June 17, 2009: Traffic Problem

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.

May 13, 2009: Royalties

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

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.

April 24, 2009: Vicious Cabaret

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

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

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.

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 11, 2009: Pac-Land

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 08, 2009: Mission City Visit

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.

July 24, 1989: Atlanta, Georgia

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.

March 29, 2009: Crossing the Street

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 20, 2009: Bar Brawl

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: March 20, 2009

Rough night in Gotham City. Rougher night at Happy Harry's.

Insider tip mentioned illegal business being conducted at Happy Harry's bar. Two broken legs later, business specified to be banned combat sport. Had to investigate.

Prepared for anything. Every night dangerous, this may be most dangerous of all. Bar patrons are ants from the seedy hive of the city, whose queen ant is crime.

Pornographers. Addicts. Whores. Hippies. Clowns. All have had their path crossed by LOLSCHACH at point in time. All have potential vendetta.

It starts with mule-kick to door. Deer in the headlights. Cigarettes drop from fearful mouths. Money-for-pleasure talks freeze in time. Clearing of throats, choking on saliva and beer. Can see it in their eyes: brains begin to cognate alibis, lies. Wheels are turning, hamsters are dead.

Walk to the back of the bar, approach Harry. Behind me, door swings shut. Then opens again.

Heard a joke once. Difficult to retell. Will try.

A black, a Mexican, and a Chinese man walk into a bar.

Snapped the Chinaman's spine in half. Black and Mexican whimper unidentifiable phrases, defecate like undomesticated children.

Crying.

Funny joke. Everybody laughs.

Harry tells me to head to back of bar, behind alcohol shelf. Please, don't kill anyone, he says. Ha ha. Funny. Always funny when he says it.

Enter barely lit chamber, the smell of sweat and testosterone permeate the air like locker room full of athletic hobos whose diet consists of booze and garbage. Screams of men watching sick form of gladiatorial combat.

What I see next disturbs me. Loss of words.

Crustaceans used for the wagers of violent men. Violent sea creatures, murderers of mollusks, blood as cold and as dark and murky as the briny deep that spawned them.

Born from dark oblivion, butter-knife fighting till return to darker oblivion. Ehhh.

Fifteen minutes pass. Twelve twisted arms, two broken bottles through ribs, five men going to the emergency room. Money litters the floor as survival instincts make men take flight. Benjamin Franklin, dead presidents unimportant at moment.

Take lobsters to local animal shelter. Know they will find good home for them.

Good deed for the day.

March 16, 2009: School Musical

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: March 16, 2009

Auditions for annual school musical today. Determined to land leading role. Practicing all week.

Step into auditorium. The nauseating odor of hair gel and Axe Body Spray nearly incapacitates me. Writhing, chattering blobs of yuppy larva purchase such quantities of luxury products with their daddy's money, then proceed to use them so liberally. Meanwhile, an old man dies alone and cold on the street. The cost of one pre-faded retro Ninja Turtles t-shirt from Hot Topic could have bought him food for a week. Hurm.

Step up to the stage. Drama treacher, Mr. Chernagle, eyes me. Eyes start at chin, then unmentionables. See the look on his face and realize the part is lost. "Drama teacher". Synonym for "child molester". Wants a boy who'll sit quietly on his casting couch, clutching his manhood in their mouth while he dries their tears with promises of roles to come. No interest in me: hopes for lead role die along with his insustainable protuberance.

Sing heartwrenching version of "Carmen". Chernagle stops me halfway through and tells me to leave.

Did not get the part. As suspected, part goes to Brent Springwood.

Brent. Captain of the varsity football team. Lead contender for valedictorian. Senior yearbook's pick for "Most Popular". Mr. Perfect.

The whores rush upon him like a torrent of cheap perfume and plunging necklines showcasing breasts of eight year-old boys. Serenade him with medley of dull praise. Brent looks at me, completely alone. Flashes me sparkling, shit-eating grin that probably got him that red convertible from daddy.

Enough.

Right hook my way through the pile of pre-legal hookers and seize Brent by the collar, slamming him against wall. Two hundred and six bones in the human body. Could break them all three times over before the police pull out of the donut shop.

People screaming. See Chernagle leaping from his seat and rushing for the exit. I unsheath my grappling hook, take aim. Hook catches him in the buttocks and I reel him in. Catch a glimpse in his eyes an instant before his consciousness fades. Look of pleasure. Sick little man. Enjoyed every minute of it. Slam my boot down on his jaw. Slam it down four times. Five. Lose count. His pleasure will cost him a year's salary in dentistry bills.

The police arrive. Fail to notice them until they're upon me. Stupid. It takes four police officers to subdue me. They drag me out into the parking lot. See my reflection in the window of the back door.

Mid thirties. Not even in high school. What am I doing here? Who the Hell is "Brent"? "Chernagle"?

I leave the police in a pile of groaning, career-ending injuries and return home.

Find my medication still sitting on the kitchen table.

Forgot to take it. Again.

March 16, 2009: Coffee Shop

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: March 16, 2009

Paid visit to local coffee shop.

Ordered black, plain. No milk. No mixing of colors to create an undecided, diluted, caffeinated abomination savored by beatniks and hippies. Just black. Or white. Cannot have both.

Was offered Swedish coffee and French coffee -- but not American coffee.

Veidt's latest flavor lines the shelves: "Mocha Millennium". Declined. Generic coffee made from the hands of slave labor, slave labor manipulated by the hands of drug lords, drug lords unsatisfied with their stranglehold over potheads and delinquents and enticed by the warm, savory scent of cold, hard cash.

Manager comes by, shows me "Nite Owl Dark Roast." Describes it as low calorie, organic, bold, dark, robust blend. Ironic. Doesn't fit Dreiberg at all: dumpy, artificial, cowardly, pale, bloated. Perhaps better this way, that the two do not taste the same.



Waitress asks me what I want. Had nose ring. Low-cut shirt revealed navel piercing. Thought about the way prostitutes adorn themselves with jewelry, embrace gaudy, revealing fashions, to attract customers. Remember the days when prostitutes sold love, not overpriced, pretentious, liquid stimulants. Why are so few baristas left active, healthy, and without personality disorders?

Left.

Miss old days. Fresh coffee. Newspapers. Men with pipes. Women with aprons.

No "Mocha Millennium". No coffee pretending to taste like Dreiberg. No prostitutes pushing flavor of the month.

This city needs new brew.

March 12, 2009: Comic Book Store

LOLSCHACH'S JOURNAL: March 12, 2009:

Follow-up on investigation into Watchmen figures. Went among the scum to squeeze them. Informed of possible sighting at local comic store.

Broke in back door. Lock too easy. Did not wish to face the filth of barely clothed smirking Japanese girls plastered on the walls. Pedophiles finding comfort with the thought they can find love in drawings of underage girls in short skirts. No. Wrong. Perverted. And wrong. Love? There is no love. Not in this world. Just selfish rats crawling over each other for the next piece of cheese. Love is nothing but an illusion for the vermin.



Searched and found the face of black and white staring back at me. No grey. No mixing. Beautiful. Grabbed it before a fat slob with a grease stained t-shirt came back. Flipping through his pornography of a comic book with chocolate covered fingers. Deviant.

Dropped the object. The human boil soiled himself while made an example of. Left as a warning to all the perverts and pornographers that I would return if necessary.

Until then, obtained what was needed.