April 22, 2009: Redecorating

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 15, 2009: Clowns

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.

March 22, 2009: Albert's Abattoir

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: March 22, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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





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

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

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

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

Have seen enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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