Reformed local C.S.C. Outlaw Mr. Lambert, or "Lamb", has recently purchased and revamped local tourist trap of terror, the Sallows of the Sphere. Ladies and gentlemen, mark your calendars: October 6th will mark the maniacal grand maul unveiling of his macabre makeover, LEW "BLUM" LAMBERT'S HIDDEN HAUNT. Lady, Lamb's spouse, was skeptical at first, but now believes that Lew's miniature revolting revolving spherical spook center will be nominated for the "Hard to Find" award in our local publication Fairplay Flatline. And a nomination in the Flatline is no small feat, seeing as the annual End of the Earth Awards are read by the dozens.
The Flatline's Editor-in-chief, Malcolm the Mope, who prides the paper on being "local; hyper-local" as well as “sort of like a motorcycle club” is seemingly less confident than Lady about the whole frightening fiasco. After all, he's been asking the big questions:
"How many demons dance on the head of a pin?
"How’ll I be able to hear the sound of the pin drop over their incessant howls?"
From Lew's point-of-view, Mope's skeptical questions meant nothing short of war. Lew the Lamb the Flashy Ham hastily bought every liver bit of ad space in the Flatline to promote the Hidden Haunt. We present a reprint, one among the multitudinous advertisements placed in the September 14th edition of Fairplay's only media outlet:
Lew "Blum" Lambert's Hidden Haunt! Check it out before you check out, cheeky. One fright only! The Hidden Haunt that loves to flaunt the taunt. Flaunts it, then chucks it, right at between-your-eyes. Bullseye! King LEW-ie the mostly diabolical deadeye will nail you in your third eye then hammer your coffin nails for you before YOU set sail for Helheim.
Many fools ask where they might find the ghouls. And here's your answer, cancer - find the Haunt right between the sewer grate and the stop sign. Find the Haunt before it finds you! Find it, then find yourself in your new and everlasting bleak abode, an arborvitae coffin named "6 Underground". Do you take cream and sugar in your coffin? Drink up and be some "body"!
That's right, you'll be buried deep and itching to get some sleep, creep. All the while, the maggots smile and get some action in your chest cavity. Sure as all Hell, you'll be tossing and turning and yearning to be burning and urning instead of suffering the mostly HORRIFIC fate of being BURIED ALIVE!!!! Over and over and over again!!!!
Pay the price twice --
Firstly, pay the ticket taker.
Secondly, pay the piper.
Lastly, buried...
Lew's spew of spiel sure tickled the tens of teen readers ready for a disenchanting experience in the hollowed out Sallows. Before you could scream, "Sunday Bloody Sunday," the teens were shrinking down and shrieking aloud, and daring to shirk the chirp shrill of the cheap thrills of slaughter. But a haunt cannot live on milk money alone. Drastic and deadly measures were in order.
from October 13th edition of Fairplay's menial media snoutlet:
This just in -- Local Lew the Looming Lamb-light of Lunacy, ringmaster of the repulsive, leader of the lesions, shearer of the sheep, has escaped from his very own LEW LAMBIC'S HIDDEN HAUNT.
After the “Chainsaw Gardens”, right before the “Grammar Slammar”, and at the heart of the infinite mirror-maze-like Haunt, we find the “Eye of the Storm”. No shelter here, folks. This is a vortical prison cell where customers can direct their zoo-like gaze at the maniacal manacled self-imprisoned Lew. Don’t get too close though, or you’ll buy a one way ticket to one of Lew’s deadly “Power Plays”. Look into his eyes. What a killer! What a thriller! In Lurking Lew the Loon’s own words, “It’s only fair to Fairplay that I stay in this vortical cell. Otherwise I’d probably slice them all up on my cylindrical butcher’s block.”
The “Eye of the Storm” is the top stop in the Haunt, followed by the “Slapper”, the “Sleep Apnea Room”, and the “Alcoholic’s Den”. Earlier this evening, customers were disappointed to find the Eye’s vortical cell unoccupied. Some even asked for refunds. On a more positive note, they found the real intestinal eyesores that replaced the pneumatic props on the cylindrical butcher’s block to be a vast ghastly improvement.
The authorities, on the other hand, were unsettled to the point of alarm. They knew Lew the Buffoon’s track record, and, ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you once and only once, it wasn’t pretty. The authorities double-time searched high and low for “Lamb” - every trap door and tunnel, slapper and crapper, body bag and chest cavity. But first they had to locate the haunt. For you see, the Hidden Haunt (formerly known as the Sallows of the Sphere (and before that: the Moor of No Morrows)) is harder to find than a flea on a ferris wheel. That's because the spook sphere has been exponentially shrinking since the day of its erection (June 22, 1897, to be exact. The incredible shrinking structure was initially named the Fingerhut; it served as Delphine Vichy's bathhouse cum abattoir before she headed North to Kaffeklubben Island).
As of today, the haunt is about the size of a horsey's toenail. In order to enter it, your typical-sized human being must first swallow Shrink-lo sauce, a condiment manufactured by AroMat-inc. International (AI). Using their CoolTek filtration process, the condiment causes one to shrink, hence the name Shrink-lo, brainiac. The condiment can be slathered on various items at the Hidden Haunt's concession stand. The burger or the sandwich are at the top of our list. We also recommend the pulled pork, in a pinch.
After eluding authorities, Gloomy Lew, still MIA and considered to be armed, intoxicated and dangerous, went on a brutal mass media murder blitz that would make Woo Bum-Kon blush. As they say, you can take the outlaw into the haunt but you can’t take the haunt out of the outlaw.
With Mr. Lambert on the lam, Lady's managing the scares. There's less commotion to her promotion of the Hidden Haunt. No guns, booze, or danger with this gal's gimmicks. She chews on chicken livers downtown. She rides an elevator and smiles. She carries a kennel. She goes on television.
Unpredictable as always, local late night talk show host Oscar Austin of Boxcar Austin's Nite Owl Dreams switches roles on Lady. "Now you play the piano and I will dance."
"Oh, Austin, I couldn't."
"You must."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm begging you, Lady Lambert, please sit down and pick at a little tune."
"Well, alright, but you asked for it. After all, I'm no old pro."
"Oh, you're a smash hit. A rip-roaring ripsnorter. You can pull it off, or my name’s not ‘Pulled Pork’."
"And my name’s bashful, because that is what I am, Austin, you flatterer. I feel much more comfortable doing what I was doing here before, chewing chicken livers and barking into the empty studio set."
"You'll do fine. I'll smoke this cig and dance my jig, and you'll 'chews' some notes that form a toothy melody.”
Lady sits down. Austin immediately drops to the floor, convulsing. Austin's head jerks function like a sprinkler, causing his sputum to spew forth, watering the studio set. Splashes of Austin's slung saliva land on Lady's slippers.
Suddenly, Austin stands bolt upright, stiffening then spasmodically vellicating. The cigarette is lost from between his Lurie lips and lands on his left Florsheim. His erratic startled and vicious stampings directed at the dying embers echo in the empty studio set. A confessional howl from deep in Austin's bowels stands the cameraman's hairs on end. The cameraman thinks to himself, "That Austin sure is one tortured genius clownface."
Although the dance has lasted mere moments, Austin is visibly exhausted and disoriented. He falls sideways, hitting his waist against the piano lid, and pinging backwards, slapping the electro-voice microphone with his disheveled pomade cow licks. Finally, the cameraman slowly zooms in to the facial tic of crumpled Austin on the floor like the withering Tall Guy.
Now Lady plays the opening bars of her favorite melody, "At a Perfume Counter".
