June 1, 2009: Nightmare

Had a nightmare last night. It happens.

Basically went like this:

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 09, 2009: Nightmare

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: May 09, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

Close enough.

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

No, not him. He appears later.

Yes. HIM.

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

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

Strangely absent from this particular fantasy.

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

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

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 27, 2009: Nightmare

LOLSCHACH's Journal: March 27, 2009

Had nightmare again. Always the same. Vision pursues me like spectral hound across moonlit swamp. Always catches up with me, rending and goring my sanity with dagger-like teeth. Cannot escape.

Every night. Always the same...

Am not LOLSCHACH. Am large, blonde man. Musician. Heavy metal musician. Canadian heavy metal musician. Music is terrible. Footnote in rock 'n' roll history at best. Grotesquely muscular. Doomed to future of horrific obesity. Hurm.

Have rented shack in most desolate wastelands of Toronto. Need privacy to record greatest heavy metal album known to man. Friends are dead. All dead. Killed by poorly designed monsters with rubber complections. Only one left. I sit alone. Awaiting my fate.

Approached by large puppet claiming to be Beelezebub; Satan-himself. Creature mocks me. Flails arms like Kermit the Frog. Declares my imminent demise through stiff jaws incapable of articulating even a single syllable. Dialogue is poorly dubbed over puppet.

"Bub", as I refer to him, summons forth hordes of malevolent followers. Bizarre, phallic Cyclopean abominations shamble forth from darkness, though mostly from beneath tables where puppeteer cannot be seen.

Considerably disappointed with production values of this nightmare.

Rise and meet their threat. Emit blinding, holy light which drives creatures back into the shadows.

The light dims and I am transformed. I am Triton: The Intercessor. An Archangel sent forth by God to smite Bub and his sinister legions of penis-shaped hand puppets.

Remaining monsters flee at sight of rhinestone-studded speedo. Image is horrible. Like something from one of the movies Veidt keeps sending me.

Approach Bub. Declare intent to smite him where he stands. Bub laughs. First assault begins.

Am besieged by numerous flying, man-eating starfish. They are out for blood. Dodge the first wave.

The starfish are many. Too many. Cannot dodge all of them. Eventually, I succumb to their blood-sucking tentacles. Starfish latch onto chest. Feel Heavenly energies fading.

Shall this be the last stand of Triton: The Intercessor?

No.

Destroy the starfish. Attempt to rip them in half. They are made of rubber. Too difficult to rip in half. Decide to just throw them on ground.

With the starfish at last defeated, I lunge toward Bub with chaotic fury. We lock hands in mortal combat, continuing our epic struggle which has been waged for centuries untold.

Struggle for what feels like an eternity. Darkest hour approaches. Tap into reserves and summon forth enough righteous fury to overcome foe.

Bub is bewildered. Large puppet stumbles backward. Arms continue to flail unnaturally and hysterically.

Victory assured, my eyes glow with an all-powerful energy.

Seize Bub by throat. Beat him fiercely, like wild animal. His foam rubber exterior crumbles beneath my knuckles.

Finally, the altercation is concluded. Bub swears vengeance and vanishes in a wild and dazzling explosion of fire and brimstone.

The nightmare ends. LOLSCHACH awakens.

True meaning of nightmare eludes me. Subconscious attempting to convey deep, life-altering message. So cryptic. So complex. Despite best efforts, cannot decipher.

No doubt nightmare will persist, like vulture of Prometheus, gnawing at my liver for all eternity. Hurm.

March 14, 2009: Nightmare

LOLSCHACH'S Journal: March 14, 2009:

Nightmare.

Reoccurring.

Walk into room. Find a whore practicing her craft inside a bath tub. The two become one. A monster, chasing after me. Scurrying about on four legs. Gaping jaws.

Woke up to sharp kick to side. Startled for a moment. Had passed out on the street. Had taken face off. Looked up. Saw six year old girl with blue hair. "That's what you get for being homeless," she screamed. Hurm.

Left bad taste in mouth. Needed fresh air. New environment. Walked inside local mall. Playground of the middle and upper class: a glass and concrete maze providing positive reinforcement to those caught up in the rat race.

And their spawn.

Passed giggling girls painted like whores. No older than fifteen. Passed boys in need of hair cuts, wanting to look like whores. Told one that. He smirked, made inappropriate comment. Didn't like that. Made sure he knew.



Fools. Walk around like deviants their whole life. Born. Start young. Then join the rat race. Just like everyone else.

Everyone but LOLSCHACH.