October 21, 2009: The Mouse Must Die

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.

June 28, 2009: Ghost Game

May 25, 2009: Nightmare

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 21, 2009: Cake

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.

May 19, 2009: The Roaster

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 12, 2009: Hospital Visit

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 08, 2009: Basketball

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.

January 27, 1960: Green Cubes and Beans

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.

April 21, 2009: Knight Fowl Profile

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.

April 19, 2009: Dreiberg Visit

April 16, 2009: Yiffcon '09

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 14, 2009: Factory Visit

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

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 10, 2009: Springfield

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 06, 2009: Another Nightmare

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.

March 30, 2009: Chocovania

LOLSCHACH's Journal: March 30, 2009

Follow-up on General Mills case.

Got lift from Dreiberg to the darkest regions of fabled Chocovania. Dreiberg initially resistent. Sang different tune at sound of "chocolate". Hurm. Why is it that the largest men have the smallest amount of willpower?

Dropped me off at front gates of Coco Castle.

Coco Castle. The twisted resting place of the undead menace superstitious villagers call Count Chocula. Have come prepared. Brought chocopire hunting kit. Kit filled with holy water, garlic, wooden stakes, communion wafers, silver crucifixes and-

Damn. Grabbed vampire hunting kit by mistake. These weapons are useless against a chocopire.

Luckily, brought emergency reserves. Marshmallows and graham crackers in coat pockets. Dreiberg ate most of them, but managed to retain a handful.

With inventory checked, I move toward the castle's entrance; a great toothy maw, like that of a howling wolf. As I tread over the rotten planks of the lowered drawbridge, can hear the squirming and squishing sounds of unspeakable creatures oozing from the moat below. Can glimpse slimey, green tentacles stretching out from the pitch darkness. Like something from Japanese cartoon, except no elementary school girls to be deflowered.

Take first steps into Coco Castle. With speed most unexpected, drawbridge rises behind me, sealing me inside. Hear faint laughter echoing from the bowels of the dank fortress. Chocula was expecting me.

Adversary wastes no time in dispatching minions to deal with me. Two figures, abominations unto nature, shamble forth from the corridoors ahead of me.

One is a dusty, ancient corpse wrapped in bright, multi-colored bandages. Was once the consort of a great Pharoah, until fell from his liege's favor and was mummified alive. Now a moaning, hobbling creature of darkness forced to bend to the whims of a new master.

Yummy Mummy.



The second of Chocula's henchmen is more intimidating than the last. A hulking beast with slavering jaws lined with teeth like rusty nails. Coated in dark fur matted with blood and filth. Clad in colorful overalls which leave little to the imagination. Stories say he was once a guard dog named Chip, who guarded a cookie depository from burglars. Went rabid. Mauled the employees to death. Was put down. Came back from the grave as a lumbering canine monstrosity whose hunger for cookies eclipsed only by hunger for human flesh.

Fruit Brute.


Came to castle prepared only for battle with chocopire. Had not anticipated doing battle with such colorful, fruity foes. Stupid.

Being the quicker of the two, Fruit Brute makes first move. Lunges at me, leaving trail of slobber glistening in the moonlight. Too fast. Fruit Brute seizes me by the neck and with one arm, drives me straight through rotten planks of raised drawbridge. Gasping for air now. Glance beneath dangling feet. Pit of unspeakable, writhing creatures directly below me.

Perfect.

Reach toward LOLSCHACH-shaped hole in drawbridge and snap off chunk of splintered wood. With single motion, drive jagged shiv directly into Fruit Brute's left eye. Behemoth releases my neck. Tumble toward pit. Grab onto bottom of hole in drawbridge. Fruit Brute still yelping in pain. Reach up and grab the wolf by his overall strap. Fruit Brute already off balance. One good tug sends him reeling over the edge and into the moat of tentacled nightmares below.

Climb over sharp, splintering hole and back into castle. No time for rest. Yummy Mummy already waiting for me. Pink-clad Egyptian zombie grabs me by coat collar and, effortlessly, hurls me from the floor to a height of twenty feet. Can feel myself slam against a large chandelier and, in less than a second, slam even harder against the solid, unforgiving stone floor.

Dazed. In pain. Room spinning. Yummy Mummy is slow, but in current condition, might as well be faster than a speeding bullet.

The shambler is already upon me. Stumble back, narrowly avoiding another swipe of his dusty, bandaged mit. Tumble backward and into wall. Nowhere to go. Slowly but surely, Yummy Mummy closes gap between us. Distracted by sharp pain in back. Hit that chandalier hard.

Of course.

Look to the left. Nothing. Look to the right. There. Tied to a hook: the rope holding the chandalier above ground. Yummy Mummy is unaware of clever plan. Brain pulled out through nose centuries ago. Fumble with knot of rope. Head swimming. Hard to think straight. Yummy Mummy draws closer.

Got it.

The chandalier drops like a meteorite. Yummy Mummy practically evaporates beneath its crushing weight. Reduced to cloud of dust and tattered bandages.

Lean against wall. Catch breath. Can hardly stand. Sound like bellowing laughter echos from deep within the crypts of the castle.

Job not finished. Must send Count Chocula back to Hell.

Break time over. Time to journey into the labryinthine depths of Coco Castle.


TO BE CONTINUED...

March 27, 2009: Hawaii Visit

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: March 27, 2009

Planned to spend the day catching youths responsible for filming bum fight videos when Dreiberg called. Said that he thought I needed much needed vacation: wanted to take Owlship to Hawaii for weekend of relaxation.

Probably wanted to make amends for awkward situation that occurred on March 23.

Vacation. Luxury for a class of people who don't worry about good and evil, crime and punishment. For LOLSCHACH, no such thing as "time off."

Reminds me of time when Moloch wasn't born-again Christian. Devised strategy to turn super-heroes into toddlers. Complicated, will not elaborate. Veidt seized opportunity, as always, to turn horrific incident into commercial profit by targeting children.

Dreiberg promises plenty of crime to be fought in Hawaii. Hurm. Not so sure.

Owlship is modestly comfortable transport. Dreiberg asks if I want to watch in-flight movie, says Veidt loaned it to him for the weekend. Long flight, he says, 10 hours. Roll film.

In-flight movie makes LOLSCHACH more nauseous than the turbulence of the Owlship. Mary-Sue characters in a celluloid playground for fangirl fantasies.  Cast of film reminds LOLSCHACH of Hot-Topic robbery foiled last week. 

What has become of vampires? LOLSCHACH remembers glory days when vampires were free of nail polish and eyeliner, feared by women, terrors of the night. Bloodsucking monsters, pale faced undead. Now, wear mascara and spend hours looking pretty. Live in girls' fantasies. Abercrombies of the night. Suck on something else, perhaps. 

Slept rest of way. Woke up in Hawaii, on island of Oahu.

Dreary place. Dreiberg lied: no crime, no evil. Sunshine all the time, blue skies. Cursory glance at population reveals asians and whites living in peace and harmony. Hispanics and blacks are endangered species, virtually nonexistant. Plenty of military personnel ensure island's safety from future Japanese bombings. 

Dreiberg decides to go out in Beach Owl costume. Mild climate good for LOLSCHACH, do not have to change clothes. Muscular barbarian with platinum blonde bikini girl points at LOLSCHACH's scarf, laughs. 

Bury the brute in sand, wait for tide to come in. Girl screams, amazed by LOLSCHACH's speed and technique. Still got it.

Hawaiians a friendly people. Walk beach and city for hours, no crime to be found. 4:10 pm: ahobo begins to jaywalk, squats in gutter and defecates. His meal of whisky and rotten sandwiches floats down the gutter, the last remnants of true scum in this town. Keep walking, see inside shops. Only crime is a $8.99 Tiki mug with "Hawaii" carved at its base: underneath, "Made in China" sticker reveals the treachery of the shopowner.

8:00 pm: Attend luau.

Native Hawaiians entice tourists with bountiful buffet showcasing typical Hawaiian fare: Mahi Mahi, crab legs, assorted vegetables, pit-roasted pig, McDonald's Chicken Nuggets, and small coconut squares that act as good laxative. Must remind Dreiberg to buy toilet paper later. 

Man blows on conch shell, signaling the start of the night's entertainment. Women wait in eager anticipation for their male dancers: tall, bronze, 6'1, muscular, broad-shouldered Hawaiian warriors.

Men eagerly await their dancers:  tall, bronze, 6'1, muscular, broad-shouldered Hawaiian warriors. Must remember never to attend another luau sponsored by Veidt International.

10:30 pm: Return to beach, see Dreiberg passed out next to fat girl in Twilight shirt with Mickey Mouse full-bodied towel complete with mouse-ears. Tell Dreiberg Hawaii no fun, nothing to do. Must go back to the city. Dreiberg complies, grudgingly. As Archie lifts off, coconut squares take effect and nature calls. It is a soothing call: the call of filth and depravity and the need for justice, swift and pure like the textured, ultra-absorbent white surface of triple ply toilet paper.

March 23, 2009: Dreiberg Visit

LOLSCHACH's Journal: March 23, 2009:

Caught whispers of possible Knot-Top rally. Looking to start gang riot. Remembered Dreiberg has grudge against Knot-Tops. Cannot recall why.

Considered paying him a visit. Would be interested. Could use the exercise.

Turns my stomach to think what a slob he's become. Imagined him whimpering about old days. Thinking about his life before impotence, soap opera watching, and yo-yo dieting.



Instead walked in only to see him pleasure himself while in Nite Owl uniform. Seen many disturbing things in my time. Mother. Roche case. Halle Berry masked adventurer movie.


But man crying while wearing costume two sizes too small for him commiting sexual deviancy one of the most revolting. Look of shock on his face. Attempted to stammer an excuse.

Dreiberg just another of the delinquents.

Disgusted. Left immediately. So disturbed forgot about Knot-Tops. Purchased Oreos. Went home.



Cookies comforting. Black. White. Creamy center. No mixing. Beautiful.

Yummy.