen him before. Decided to keep punishing him until he dropped a clue. Pressed harder. Stopped as cartilage began to crunch.

“I huh-have it right here! In my cuh-coat!” he said. “Just luh-let me guh-go, and it’s yours!”

Absinthe fiend in no position to bargain. Punched him in neck until unconscious. Went through his coat pockets. In envelope, found piece of yellowed paper.

Stuffed it into my sugar-cube pocket. No time to investigate.

Police sirens. Must have been called to arrest absinthe-fiend. Leave him to them.

On way out fire escape, ran into a surprised Veidt. Asked him why he was trying to enter theatre by back door. Told me he was going to meet friend, not to see show. He asked me what happened. Told him bar was selling absinthe. “Oh, quelle surprise,” he replied. “Gawker says nobody touches that stuff anymore, since it became legal.”

Hurm.

Spent rest of afternoon investigating paper scrap from Bodleian. Only documented fragment of lost historical play from Shakespeare’s time. Anonymous. Distant LOLSCHACH ancestor Rolshacchio is major character.

Will write more when possible. Must go now. Nighttime performance of Wicked should have reached intermission. May still be able to catch second half.

April 23, 2009: Park Visit

2009-04-23T00:01:00.005-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 23, 2009:

This city's filth is finally getting to me. Become tired of choking on the cloud of lust and murder that's been covering the city for the last couple of months. Distracting me from my nightly exercises. Chance came to escape today when received call from a local authority, Smith, telling me of a string of thefts in park a couple of miles outside of town since March 21. Eager to help, but needed transport.

Did not go to Dreiberg, wish to avoid the awkwardness that has repeatedly occurred. Instead pay visit to Dr. Harlem. Walk into the nudist den where the doctor resides, his "laboratory", feeling the can of beans I had for breakfast trying to crawl up my throat. Swallow it back down, tastes even better. Explain to Harlem my need for transportation. He agrees to teleport me after initial hesitancy, and a second later, I find myself surrounded by forest.

Start investigation, looking for the thief Smith had complained about. But first, had to use restroom. Find port-a-potty, take care of business. Smell unpleasant but still, LOLSCHACH does not complain. Not Veidt. Not Dreiberg. Not a whiner.Then something slams against the port-a-potty's walls, knocking it and LOLSCHACH over. Stupid, caught unaware.Struggling to escape the scatalogical sarcophagus. Burst out the door to face my attacker, a huge furry man. One of Dreiberg's friends in fetish clothing? Then the man roars at me, bellowing fury. Must run and flee this furry fetish freak.

The man chases me on all fours, apparently having watched too many commercials for upcoming masked adventurer film.

Start climbing a tree to avoid being raped, reaching the highest branch and start to evaluate my attacker. Big, hairy, runs on all fours. Not a man. A bear. Hurm. Another bear wanders out of the forest, approaching my attacker. Seems to communicate with him and they disappear.

Stay in the tree, making sure that the bears are not trying to deceive and ambush me. Start to climb down when the bears return each with a pic-a-nic basket. What kind of a bear would pack a pic-a-nic basket? Clearly stolen. Clearly the thieves LOLSCHACH has been called to subdue. Evil must be punished, even in the face of grizzly bears I must not compromise on this.

I pull out Babysitter, and jump down from the tree onto the larger bear's back, wrapping the chain around its throat. The bear roars and bucks around, causing me to tighten the chain around its neck. Bear losing breath and in its death throws while the smaller bear stands by helpless. Finally, the bear collapses on the ground and the smaller bear runs off, not willing to follow his compatriot. Not willing to face death at the hands of LOLSCHACH.

I grab the basket, find a container full of beans and eat some. Sure the owners will not miss it. Small price to pay. Start walking to find Smith and inform him bears will no longer be a threat. And to ask for a ride.

April 22, 2009: Redecorating

2009-04-22T00:01:00.008-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 22, 2009

Cannot stay in Marduk's apartment. Found out he moved weeks ago. New tenants arrived, fainted when I burst out of refrigerator screaming "THERE IS NO DANA ONLY LOLSCHAAAAAACH!!!!!!"

Hurm. Fancy apartment.

Never had need of personal living quarters. LOLSCHACH is city's defender. As such, am not required to pay taxes or rent. City owes LOLSCHACH that much. When tired, enter nearest apartment and go to sleep on couch. Home-owners tend to call 911. LOLSCHACH protects them from obscene dangers, such as giant squids, possible homosexuals and child-napping clowns. This is how they repay me. Ungrateful. Punch them. Knock over potted plants. Throw toilet paper in toilet bowl. Defecate in coffee mugs. Urinate in shampoo. Teach them respect.

Dreiberg recommends I find hidden location and transform it into personal base. Like Dreiberg's "Roost". That way can have own space and not have to pay for it. Dreiberg says should call it "The LOL-Shack". Smirk on face. Thinks he's clever. No. Stupid. Name is stupid. Dreiberg is stupid. Tell him he's stupid. Eat his dinner. Mexican pizza from Taco Bell. He ordered Diet Pepsi. Hate Diet Pepsi. Pour it on carpet. Overturn couch.

Wait. What was I doing?

Oh. Yes. The LOL-Shack. Good idea.

Contemplate best secret, abandoned location to transform into the LOL-Shack. Decide to set up shop in decaying husk of Albert's Abattoir. Have ended numerous crimes committed in that location. Seems to be magnet for evil. Instead of going out to search for evil, evil will come to LOLSCHACH. Very clever.

Enter abandoned slaughterhouse. Reeks of rancid, sun-bleached death. Cornfed corpses stacked twenty feet high... hooked, gutted, skinned, processed, packaged, devoured. Stuffed into the slobbering maws of overfed, overweight human cattle to momentarily satisfy their bottomless appetites. Disgust me. Would sooner inhale noxious, putrid odor of this bovine mortuary than so much as sniff the interior of their overpriced, luxury apartments and condominiums, with their Glade Plug-Ins, masking the fetid stink of their own evil-doing and apathy. Human filth, sterilizing their floors and walls as if liberal application of Pinesol could possibly cleanse them of--

Focus LOLSCHACH. Focus.

First order of business. Must do something about interior appearance. Rumpus room is literal chamber of horrors:

Extensive redecorating is required in order to make place liveable.

There. Much better.

Hurm. Will need more tulips. Perhaps drapes to compliment the entrails. Leave the LOL-Shack and head to Bed, Bath & Beyond. Procure mass quantities of throw-pillows, quilts, beanbag chairs and a peculiar device which will add zest to my lemons. Already have ideas for impressive breakfast nook.

Return to gates. Sign has been erected over property in my absence: "Coming Soon: The NEW Albert's Abattoir!"

Hurm. The LOL-Shack is no more. Perhaps for the best. Settling down in single location will make me perfect target for arch-enemies: Jehovah's Witnesses, Girl Scouts and Hispanic landscapers.

No choice but to sleep at Dreiberg's tonight. Hope he has turned couch back over.

April 21, 2009: Knight Fowl Profile

2009-04-21T00:01:00.008-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: April 21, 2009

Currently waiting to give useful housewarming gift to old enemy Marduk. Fear.

Climbed garbage chute into his new apartment last night. Been waiting since then for him to show up. Sent him to prison years ago. Released today. Parole board swayed by bleeding-heart Veidt. Promised to give Marduk a job.

Must remember not to investigate.

Hurm. Boring to wait alone. Feel cold, even through coat. Tired of sitting in cramped position. Only relief is reading Modesty Blaise during toilet breaks.

Before coming here, invited ex- crime-fighting partner Donald Dreiberg, AKA Knight Fowl II, to accompany. Futile. He was always least courageous of Watchbusters. Still, could always be shamed into going out at 4 A.M. and doing something brave. No more. Dreiberg’s shame is down in basement, gathering dust, alongside Fowlsuit and Fowlship.

Meeting with him left bad taste in mouth. A butterball man-child with jowls beginning to hang like a wattle, whimpering among toys of superheroic past….

Might as well use this time to collate notes on Dreiberg. Maybe recalling old days will banish bad taste from mouth.

----

TRUE NAME: Knight Fowl II

LEGAL NAME: Donald Dreiberg

NICKNAME: Don

ALIAS(ES): Don Knight, Dan Dorfberg

BIRTHDATE: Late 1960s? Must remember to investigate.

AGE: Halfway between baby-fat face and old man’s clogged arteries.

EDUCATION: Too much.

WEIGHT: Ditto.

HEIGHT: Almost same as width.

OCCUPATION: Trust-fund baby. Has published research in poultry-science journal Gallus. Occasionally writes for Fowl Fancy magazine (under pseudonym Dan Dorfberg).

KNOWN HOBBIES: Furry conventions. Food. Collecting. [REDACTED], usually while wearing components of Fowlsuit. Aeronautical engineering. Eating. Writing fan-fiction and parodies (under pseudonym Don Knight).

KNOWN LIKES: Turducken. Darkwing Duck. Blue Beetle. Laura Uranjek, AKA Laura Uranus, AKA Satin Succubus II. Cowabunga Diner’s dessert menu. Rikki Tikki Tavern’s Butter Chicken Buckets. Cocks, claims Veidt. Seems obvious. Poultry motif indicates love of roosters.

KNOWN DISLIKES: Himself. Exercise. Hunger. Cockfights. Honest work. Possibly Lolschach.

MARITAL STATUS: Impotent.

VEHICLE: Fowlship.

----

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES:

1. Childhood (Birth – c. 1980)

Dreiberg always admitted he became masked adventurer for childish reason: idol-worship.

Knight Fowl II an inferior copy of earlier hero. Original Knight Fowl was tough policeman who grew up on family turkey farm. Spent off-hours as vigilante, disguised behind turkey mask. Vowed to “wring the neck” of organized crime. Largely succeeded. Became more than man. Became legend.

A living legend.

Legend inspired boy named Donald Dreiberg. Pampered son of poultry company head. Collected superhero comics. Collected superhero toys. Unsatisfied, wanted to collect real superhero: Persuaded father to sign Knight Fowl I as corporate spokesman. Then begged Knight Fowl I to take him on as sidekick. Knight Fowl I too much of a gentleman to refuse. Dreiberg began wearing chicken-themed Fowlsuit, calling self Knight Fowl II. Lacking mentor’s physical prowess, attempted to compensate with array of poultry-fetish crime-fighting gadgets.

Pathetic.

2. Adolescence (c.1980 – Present)

Dreiberg inherited Knight Fowl legacy after food poisoning felled Knight Fowl I at company picnic. (Hurm. Must remember to investigate.)

At university, met Doctor Harlem. Collaborated on anti-gravity Fowlship. Experimental airship powered by used grease from university cafeteria. Fowlship’s nickname is “Foggy.” Once overheard explanation for nickname, while eavesdropping on Dreiberg and Miss Uranus. Conversation took place in Dreiberg’s basement, October 28th, 1981.

----

URANUS: Foggy?

DREIBERG: Oh, uh, it’s short for Foghorn Leghorn, the rooster from the old Looney Tunes. I was trying to think of an appropriate nickname for a, you know, a poultry-themed airship.

URANUS: So why Foggy? Why not Leggy? Or …. Huh. Yeah, it pretty much had to be Foggy, didn’t it.

DREIBERG: Yep, pretty much.

----

Fowlship debuted in raid on cock-fighting den. Knight Fowl captured eight criminals. Unfortunately, landed ship on top of cocks, crushing them.

First saw Fowlship and met Dreiberg in late 1980, while hunting master criminal Marduk the Marvelous. Decided to join forces. Dreiberg contributed transport and food to our crime-fighting team-up. I contributed the crime-fighting. Soon brought in Marduk. Good times. During victory party, challenged by drunken Dreiberg to arm-wrestling match. Beat him. Forced him to build me wall-scaling suction-cup/winch gun, when his arm recovered.

Joined “Watchbusters” team together, Spring of 1983. Believe Dreiberg was motivated by crush on token female Watchbuster, Laura Uranus.

Veidt sold rights to our names, likeness, stories in 1985. Highly fictionalized comic-book adaptation published in 1986. English warlock author renamed Knight Fowl as owl-themed character, changed Dreiberg's first name. Cannot recall, have lost copy of book. Try to dispel movie from memory. Owl character was obese, double-chinned middle-aged man. Drawings were extremely unflattering. Also prescient.

In 1989, Veidt bought out Dreiberg’s father’s poultry company.

In 1991, Dreiberg retired from adventuring, on flimsy pretext of “doctor’s orders.” That history is well known. No need to recount it here.

Remember, though, that he had a sidekick for a brief period. 9 year old boy. Do not know what happened to him. One day, just disappeared. Perhaps more will be revealed later. Have not bothered to ask Dreiberg what he is doing hanging around pre-pubescents. Probably meet through comic book conventions, Toys 'R Us visits, or Magic: The Gathering rituals.

Have continued to observe him since he quit. Stays cooped up inside townhouse most of time. Only ventures outside to go to take-out restaurants, comic book store, urologist. Only one variation in his life for past twenty years: getting fatter. Like chicken being readied for kill.

3. Adulthood (???)

Dreiberg already middle-aged, but will probably never reach adulthood. Even if lives to 100. Unlikely, given his diet.

----

Hurm. Bad taste lingers. Reminds me of rotten eggs.

Better stop writing. Flashlight beginning to dim. Fingers growing numb. Hope Marduk shows up soon. Tired of squatting inside his refrigerator.

March 24, 1971: Fear and LOLing

2009-04-20T00:01:00.006-05:00

From the files of GONZOSCHACH: March 24, 1971:

We were on the edge of the desert when the drugs took hold. Heard screeching, a loud and terrible cry of thousands of animals I looked outside the window of the 18wheeler we had stolen somewhere outside of Los Angeles and saw the sun blotted out by a hoard of owls, flying after us at a speed damn close to exceeding the 100 miles an hour my associate preferred to drive.

I thought for sure the animals would kill us. Grasp us in talons and devour us like the mice we were. My associate remained calm through the whole ordeal. Confused by me bashing my head on the windshield screaming about those goddamn owls he asked me what was wrong. He hadn't seen the owls. But he would as soon as the drugs caught up with him.

I yelled at him to go faster if we were to escape the owls, and also because we still had over 100 miles to go if we were to make it to my assignment. I'm a journalist. A damn good one. And I had a job to do if I were to avoid explaining how the advance money was already gone.

Along with the chickens that came with the truck, we were hauling enough drugs to supply Charlie Manson's commune for weeks. We had bought cocaine in salt shakers, three bags of pot, 11 hits of acid, uppers, downers, sugarcubes as well as three thirty packs of Busch, a bottle of rum, a half empty bottle of tequila, and a bottle of schnapps. But I was worried about the sugar cubes. There is nothing in this world that is more depraved than a man on a sugar rush. And I knew I would get into that devilish stuff soon enough.

Instead of speeding up, my associate, a 300 pound fiend of a man, swerved the truck over to the side of a road and barely avoids hitting a hitchhiker. If it weren't for the drugs, I would have eaten his face. The boy had a stupid grin on his face, clearly not knowing he was on the wrong side of reality. My associate introduced himself as a Mr. Bird and then me as esteemed journalist Ronny Squire. No clue where he pulled these names from.

We were back on the road and gaining speed when Mr. Bird hurled a Busch can at the hiker's face. And then he knew what a grave mistake he had made by joining us on this long weird trip through the debaucheress pit that was Las Vegas. He immediately reached to jump out of the cab when I turned around and saw the fear in his eyes. Yes, he was mistaken to have joined us, but to jump out now would be even worse. I knew I had to calm the poor fool down.

"I want you to understand that my associate at the wheel is an attorney. He's not some dingbat I found in the back alley of a slum. Sure he's dumpy, but that's no reason to be prejudiced especially in this climate. You're not prejudiced are you?"

The boy frantically shook his head. But I could still see the fear in his eyes. Something else must convince him.

"AND BESIDES YOU FOOL, DON'T YOU KNOW THIS IS OWL COUNTRY?!?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 20, 2009:

Hurm. Found record of journey cousin took in magazine published in 1970s. Was a depraved deviant lost in the drug trade. Died a couple of years ago. Self inflicted gunshot.

No need to investigate further.

April 19, 2009: Dreiberg Visit

2009-04-19T00:01:00.000-05:00

June 8, 1972: Little Rock, Arkansas

2009-04-18T00:01:00.003-05:00

WKKK Little Rock 92.3 FM "Froschach's Fifteen Minutes of Funk" Broadcast: June 8, 1972

What it is, jive-turkeys! This is FROSCHACH comin' atcha wif fifteen minutes of funk sans tha junk. Why fifteen minutes? Cuz anymore 'n Tha Man would call it "Welfare", dig?

Gotsta say, Li'l Rock, all ya'll gone crazy up in here, I'm tellin' ya! Heard tha news off tha street: some honkey callin' hisself Doctor "Tha Man" Hattan done gone outta his god damned mind down in Asian Town, yesterday. Just went from laundromat ta laundromat, blowin' them suckaz up wif a point of his finger!

If he was pullin' this trash over in 'Lanta, it wouldn't be no thang, but this is Tha Rock, son! This is FROSCHACH's hood! Had ta step on up ta dat big blue cracka 'n set hiz ass straight! I was all, "What's yo damage, Clyde? You gots a prob you take it to da Hill! Don'tchu be comin' round mah crib wif yo li'l blue dick all hangin' out, bustin' up mah homeez wif yo magic finger!"

Then Hattan juzt be starin' at me, like he done got hiz junk caught in some nu-ku-lah accelerator. Says ta FROSCHACH, "Please do not interfere, sir. I am performing a public service."

All I had ta say ta dat was "Hey-ell NAW!" Honkey tryin' ta say dat bustin' up mah homeez iz a "public service"? FROSCHACH ain't havin' dat, foo'. Cracka be trippin', all there'z to it. Stared at me foh 'bout ten secondz then turned hiz flabby blue azz backward 'n got tha hell outta mah hood.

Hattan may be blue, but FROSCHACH is BLACK. Sheeeeeeeeeee-it.

So then I go back ta mah Caddy 'n what happenz? Some honkey be tryin' ta tow mah baby! Sucka'z truck says "Adrian White's Towing Service". Yeah, leave it ta Whitey ta pick tha Black Man's ride outta tha whole mutha luvin' lot.

So I strut on up ta dat damn foo' in hiz purple jumpsuit 'n golden tiara 'n give dat mofo a piece uv mah mind. Cracka sayz if I didn't wanna get towed then I "should have put another nickel in the meter thirty-five minutes ago".

Foo' be crazy. Who he think he iz, tellin' FROSCHACH where ta park 'n when ta pay? These streets belong ta FROSCHACH!

So what's dat cracka do?

Vertically leaps seventeen feet in tha air, kick me nine times in tha face then stab mah hand wif a fork! Where the hell he get a fork? Then honkey just drive off wif mah Caddy.

Some racist junk right there, dig?

But it ain't no thang. I'll deal wif his cracka ass later. Not like dat jive-turkey can be catchin' bullets, right?

Aw day-umn. Pencil-neck li'l honkey in a suit be stickin' his head into tha studio. Ya'll know what dat meanz: "FROSCHACH's Fifteen Minutes of Funk" be up. Check it, I'll be back next week; same time, same station. Try not ta let Tha Man getcha til then.

Peace out, foos.

--------------------
LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 18, 2009

Not entirely sure how FROSCHACH could possibly be related to myself. Found cassette tape recording of broadcast lying under bookshelf in basement of library. Have checked public records at WKKK circa 1972. No documentation of a "FROSCHACH's Fifteen Minutes of Funk" program ever existing. Quite possible this was demo tape. Very, very unorthodox demo tape.

Either way, it must be destroyed to preserve family heritage. No one must know of black sheep in LOLSCHACH family tree.

April 17, 2009: Rainy Day

2009-04-17T00:00:00.003-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 17, 2009:

The rain has been falling all day. Trying to wash the stain of blood and semen off of the streets. Pointless. Tried scrubbing the stairs outside my apartment once, spent hours. Was mocked and derided. Stairs remain dirty.

I get my exercise prowling the rooftops while thunder booms like a hammer hitting a gavel, judging the world: guilty. Now I must provide the punishment. Hear mugging going on in alleyway by the diner. Scramble down to it. Walk up behind the mugger, Asian male. Mid twenties. Take his head and slam it face first into the brick. Hand purse back to old lady. Slaps me and runs off. Surprised by her speed. Let her go. Next time she is mugged, LOLSCHACH will not stop it. Show her.

Walk opposite direction down the street away from ungrateful lady. The rain pouring down, soaking coat, feel chill. Not complaining though. LOLSCHACH is fine in any climate. Save tropical. Veidt tried to convince me to join him on Brazilian cruise once. Haven't considered journeying to the tropics since then. Probably full of homosexual Ricky Ricardos.

Walk past girl jumping rope. Taken aback at first. Why is a girl jumping rope in a downpour? The answer comes quickly. Hear her chanting, "April showers bring May flowers? What do May flowers bring?" Taunting me. Not unusual. Was taunted as a child, about appearance, body odor, mother's occupation. Never about lack of knowledge of May flowers. Hurm. Child repeats herself again. And again. And again.

Grab child by the collar of her dress, pull her up to my level. Looking her in the eyes while demanding an answer. The sound of her sobbing informs me she's crying. Tears mingle with rain while running down her cheeks. Repeatedly question her, she's too frightened to answer. Too frightened to mock LOLSCHACH now. Let her down, but keep firm grip on her. She finally answers. Then runs away. Makes no sense.

"Pilgrims."

April 16, 2009: Yiffcon '09

2009-04-16T00:01:00.007-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 16, 2009

Hear knock outside door. It is Dreiberg. Again. Wants to go on another "adventure". Hurm. Fat middle-aged man. Trying to relive glory days when he and LOLSCHACH would travel world, battling injustices and righting wrongs. Unfortunately, recent adventures with Dreiberg have had scarcely any similarities to "good ole days".

Promises things will be different. Guarantees good time. Says we're going to the Ancient Indian Burial Ground Hotel in rural Colorado. Bought weekend passes to some convention called "Yiffcon '09". Not interested. Fat man pleads with me. Guarantees there will be delinquents to punish. Fine. Whatever.

Pile into Archie and take off. Ask what kind of convention this "Yiffcon" could be. Dreiberg won't tell. Not an encouraging start.

Arrive at the Ancient Indian Burial Ground Hotel. Strange name. Ominous ring to it, though can't quite place why.

Enter lobbey. At last discover what fandom "Yiffcon" caters to...

Furries.

Disgusting, wretched sexual deviants. Worst gutter scum the internet fetish toilet has ever manufactured. Investigated furries before. Farmer Jeremiah Brown had been complaining of livestock being sodomized by mysterious gang of overweight men in bunny costumes. Turned out to be furries: people who are sexually attracted to animals to the point of dressing in animal costumes and partaking in massive orgies or..."yiffing".

No excuse for bestiality. Only okay to hurt animals if they've eaten children. Even then, sex is out of question. Brimming over with rage. Cannot contain furry..."FURY". Look at Dreiberg. Why would he bring me here to this viper's nest; a convention of my worst enemi--

Dreiberg. Large, overweight man. Socially retarded. Dressed in unflattering, poorly designed...bird costume.

No. Not Dreiberg. No...

Begin to back away. Dreiberg looks at me in confusion. "Something wrong, LOLSCHACH? Aren't you having fun?" Furries line up beside and behind him. Veritable army of pig-raping delinquents. Too many. Must resort to tactical retreat.

Run down hallway and into dealer room. Hundreds of leering, squirrel-hungry maniacs, publicly masturbating to drawings of animals. Dealer approaches me unsolicited. Begins to speak.

"Hey, is that a Watchmen costume? I used to love that cartoon when I was a kid! It came on right after Chip 'n Dale's Rescue Rangers! Bubastis was soooooo hot. Not Gadget-hot, but pretty close. Here, check out this lithograph I drew..."

Disgusting. Nauseating. Wrong. WRONG. Feel breakfast surging upward from pits of stomach. Lift up face just in time to project glob of hot vomit all over sniveling creep with "sexy" Bubastis lithograph.

Furry is not pleased. Takes the offensive. "Oh my god! What is your problem!? Wait, are you a... a... fursecutor?"

Entire dealer room goes dead quiet. Creep must have said the magic word. Fat, ugly middle-aged men stare at me through their skunk and chipmunk costumes, eyes smoldering with hatred. Then, I hear it:

"FURSECUTOR!!!"

They attack. Hundreds of animal-raping miscreants in costumes which wouldn't even be socially acceptible on Halloween. All swarming my way. Head back out into the hallway and sprint away from convention area, into hotel quarters. Stay ahead of the pack. They are fat. LOLSCHACH isn't. Advantage: LOLSCHACH.

Must find way out. Hotel is built like maze. Endless, identical hallways. Room after room. No exit in sight. Run upstairs. Suspense building to ultimate climax. Reach top of staircase. Look down hall toward only open door. Eyes are met with unforgettable, brain-scarring horror:

Madness.

MADNESS.

Can't stand anymore. Must leave. See window at end of hall. Run as fast as possible. Fold arms over face and crash straight through glass. Fall three stories into snowbank. Ankle sprained. Ribs bruised. Pull six-inch shard of glass out of shoulder. Worth it.

Hobble over to Archie and wait for Dreiberg. He eventually comes. Can tell I am furious. Begins babbling excuse and apology.

"Hey, LOLSCHACH, I'm really sorry. I know you're not all that into this sort of thing, but I thought you might be able to have a little fu--"

"Take. Me. Home."

Dreigberg nods pathetically and waddles into Archie. Starts engine. Before taking off, hands me package. "Got this for you in the dealer room. Thought you might like it, but I understand if you don't want it..."

Worst "adventure" Dreiberg has ever taken me on. Promise self not to hang out with Dreiberg for at least a week or more. Still, one positive element came from this grotesque experience. Am now aware of where and when these dog-molesting monstrosities gather. Can make preparations for "Yiffcon 2010". Had better begin amassing ammunition.

April 15, 2009: Clowns

2009-04-15T00:01:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 15, 2009

Picked up newspaper today. Headline same as its been all week. Mysterious, monstrous clown has been kidnapping children. Children never seen again. Police baffled. LOLSCHACH several steps ahead of them, as usual.

Know who freakish childnapping clown is.

Not that one.

Or that one.

Or that one.

Yes. That's him.

Ronald Willard McDonald. Last I heard, the clown went crazy. Not in funny, wacky circus way, either. Clown stitched fourteen toddlers together with rusty knitting needle and yarn, painted them purple and dubbed them "The Grimace". Believed Grimace to be best friend. Dragged screaming children around town on old Radio Flyer wagon, screaming "Do you believe in magic!?" repeatedly, like broken record.

Took seven cops to subdue McDonald. Three were injured to the point of early retirement. They were the lucky ones. Took doctors hours to unstitch the giant purple lump of screaming prepubescent humanity. Meanwhile, McDonald was deemed "insane" and locked away in the deepest, darkest vault the American psychiatric system could find.

Escaped two weeks ago. McDonald's intent is obvious. Wants to rebuild the Grimace. Reunite with his "best friend". Must be stopped.

Head down to police station to report suspicion. Don't like working with cops. Hate it. But children's lives are in danger. Donut pigs need all the help they can get.

Officer Big Mac greets me. Strange-looking man. Head is made of two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles and onions on a sesame seed bun. Dealt with him before. Not friends. Pays no heed to my warnings. Responds with standard tripe, "Do you have any proof that Ronald McDonald is back in town? No? That's what I thought. Ronald is a victim; a sad case. Even though he did escape from the Golden Arches Sanitarium two weeks ago, I don't think for a second he'd commit the same, tragic crimes."

Hurm. Big Mac and McDonald were friends prior to the clown's sudden bout of insanity. Old ties still bind. Cop trying to cover for friend. Sickening.

Decide to go over Big Mac's head. Next stop is City Hall. Intend to share suspicions with highest authority in town: Mayor McCheese.

Stupid. McCheese is in on conspiracy. McDonald once rescued him from man-eating serial killer and compulsive larcenist, the Hamburglar. McCheese obviously still owes McDonald a favor.

This city is grotesquely corrupt. Obese. Aiding and abedding known torturers of children. Their non-recycable behavior sickens me. Stomach in knots. Haven't felt this bad since time I ate that McBoo pail full of fries.

Prowl city. Hit the usual places where child-hungry pedophiles and freaks lurk: elementary schools, ice cream parlors, playgrounds, anime conventions. Patrol lasts all night, but eventually hit paydirt.

Strange creatures, like anthropomorphic pom-poms with googly eyes, run away at high speed with children strapped to backs. They're called the Frykids. Work for McDonald. Harvesting children. Big haul tonight. Enough to complete a new Grimace.

Can't let that happen.

Give chase. Frykids lead me to abandoned remains of Albert's Abattoir. Busted a child harvesting operation there on the 22nd of March. Place appears to be magnet for horrors in this city. Hurm.

Burst in through skylight. Frykids panic and escape through the windows. Let them go. Only after the big fish, tonight. Spot McDonald in back of empty room. Rusty meathook attached to length of chain in hand. Children cowering in corner. McDonald looks different. Darker. Knows LOLSCHACH is here. Doesn't even look in my direction while addressing me.

"They took my best friend from me. Then, they took him apart. I didn't sew him together well enough last time. Gonna use chains this time. Then they'll never take the Grimace apart again. And we can go back to the Hamburger Patch where we belong...forever...and ever..."

Clown is out of his mind. Pull out grappling hook. Aim for head. Prepare to fire.

Dark, caped man in large black Andalusian hat attacks me from behind. Drop grappling hook. Man has me in choke-hold. Chomps into ear with large buck-teeth. Whispers "Rubble Rubble!"

The Hamburglar? McDonald working with the Hamburglar? Insanity makes for strange bedfellows. Fought Hamburglar once before. He and partner in crime, Captain Crook, had taken a schoolbus full of McNugget Buddies hostage. Shot Birdie, the busdriver. Dreiberg and I managed to subdue the villains and put them behind bars.

Long time ago. Younger then. Let criminals live. Hamburglar had his chance. Now, he will be put down.

Slam head backward into Hamburglar's jaw, knocking out buck-teeth. Hamburglar stumbles backward, gripping bloody mouth. Grunts "Warghggle Warghggle!" repeatedly. Kick him in ribs. Hamburglar falls over on back. Assumes a position of surrender. Begs for mercy.

Hamburglar is way past his expiration date. Dispose of him like a feces-flavored McFlurry. McDonald is next.

Clown is fast worker. Children have already been doused in purple paint. McDonald is about make the first stitch. No time to think, only to act. See canisters of helium used previously for inflating balloons. Grab one canister and rush towards the clown. Knock him to the ground, knee at his chin. Cries of children pound at my ears. Think fast. Raw instinct.

Hose of cannister goes into his mouth. Hold lips tight with fists. McDonald's body inflates, eyes open wide in realization of impending oblivion, damnation. No time to prepare for the landfill of eternity. He spasms violently, like a fat child walking down the street. His body expands like a dirigible, sinews tearing and vessels popping. His last thoughts perhaps knowing what it feels like to be super-sized. He grimaces hideously.

Grimaces. How ironic.

Explosion. Blood and guts like ketchup and tomatoes and mayonaise splattered from a condiment-filled pinata of filth and depravity.

The children are scarred, but alive. Feel sorry for them. Just kids. Innocent. They begin to cry. Decide to cheer them up before taking them home. We go out for Happy Meals. Kids forget the horrors they witnessed and play with cheap plastic toys. Saunter around unhygenic playpen, defecating themselves as they go down slides, go down slides that their peers just defecated on.

Feels good.

April 14, 2009: Factory Visit

2009-04-14T00:01:00.014-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 14, 2009:

Woke up early to the sound of Dreiberg's ship's engines and the insistent honking of his horn. Put on aftershave, then face. Ready to greet the day and the fat pilot who will take me to this chocolate factory. Bad feeling in stomach, possible hunger due to lack of consumption of nutrients last night. Possible warning of the day to come.

Dreiberg compliments the aftershave. Creates awkward silence for flight. Notice Dreiberg already salivating at thought of candies awaiting at the factory. Disgusting. Again reminds me of Veidt at Village People concert.

Arrive at factory, belching smoke into the air like a drunk trying to belch the alphabet. Dreiberg practically giggling in anticipation. I roll my eyes under my face. Sad how a man who once brought terror into criminals nightly now resembles a girl laughing seductively in a Japanese sex cartoon. So few of us left that are not mockeries of former selves.Await at gate for arrival of our host. Factory does not look inviting. No clue why Dreiberg acting like a teenaged boy on prom night. More than he usually does.

Shocked to find a man stumbling out, pale, shuffling towards us. Wearing a top hat and long purple coat. Must share the same tailor as Veidt. Greets Dreiberg and myself with a hoarse voice. "Welcome oh blessed holders of the golden ticket. Welcome to the magic that is the, uh, chocolate factory." Dreiberg too excited to even speak. I respond with a "Hurm."

We enter through the heavy iron gates. Factory seems more like a prison. Starting a tour, old man singing to us in torturing tones. Sounding more like dying breaths of NANASHACH than a boisterous chocolate maker. Walking done hallway splattered with dried chocolate in random meaningless patterns. Surprised Dreiberg is able to restrain himself from licking the walls.

Walk past another set of iron gates into the fountain room. Man says this is where his chocolate is churned. Evaluate the surroundings and find self extremely unimpressed. This chocolate factory resembles mother's bedroom, with men fighting to be next to sample treats. Dreiberg joins in brawl.

Sinister smirk appears on the face of our host. Dreiberg and other men being forced down the river by chocolaty rapids. Dumbfounded. Then something bizarre, yes even more bizarre than nearly nude men fighting for a drink from a chocolate river, happens. A door opens and orange midgets walk out.

Can hear song over the laughs of cackling madman who claims to be a chocolatier.

"Oompa Loompa oompity dee daddle
They're up chocolate creek without a paddle
Oompa Loompa oompity dee do
But what fate lies ahead for you
What do you get when your face is a blot
Lots of chocolate, actually not
Instead you'll be captured too
Just like the Oompa Loompa oompity dee do"

Feel pity for the midgets, but admire their singing voice. Then realize situation. Old man inprisons midgets. Turn them orange, probably forcefeeds them carrot juice. Good for eyesight, not good for complexion.

Old man seeks to torture us. Turn LOLSCHACH into candy to be consumed by children and fat impotent retired mask adventurers. No, not now. Not ever.

Lunge at old man, attempts to fight back by caning me. LOLSCHACH feeling sugar rush, heh. Impervious to pain. Punch man in face, breaking teeth. Old man gasping for breath as he chokes on sweet tooth. New idea. Pull out a chain, always carry it. Only thing MILFSCHACH left me. Called it Babysitter. Fine memories of nights with chain. TV. Popcorn.

Wrap it around man. Punch him one more time. Give him to midgets to enforce their own punishment.

See midgets pull out a chainsaw, cutting man at knees while chanting, "One of us. One of us." Can't help but smile. Jump in river to save Dreiberg. Will bitch him out later for moronic idea of tour. Veidt's club would have been better.

April 13, 2009: Dreiberg's Kitchen

2009-04-13T00:01:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 13, 2009:

Hungry since Pac-Land excursion. Break into Dreiberg's for beans. Open cabinet. No beans. Remembering phrase Dreiberg repeats, look inside refrigerator. No cool beans. Huge disappointment. Nothing to eat but candy bars. Try one called Mr. Goodbar. Spit it out after two chomps. False advertising. Mixture of peanut butter and chocolate, cannot tell which comes first. No seperation, but intermingling of flavors.

Pick up another candy bar, and unwrap it. Something gold catches my eye. Toss it aside. Hear Dreiberg walk in, complaining about broken lock. Sees me. "Fuuuuuuuck. Really, LOLSCHACH, Really? I thought you would get the hint since I haven't bought beans in months." Look at Dreiberg, has pants unzipped. Point that out. He turns bright shade of red. Reminds me of rouge seen on cheeks of whore walking 76th street.

Dreiberg awkwardly turns around, corrects situation then notices piece of golden paper on floor. Starts jumping up and down, nearly bringing the apartment down on both of our heads. Breaks into song. Disturbed and disgusted as overweight man dances around, "I've got a golden ticket." Alarmed and starting to make my exit only to be stopped.

"LOLSCHACH, you know what this means? We've got the golden ticket. We're going to the factory!" Explain to Dreiberg that I've already been to the retarded children jerky factory. He stares at me dumbfounded.

"Ummmmm, no. Not that factory. THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY!!!!" Dreiberg smiling and dancing, looking like Veidt at a Village People concert.

Suddenly understand why. He's planning another trip. This time to Veidt's nightclub. "No, no, no. It's an actual chocolate factory. The greatest chocolate factory in the world."

Dreiberg spends hours reassuring me this is not Veidt's famous den of sin. Finally convinced. Agree to go along, nothing better to do. Factory visit set for tomorrow morning. 8AM sharp. Must go home. Sleep. Criminals will not feel the wrath of LOLSCHACH tonight.

TO BE CONTINUED....

April 12, 2009: Restroom

2009-04-12T00:01:00.000-05:00

April 11, 2009: Pac-Land

2009-04-11T00:01:00.003-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 11, 2009

Massive increase in ecstasy, acid and prescription drug abusers in neighborhood lately. More pills littering the streets than cigarette butts. Don't like this. Confront nearest pusher. Drag him to second floor of building. Hurl him out of window. Repeat. Seven times. Agrees to tell everything he knows after second toss. The extra five were for fun.

Pills coming from place called "Pac-Land". Subterranean world where pills grow like wheat and are harvested just the same. Mission is clear. Must erradicate Pac-Land.

Follow the pusher's directions. Head down sewer tunnels in total darkness until at last arriving in Pac-Land.

Unusual location. Never ending maze of glowing neon corridors leading no place in particular. Trail of pills dot the ground. How they got there is unknown. Fresh produce such as oranges and cherries float about the winding halls on own power. Relevance of this is uncertain.

Preceding discoveries still not strangest element of Pac-Land. No. Pac-Land appears to be haunted by formless, multicolored spectres. These ghosts roam the mazes aimlessly, taking no notice of LOLSCHACH, the pills, the fruit or anything else. Like psychadelic phantasms from an opium dream. Decide to name them: Blinky, Pinky, Inky and Clyde.

Blinky is favorite.

Mesmerizing tour of Pac-Land comes to screeching hault. A strange, colossal creature rounds the corner ahead of me. Beast is grotesque freak of nature, a tapestry of horror woven from the fevered nightmare's of a madman. Impossible to describe...

Mouth is large. Ravenous. This "Pac-Man" is greedily gobbling every pill it can find. Overdosing. Can tell by vacant, insane look in eyes.

Pac-Man spots me. Opens mouth obscenely wide, spewing froth in every direction. Emits blood-curdling shriek of "WAKU WAKU WAKU!" and charges in my direction.

Turn and run. Pac-Man is big and round and boasts an insatiable appetite. Reminds me of Dreiberg. Will need to use environment to subdue rampaging addict. Unfortunately, environment contains no useful resources. Just an endless trail of pills and fruit.

Suddenly, Blinky turns corner ahead of me and Pac-Man stops dead in tracks. Obviously afraid of ghosts. Tide of battle only turns my way for briefest of moments. Pac-Man runs to corner of maze and picks up large, glowing pill the size of soccer ball. Ingests it.

Do not understand what happens next. Look at self. Flashing blue and white. Feel weak. Feeble. Helpless. Pac-Man charges toward me. Chomps into Blinky with single bite, devouring him. No. Not Blinky. Was my favorite. Attempt to escape, but sudden onset of mysterious fatigue cripples me. Like a juggernaut, Pac-Man plows into me with mouth wide open, not stopping in the slightest. LOLSCHACH is eaten.

All goes black. Suddenly have out of body experience. Am drawn down corridors of maze by some unseen force. Look around, but do not see body. As if I am nothing but disembodied pair of eyeballs.

Heard story once. The blue-god man told it to me. Origin story. Was destroyed in intrinsic field experiment, spent months trying to pull self back together. First, circulatory system. Then eyes. Glowing blue penis next. Know now how that feels. Uncomfortable.

Eventually reach central chamber of maze. Instantly, LOLSCHACH is reconstituted. Eyeballs are returned to body. Took naked blue man months to reconstitute. LOLSCHACH does it in seconds. Amateur.

Hurm. Am I LOLSCHACH? The same LOLSCHACH? Or am I a copy? A clone? A remarkable facsimile, but not the original LOLSCHACH?

Dreiberg fat. Hate Veidt. Beans delicious. Blow-torching delinquents entertaining.

Yes. I am LOLSCHACH.

Leave Pac-Land. Avoid any further encounters with rampaging Pac-Man. Am certain Pac-Man is still within borders of Pac-Land, gorging self on pills. Good. Walk over to primary sewer valve and open it fully. Torrent of sewage rushes into entrance to Pac-Land. In a few hours, all of Pac-Land will be completely submerged in brown, disease-ridden water. Pac-Man will be no more. Pac-Pills will never threaten city again.

Alarming and troubling thought crosses mind.

Was Pac-Man a one of a kind monstrosity? Or could there be a...Ms. Pac-Man?

Question proceeds to keep LOLSCHACH up at night.

April 10, 2009: Springfield

2009-04-10T00:01:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 10, 2009:

Awoken early this morning by heavy panting. Look around and see Dreiberg in my apartment. Instantly awaken, pull on face, sure that he has been masturbating while watching me in my sleep. Consorting with Veidt too much? Anything is possible after horrible April 07 incident.

Lunge at him, "Daniel, what are you doing?" Through heavy breathing he explains that he had just walked up the stairs to greet me. Disturbing how instantly I can turn on only friend.

But then I recall this, and realize that LOLSCHACH has no friends. Just acquaintances. Dreiberg further explains himself. Apparent donut eating festival today, he wishes to participate in eating contest. Not surprised. I agree to go, no plans for the day. Will get my exercise.

Fly in his ship, sleep more after letting guard down. Land at 11:00 AM. Get off ship and walk into fair. Pass man fatter than Dreiberg, looking me over as if I were a smoked turkey leg. "Worst. Costume. Ever." Hurm.

Dreiberg unable to stop me as my fist sinks in man's stomach like quicksand. After feeling apathetic, now looking forward to festival. Pass entrance gates, evaluate my surroundings. Can't help it. Dreiberg asks me if I could just have fun for once. Fun? Having barrels. Heh.

Walk past stoner listening to Satanic rock music, slurring that he's "blotto." Then two older homosexual men. The elder one smells like formaldehyde. Do not wish to investigate further. Pass young brute. Immediately tells me to eat his shorts. Leave him tied up with his shorts stuffed in his mouth to silence him.

This town is full of donuts and delinquents. A feast for Dreiberg and LOLSCHACH.

Dreiberg goes to attempt to fill his bottomless hole with jelly filled donuts, fritters, and chocolate sprinkles. Good. Cannot stop me now. Crack knuckles. Prepare to bring Armageddon to this open pit of hell.

Then approached by small boy with one of his four fingers shoved up his nose.

"My boogers are spicy!"

Hurm. Child clearly retarded. Yet no one makes jerky of him. Perhaps this town is not as immoral as previously thought. Sit down and listen to boy talk while he begins to eat box of crayons.

Hours later, Dreiberg returns to me. His stomach swollen with fried dough and sprinkles smeared over his face. Lost contest. Figures. Dreiberg, impotent even at eating contest. Attempt to make him feel better by punching the winner, instead get strangled. "Why you little .... zebra faced.... I'll teach you to punch....me..."

Ship comes. Breaks up ruckus. Dreiberg quiet on flight home, obviously disappointed in his showing. LOLSCHACH quiet as well. Bruised larynx.

April 09, 2009: 10th Birthday Party

2009-04-09T00:01:00.001-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 09, 2009

Going through old journals. Reread them every so often. Perhaps find statement which meant nothing at time, but will strike me as clue now. Also bored. Simpsons not on until 7.

Find notebook labeled "LOLSCHACH: Year 10". Open it. Floodgates of nostalgia open wide. Swept away in riptide of memories like drunken teen going for midnight swim...

----------------

LOLSCHACH's Journal: July 24, 1979

Turn 10 today. Big day. Very excited. Only two more years and will be same age as Jonny Quest. One year closer to amazing globe-trotting adventures with small dog and turbin-wearing brown person. Future looks promising.

Take bath. Dislike it. Feel water invading crevices and entryways of body. Cannot stop the invading fluid. Surrounding me. Drowning me. If not for rubber ducky, bathtime would be no fun at all.

Go downstairs. Tell mother "Good morning". Mother hurls half empty bottle of scotch at me. Pick up bottle. Drink breakfast. Mother's cooking is incomparable.
Tell Mother it is 10th birthday. She recalls day of my birth. Says large scar on forehead was caused by clothes-hanger in failed abortion. Also says reason LOLSCHACH is so ugly is due to fetus only being half-scrambled by doctor.

Funny. Mother tells best stories.

Go out. Hot summer day. Been saving pennies since January. Will use copper currency to procure ice cream from mobile frozen treat vendor. Walk to street corner and await Good Humor Man. Not here. Will be by sooner or later. Must wait.

Six hours pass. Sun beats down. Must be vigilant. Children ride bicycles past me. One sticks out tongue and razzes in my direction. No. Not on birthday. Not ever.

Leave post at street corner and dash toward child. Sees me coming. Attempts to peddle faster. Can't. Going uphill. Might as well be at stand still. Reach child and shove him off bicycle. Boy is crying. Threatening to tell older brother on me. Coward. Sissy. Stupid head.

Smash face against large nut on side of hydrant. Tell him to stick out tongue. Stuck tongue out at me before. Tongue must be punished. Boy refuses. Continue smashing face against hydrant. No teeth left. Nothing to protect tongue from vengeance of LOLSCHACH, now.

That sound.

Good Humor Man. Passing by street corner. No. Stupid. Preoccupation with insignifigant punk distracted me from initial purpose. Drop sobbing boy in pool of own blood, teeth and tears. Chase after ice cream truck with emptied Miller Lite can full of pennies held high.

Truck does not stop. Disappears over horizon. Ice cream is lost. For today.

Return home, defeated but not disheartened. Only Mother's cooking could salvage this birthday. Mother hurls bottle of schnapps at me. Pick up bottle. Drink dinner.

Despite setback, still enjoyed birthday. No presents. Presents are for greedy, fat, spoiled children. Why be rewarded simply for surviving another year? No. LOLSCHACH needs no presents. Needs no cake. Needs no party hats or streamers.

Knowledge that bully has been met with tooth-smashing justice only gift LOLSCHACH needs.

-------------------

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 9, 2009

Recall 10th birthday well. Last pleasant memory.

Followed childhood dream of becoming Jonny Quest. Eventually became crimefighter and indulged in globe-trotting adventures with fat man, scantilly clad hooker, nude Herculean demigod and possible homosexual.

Not as exciting or fulfilling as in childhood fantasies. Lifetime of disappointment followed. Hurm. Time for Simpsons.

April 08, 2009: Mission City Visit

2009-04-08T08:04:00.000-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: April 8, 2009

Awoke to darkness. Light from window obscured by unseen object. Dreiberg blocking the window? Went outside and found ominous poster was the culprit.

Ehh. Revenge is coming. First suspicions go towards endless list of enemies planning retributive attack. Realize the concept is silly: most of them are dead. No, this is something much worse. Glowing red eyes on page and jagged metal visage only shed hint of light as to who the attacker is. Then it occurs to me.

Summer of 2007. All over the news. Personally went to investigate. No leads at that time. All makes sense now. Spend two hours going around apartment hunting for loose change, run to nearest bus station. Stupid, stupid. Why did it not occur to me sooner? Small letters under poster signed "Bay." Always thought it was clue for possible attack on San Francisco. But San Francisco attack came and went, summer of 1996. Terrorists took over Alcatraz. Threatened biological attack on San Francisco. Foiled by Ghost Rider. Two years later, mysterious posters appeared labelled "Armageddon." Also signed "Bay". World nearly ended. Major cities destroyed to the tune of Aerosmith. Strangely entertaining, yet stupid.

Then May 21, 2001. Day which will live in infamy. "Bay" attacks Pearl Harbor. Countless dollars wasted. Battleships sunk. Tears from realization of hours wasted. Must not be allowed again. Potential alien invasion must be thwarted at all costs.

Took bus to Mission City. Did not want to associate attack of 2007 with possible involvement by Veidt, due to unpleasantness of yesterday's visit. However, high level technology and government involvement is not outside Veidt's grasp. Must seek clues.

Arrive in Mission City. Recall the summer of 2007.

It is July. Mid-day. The sun sets three times in 24 hours. Suddenly, explosions rock the downtown area. Reports of strange, bio-mechanical automatons fighting in the streets. More explosions. Linkin Park music heard everywhere, source unknown. Amidst the chaos, a man tries to buy a refreshing caffeinated beverage from a Mountain Dew machine. The machine turns into a horrific steel shoggoth, its arms the dispensers of aluminum death bullets. Man does the Dew as the beverage punches through his stomach, green fizz mixed with bile and entrails. Chaos. Explosions. The sun sets again. More explosions. Somewhere, a fat boy eating Cheetos laments the deviation from this alien invasion to ones he has seen in his past. Complains of flames painted on a truck. The sun sets.

It is April. The sun screams at me like a sun full of retarded children. There are no Mountain Dew machines to be found. Crewmen are hard at work repairing the damaged buildings, perhaps preparing for the next invasion due this June 24, 2009. Production values seem much higher. The streets resonate with the sound of sweaty fat virgins living in their mothers' basements, protesting the chaotic encore. "Truck not monkey" heard between screams.

A scantily clad girl walks by. The yellow Camaro parked close by squirts motor oil as she passes. "American Woman" blasts forth from its speakers, relevantly punctuating the awkward situation. Curious, car has no driver. Modern technology is amazing, scary.

Suddenly, onlookers look down Main Street, up at the sky. A squadron of fighter jets flies directly overhead as a sleek, pink sports car comes towards us from the vanishing point.

Too stunned to speak. Had no idea Veidt owned a transforming robot.

Just then, feel something sneaking up behind me. Turn around, only to face Lovecraftian abomination breathing into my face.

"PUNY HUMAN! THIS SUMMER... TRANSFORM YOUR THIRST! ONLY IN SELECT THEATERS! BLAAAAARRRGH!" it said.

Reverted back to extreme vending machine, leaving LOLSCHACH alone. Difficult to contemplate strange message. Attempt to decipher complexities of transforming creatures is beyond LOLSCHACH's field of expertise.

Only knowledge of aliens is the illegal type. Must return home to catch a few, send them back to home planet of Mexico.

April 07, 2009: Veidt's "Boys" Folder

2009-04-07T22:28:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 07, 2009.

Veidt. Possible homosexual. Must investigate further.

Have been investigating further since 1987. Twenty-two years. Unable to attain irrefutable evidence. Frustrating. Disheartening. No matter. Will determine nature of Veidt's sexual orientation at all costs.

It's sort of a hobby.

March 21 investigation of Veidt's office and computer files turned up potential lead: folder labeled "Boys".

Unfortunate, unexpected case of paralyzing dysentery prevented me from accessing folder at the time. No such ailment, now. Will click on folder, open it and view contents. Expect to at last achieve closure in longest unsolved case in LOLSCHACH's career.

Opening folder...

FILE 01:

...?

FILE 02:

Where...Where did he get that?

FILE 03:

No. Nonononono.

FILE 04:

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

--------------------

Veidt's Diary: April 7, 2009

Dear Diary,

Lolschach should be in my office right about now, looking at that decoy "Boys" folder I left on my computer. I hope the security cameras get a good shot of the look on his face. It'll be sooo worth all the broken windows and furniture.

This ought to keep him off my trail for another couple of decades. Oh Lolschach, you silly goose.

Whoops! Two and a Half Men is back on! Gotta go, Diary. Write to you soon!

XXXOOOXXX

-Veidt

April 06, 2009: Another Nightmare

2009-04-06T16:07:00.002-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 06, 2009:

Another nightmare. Awful. Wouldn't wish it on worst enemies. Moloch. Veidt. Waiter who kicked me out of last restaurant, complaining of body odor.

Starts off in darkness. Sound of a crash landing. Stumble out of ship stunned.

Feel sluggish. Almost useless. Look around. Gather surroundings. Vision blurry. Utter confusion. Can only. Think in. Sentences of. Two words.

Look down and see gut bulging in front of me. Then goggles around my neck. Put them on, see clearly. Even more disturbed.

Go to pond and look in water. Observe reflection to confirm suspicions. No longer LOLSCHACH. Instead... Dreiberg? Suddenly get hungry for hot fudge tacos with side of pie and feel the urge to masturbate.

Then, dark riders on horseback arrive, throw net on me. Captured. More confusion, will it ever end? Haven't been this disturbed since reading uncle's journal. Dragged through forest, bumpy ride. Twigs and pebbles lodged in rolls of fat. Possible squirrel. Tickles. Can't stop thinking about the spicy greasiness of tacos and their tasty, tasty fix-ins.

No. Must focus. Must escape. Attempt to struggle only to be distracted by rumbling stomach and horrible, crooked erection. Dreiberg? Why am I Dreiberg?

Finally my captors arrive at their destination. Released from my bonds. Eyes adjust to the new light source. Shocked by appalling vision before me. No. No. No.

Multiple LOLSCHACHs look at me as if I am some kind of deviant. A strange animal. A chorus of "Hurms" greet me.

Being prodded at with sticks and violated in ways that even Veidt would find uncomfortable. "Fat." "Impotent." "Deviant." "Ehhhh." It's all too much. Why are these people wearing my face? Why can I not see own toes?

Yelling at them, "Give me back my face!" They respond with surprise, apparently at Dreiberg's ability to speak. I claw at them to get it back. "Get your hands off me you damn dirty Dreiberg." Starting to realize this is a dream. Makes no sense. LOLSCHACH would never say that. Famous movie quote is spoken from wrong characters. Charlton Heston rolling in grave.

Remembering ship I arrived in and that Dreiberg has GPS signal in glove. Spend several minutes digging device out of dried concrete of Frito crumbs. Send summons to ship. Comes within seconds. My captors, the impostors look up in amazement. I...Dreiberg looks up and shouts, "Save me." Engines of ship reply with thunderous "YES." LOLSCHACHs still confused. Film parody is collapsing in on itself.

Come back on ship, tacos prepared. Taken back home. Crash land in nation's capital. The crowning achievement of humanity's filth where politicians gather to chuckle about their plundering of good people. Walk up stairs to one of few beacons of hope left only to be confused once again, by something that could only come out of a bad science fiction film.

April 05, 2009: Exhibitionists

2009-04-04T14:39:00.006-05:00

March 15, 1937: Arkham Massachusetts

2009-04-04T07:15:00.000-05:00

From the Notebook of H. P. Lolschach: March 15, 1937

I am not an old man, though I feel as archaic and eon-worn as the eldest pyramid beneath the deepest sands. I have lived what some might term a peculiar life, partly by choice and partly by subconscious urges far beyond my means to control. For you see, my vocation has been that of a "paranormal investigator", as layman society would describe it. Through a combination of my own upper class priviledges and resources, encouraged by my ever-increasing morbid curiosities, I have traveled the length of this world, as well as others, and seen sights that would reduce even the staunchest skeptic to utter, blissful insanity.

I have been to the secret laboratories of Miskatonic University and looked into the eyes of the dead, re-animated to a festering existence caught somewhere between life and the beyond. I have even shaken hands with their creator and tormentor, the late Dr. Herbert West.

I have read the blasphemous grimoires and forbidden texts so often suppressed by fearful, civilized societies. I have peeked into the Necronomicon of the Mad Arab Abdhul Alhazred, digested spells and incantations from Ludwig Prinn's De Vermis Mysteriis, studied the Hyperborean Book of Eibon by candle light and spent many an hour engrossed in Francois-Honore Balfour's Cultes Des Goules.

I have traversed the misty, forboding streets of Innsmouth and observed the locals offering their blood sacrifices to the ghastly Deep Ones, who in turn serve the even ghastlier Dagon.

I have recovered the Church of Starry Wisdom's talisman, the Shining Trapezohedron from its resting place at the bottom of Narragansett Bay. And through it, I have peered into the sunken Cyclopean city of R'lyeh where ever slumbers mighty Cthulhu.

I have journeyed to the lost domain of the Elder Things, frozen for all time in the Antarctic wastelands. I have read of their history and escaped the invisible, hungry jaws of their mysterious Haunter.

In dreams I have befriended the cats of Ulthar, whom no man may kill. I have toured the glorious streets of honored Celephais and dined with King Kuranes. I have descended the spiral stairway within the Tower of Koth and come face to face with the man-eating Gugs which dwell within the Underworld.

I have done many, many things. And now, it seems, I shall do nothing more with my life than end it.

For I have spent a lifetime traversing the forbidden realms where man may never be invited, and in each instance I have narrowly escaped a fate most gruesome. Regrettably, one can only outrun his pursuers for so long and mine, at long last, have caught up with me.

I can hear it, now. A formless, nameless abomination, shambling down the cellar stairs and oozing greasily toward the poorly bolted door behind which I sit, scribbling my final thoughts.

As it draws nearer, I can feel it invade the sanctity of my mind and I can feel my own mind being drawn into it's. I can see through it's eyes, now. So many, many eyes. I can see colours. Indescribale colours far beyond the scope of the human spectrum. I can perceive dimensions incalculable through a plethora of senses no human brain could feign to fathom.

And with that last, somber revelation, I realize that I, myself, am no longer human. I am it. It is me. And if that is the case, then by ridding the world of myself, I should likely succeed in ridding the world of it, as well.

I must now exchange my pencil for the revolver in my coat pocket. Excuse me.

-----------------

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 5, 2009

Mother often told stories of Great Granduncle, H. P. Lolschach. Idolized him in youth. Foolish.

Journals reveal Great Granduncle to be pathetic, simpering coward. Loses all composure at sight of shoggoth or perhaps mi-go. Takes easy way out. Hurm. Disgraceful.

Have spent better part of adult life surrounded by glowing blue penises, overweight men in animal costumes, slutty women with Elektra complexes, and possible homosexuals with Egyptian fetishes.

Great Granduncle had it easy.

April 04, 2009: Jury Duty

2009-04-04T03:48:00.004-05:00

LOLSCHACH’s Journal: April 04, 2009:

Made mistake once back in my youth. Was idealist then. Wasn’t LOLSCHACH. Registered to vote. Stupid. Believed in candidate, reminded me of Truman. Last good president. Horrible blunder. Catch phrases convinced me. Foolish.

Mistake came back to haunt me today. Everyone must pay for sins. Justice must be served. But penalty harsh: Jury Duty.

Stuck in bureaucratic horror for hours. Lawyers in love with sound of their own voice. Judge nods off on bench. Debate over guilt. Evidence laid out. Boy stabs father. The end. Open-shut case.

Not for these fools. No. Must debate intent, motive, etc. Gag.

Eye boy. Nervous grin on face. Obviously counting on beating justice. I imagine him laughing at the verdict and skipping out to kill mother, aunt, uncle, grandpa. Becoming flushed as my anger starts to boil over. Recall Grice, convinced he would beat the rap. In name of justice, hacked him into little piec-- Hurm. Not how it happened. Moloch the Mystic modifying my memory perhaps?

Confused. Lost train of thought.

Judge informs us that verdict must be unanimous. Go back into jury room. Take early vote. 11-1. Guilty. Lone hold out, idealist. Number 8. Soon realize this man is fool, won’t change his mind.

Think back to boy , how he will cheat justice. Must not be allowed.

Come up with plan. All the while, 8 gains votes. Prides himself on his ability to redefine the case. Hate him.

Men shout for hours. I just think of the shouting the boy will be doing in hours. Begging for the mercy his father did not receive. Hurm.

Votes end. Others conform to 8. I play along.

Boy will get a visit from justice later. Justice with the face of LOLSCHACH.

April 03, 2009: Team Up

2009-04-03T08:25:00.007-05:00

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: April 3, 2009

Spent hours sitting at the Cowabunga Diner, eavesdropping on a conversation from the Bun Heads. New gang in town, have been investigating them for weeks. Believe them to be responsible for setting a dolphin on fire and kidnapping one last week at city aquarium.

1st hours start with conversation about female mammary glands, then proceed to Nintendo Wii. Do not recognize name, but apparently is responsible for most of the Bun Heads' training. Probably Japanese sensei, training the gang in the deadly arts. Must remember for future reference. More talk about mammary glands, then "roast beef curtains" and fish tacos. High fives follow. Do not understand. Gang speaks in secret code, insider phrases. Perhaps has ties to local market district. Must inquire at Happy Harry's.

Then details of conversation take turn for the worst: words spoken that would make a PETA member cram Q-Tips in ears to drown out horrific babble. Member says to gang that conversation has inspired him to go home so that he can "spank the monkey." Other says that conversation entices him to "choke the chicken." Animal abuse is of no concern to me. Then leader says he will go home and "flog the dolphin." Heard enough. Time for action.

No dolphins will die today. Not on my watch.

Pay for coffee, $1.99. Had nothing but pennies. Waitress raises eyebrows at me, shakes head in displeasure. No tip for her.

Bun Heads take side alley off of 5th Street, a dark corridor of vermin and vomit, a labyrinth for normal people who encounter a minotaur of crime and ruined lives at the end of their dark passage. Only LOLSCHACH has the resolution to pass this way. Only LOLSCHACH can be Theseus. Plan to take shortcut, surprise attack from the rooftop. Cargo net of 150 bricks will end their torture of adorable marine life.

View action from rooftop. Alleyway is a valley of death. Rope is in hand, a tightly winded fist balancing life and the opposite of life. Body is cold, awaiting the pulse that comes from swift, brick-y justice.

Man suddenly appears from behind a dumpster. Looks like Hot Topic employee. Black trench coat, skull t-shirt, combat boots. Doesn't smile. Steven Seagal, perhaps. What does he want? Says words to the Bun Heads and suddenly all Hell breaks loose. Bun Heads scatter, take guns out and start firing. Man with skull t-shirt reaches into trench coat, draws out automatic weapons and begins firing. Think I hear techno music playing, observe things going in slow motion.

No time to consider ridiculousness of situation. 8 of the Bun Heads go down, 3 remain. I drop the load of bricks onto the one closest to me. Makes beautiful splash of scarlet on dirty concrete, a scream like the dull thud of a hooker in a sleeping bag being slammed against an oak tree. The man with the skull takes time to reload. The other 2 rush him. I drop down like a crazy, disgusting masked man from a rooftop. He will need some help.

One is taken by surprised, mouth open in fear. Punch swiftly, knuckles meeting what used to be teeth, clattering on concrete like Tic Tacs and ketchup strewn across the alley floor. Moans something unintelligible, like alley of retarded children. Break his sternum with my knee.

Skull-man takes out magnum. Head of other thug explodes like watermelon with dynamite inside.

Realization hits me. Have seen this man before. Ex-marine, lost wife and children during picnic in park. Food poisoning, perhaps. Swore vengeance on all criminals, goes on endless killing spree of the unjust. Lives in sewer, drives motorcycle, starred in low budget movies. Uses skills to hunt the wicked. Make them pay. Punish them.

Meet my two friends: Smith and Wesson.

Name escapes me. Captain Punishment? No. Punish-Man? Plausible.

"You're Laugh Shack," he says. "I've heard of you."

"Hurm," I say. "Bun Heads dead. Will not recover lost dolphin. Will be beaten, choked maybe."

"The dolphin was found alive in the aquarium 4 hours ago," he answers. "Swam to another part of the aquarium. Didn't come back till today."

"Why go after Bun Heads, then?" Curious.

"Gun runners. Drug traffickers. Held up nine 7-Elevens last week," he replies.

Did not know that.

He walks away. Feel no need to follow. Thought team up was decent.

There will be no dolphins flogged today.

July 24, 1989: Atlanta, Georgia

2009-04-02T08:20:00.004-05:00

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.

April 02, 2009: Veidt's Music

2009-04-01T19:34:00.005-05:00

LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 02, 2009:

Returned from Chocovania. Battle with monsters. Fun stuff. Wears one out. Normal person would rest, eat Cheetos in front of television blaring Abercrombie models attempting to sing, pleasure self, call it a night. LOLSCHACH not a normal person.

The wind howled through the empty streets begging me to join it. Could not resist. Make rounds. Happy Harry's deserted. Rumor that I'm back in town perhaps? Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly -- no, must stop. Sounding like sadistic pederast. Hurm.

Then recall last visit to Veidt's. Pissed him off. Liked that. I will go to the world's smartest man's apartment and confirm once and for all his homosexuality.

See Veidt has replaced all windows since last visit. If I ever smiled, I would now. Smash through one, satisfied by the crash of glass. Sounds like symphony to ears.

Adjust to surroundings. Veidt rearranged. No doubt did interior decorating himself. Look through new bookshelf. See CD collection. Start investigating. Ricky Martin. Melissa Etheridge. k.d. lang. George Michael. NSYNC. Then something horrible.

Queen?

Queen. Ehhh. Odd. Other CDs would confirm suspicions of Veidt. But Queen?

Remember old days. Riding in Owl Ship with Dreiberg. "We Will Rock You" blaring through speakers. Knocking around Moloch. Good times. Dreiberg always played "We Are The Champions" on return flight. Sometimes Dreiberg played "Fat Bottomed Girls". Hated that. Ironic Dreiberg would like song with "fat" in title.

Should not be surprised. Remember time when Veidt tagged along. Played "Flash Gordon" theme song at high volume. Sang along. Dreiberg had to restrain me from dropping him from altitude of 15,000 feet.

This new development brings doubt into Veidt theory. Anyone who likes Queen cannot possibly be homosexual.

Fire grapple gun through new skylight. Glass shatters down onto carpet. Like soft rain on the city's rooftops. Exit Veidt's. Go home. Put on Greatest Hits. Will rock me.