The Lankville Daily News

By Brian Schropp

I was hot and heavy into a mid-day trash run at the ‘Pizza A-Round.’ The newest round of management (in Scott’s absence) was cracking down on some of our ‘lackadaisical habits’ and four days worth of used pizza goods were heading to the dumpsters. It was turning into a one man job, the new manager needed all other help for the lunch rush and said I was the most expendable. This guy for some reason was really cracking the whip expecting correct addresses on phone orders, correct toppings on pizzas and even following all cleaning procedures to health code standard, EVERY TIME!!! He said that ‘once the ship was righted’ he would look into what I really do here and see how I can fit into ‘the new grand plan’ (whatever that means). Anyways, there I was dragging one over-bulging bag after another across the back parking lot hoping none would rip open causing an even greater mess. The new manager was giving me a time frame on getting this enormous task done (which was very short) PLUS expecting no follow-up clean up. So instead of hitting my normal groove (with my headphones jamming away to 102.9, the ‘kooky’ oldies station), I was sweating bullets making myself overly-anxious.

The heat of the afternoon sun started to feel like the sting of my new boss’s metaphorical whip. I stopped to wipe my brow and took a good hard look at the dumpsters– they were filling up fast. Would there be enough room in them? How would this new guy react if there were still trash bags left in the kitchen? More importantly, would he give me a lunch break after this? Would I still be able to make free food now? I didn’t pack a lunch!! I felt I was about to faint from the heat, hunger, and worry to all these unanswered questions.

Scott’s sister

The screech of tires pulling into the back parking lot brought me back to reality. Once my eyes came back into focus I saw it was Scott’s sister in a bright pink 87′ Neptune! She turned down the volume on the stereo (she was listening to 103.5 ‘The Hammer’). “Hey goofball, Scott needs your help again, get in.” She paused for a moment grabbing something from the backseat. “Put this on, Scott said you would need it.”

Without questioning her, I picked up the adorable pink kitty one piece pajama set (with footies) and put it over my work clothes. It fit like a glove. Opening the car door, I took a look behind me at the open back door of ‘The Round’. I babbled something about making the new manager upset.

“Well Scott is still officially your manager, right? Just let that a-hole know that once you’re back.”

I saw the logic in this and got into the pink Neptune which was already speeding off before my butt hit the seat.

She tapped the glove box with a half-drained whiskey bottle. Inside, I was delighted to find a plastic bottle of strawberry milk from my favorite convenience store. Twisting the cap off, I was about to take a swig when Scott’s sister leaned over to pour some whiskey in making it spill all over my now pink kitty lap. “You’re going to need this once I tell you what’s going on.”

“How crazy is this going to be?”

She took a BIG swig from the bottle before replying. “Pretty damn crazy Bri. Have you ever heard of a place called ‘Clown Hamburgers’?

“That place is real?!!”

The lore of ‘Clown Hamburgers’ is legendary. I thought the place was just a made up urban legend from some school blacktop. Located somewhere on the Western and Southern Lankville border (not far from Highway 71 where real crazy shit happens), this was the place where people who knew they are going to die or just want to die go to have their final meal. Supposedly everything on the menu is so unhealthy that it will help speed up or at times even cause instant death.

It is said the clown idea originated to help the dying have a fun and somewhat joyous final passing but over the years (probably due to being so close to Highway 71) the clowns became more twisted and demonic. I was surely stunned learning this place existed.

“Well we gotta go there because the owner may have information on this bald-headed freak lady Scott is looking for–”

“Lizzie Starlight!!!” I interrupted. I didn’t mean to but I got worked up– I went into the story on how I thought Lizzie was bald from the first time I laid eyes on the woman. Scott’s sister flashed me her version of ‘The Scott Look’ so I took the cue and let her continue.

“Scott and the dude who owns it now, Mack Milford I think is his name, a real sick twisted fuck. Well they go back a long ways, grade school and all that shit. You can say they have a history with each other, some good, most not so good. For whatever reason Mack knows some stuff which will supposedly help my bro but the shit is not willing to give it up so easily. He told Scott the only way he would share this news is if someone he knew came down and endured the ‘Six Foot Special’. This person had to be somewhat close to him but could also either live or die and it wouldn’t matter. Some sick price to pay, huh? Scott said there was no other person alive who could possibly survive that ordeal but you. Scott is in the deep, deep South fighting some cult shit so I am here to take your goofy dumb ass. So, now you know there is a real risk involved, are you up for the challenge?”

​Clown Hamburgers, a place of death

Indeed a very high risk!! This ‘Six Foot Special’ was just as big of a legend as the place itself. A meal so bad, so filled with heart-clogging fat and mysterious preservatives, it could kill you after only a few bites. Did I have a chance of overcoming it? Imagine if I did, I would become legendary myself!! To me, there was only one answer and the answer was YES.

“Good.” Scott’s sister gave a slight smile. “You really didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

With the place being still a few hours away, we had plenty of ‘down time’ in the car. Pretty much after she said her peace, Scott’s sister turned the radio back up and was content drinking her whiskey along with smoking some sort of foul-smelling cigarette. Her flip phone rang incessantly but she ignored it. The scenery of the Northern Lankville super-highways passed by quickly.

After the buzz of my strawberry milk wore off, I turned down the volume for some much- needed small talk. “So, how is Grandma, and your folks?”

“Grandma sends her love.” She paused for a second before cracking up. “Just kidding, she probably doesn’t remember who the fuck you are. Daddy had a few days of acting ‘normal’ then decided he needed to be all crazy again.”

“Is he hiding a cake?”

“No, this time its Ma’s recipe for her ‘Tuna Surprise’. Shit was hitting the fan right when I was leaving but this thing for Bro’ was a more pressing matter.”

There was a long awkward silence before she spoke again. “What the fuck is that smell?”

“Oh, I think it’s my Pizza A-Round clothes.” I went on to explain how I was doing the trash run before she came and how I thought this new interim manager was being unfair about a few things. I think she lost interest quickly because she soon turned 103.5 ‘The Hammer’ back up to full blast. For the sake of my sanity she did produce another strawberry milk and with a nice touch of whiskey I was good again.

As any alcoholic will tell you, with a good buzz on, time flies quickly. Soon enough we were pulling into the parking lot of Clown’s Hamburgers. We were greeted by a pretty creepy clown named Sydney (we would soon learn he was Mack’s ‘main clown’). I will admit, I was pretty taken aback by the large axe he was carrying. Scott’s sister didn’t seem so phased, she turned the radio off and rolled down the window. “I’m Scott’s sister, where the fuck is this Mack douche.”

“Ah!” Sydney gave an evil grin while pointing his axe. “Mr. Milford is expecting you. Just drive around back to his personal residence. And please, have a very merry death!!”

“Go to hell you stupid fuck.”

Pulling around back, we found that his ‘personal residence’ was just a broken down trailer attached to the restaurant. Scott’s sister checked her guns before getting out. “Come on Bri, let’s go show this shithead who’s the boss.” I still had a good buzz on so I was strutting slightly, feeling a little like a ‘bad ass’ even though I was wearing the pink kitty pajamas (which I knew by now was her own personal joke). Sydney was slowly creeping around the corner humming a show tune with the axe over his shoulder. Scott’s sister gave off much the same confidence as her brother so I wasn’t really that afraid.

​Mack Milford and family plus Sydney his ‘main clown’.

Not even knocking, she kicked open the screen door and walked right into the living room. Mack Milford was with his family enjoying a game of wall checkers.

Mack gave a warm smile. “Welcome!! Come on in!”

Scott’s sister was taken aback slightly by the cheerful greeting. “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course!! Sydney and I can communicate telepathically.” He said this like it was no big deal. Sydney came in behind us still humming his show tune. The room was filled with a deep, dark presence. How did I keep ending up in these metaphysical food-related situations?

His kids started tugging on his pant leg. One asked, “Who is that big silly stinky pink kitty?”

“I think that thing is here to try the ‘Six Foot Special’ at Daddy’s restaurant. Do you think the stinky kitty could survive that?”

The kids giggled and shook their heads. Mack turned to his wife. “Get their highchairs ready dear, they will want to see this.”

Scott’s sister was trying to regain her composure. “So we got a deal, right? This goofball eats the special and you spill the beans on the bald chic.”

“How do I know this fool in the outfit is close to Scott anyway?”

“The goofball works for him at the pizza place.”

Mack squinted his eyes “Wait a sec, you’re Brian Schropp, that food writer.”

I nodded my head in pride. My name was really getting out there!!

“I love your stuff.” He turned to look at Sydney. “Guess since we have THE premier cuisine reporter on our hands we will have to double the special plus add some extra cheese and bacon to the mix.”

The main clown dropped the creepy act and became all too human. “Wait a sec—listen Mack– you can’t do that, there’s no way the kid is going to make it!!”

“Oh, I’m serious.” He gave a little wink to his kids. “I’m DEADLY serious!!” Mack and his offspring were getting a good evil giggle out of the comment. “Come on gang, there is no more time to waste!! Let’s head over to the restaurant and get this show on the road!”

Scott’s sister turned to me, shrugged, and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

How, my dear gentle readers, how was I going to make it through this?!! Well, check back for my next thrilling article for all the exciting details (and no, I’m not ‘clowning around’). Until next time my faithful, keep your mouths and minds open to new ideas, Happy Eating!!-Bri

I was giddy with anticipation after receiving the invitation via Electronic “Snappy” Mail. Arnold and Dotty Blake, family acquaintances who lived a few streets over here in the Deep Northern Suburbs, were opening their first restaurant and wanted me to come over to try a few recipes. I was brimming with pride– it was nice to think the Blakes thought highly enough of my ‘advance taste profile’ to want my opinion. My mom, however, was pretty skeptical of the invite. “Why the hell are they opening a restaurant?” she said, looking at the fancy engraved note on the kitchen table. “They have been retired for years.” She then proceeded to yell in the direction of the living room- “Honey, aren’t Arnold and Dotty who live down the street retired?!”

By Brian Schropp

“I think so dear!” my Dad shouted back. He was in his armchair solving the daily ‘Word Jumble’ in the paper.

My Mom was shaking her head. “Doesn’t make sense. I remember the few times we went over there for neighborhood functions that the food was really bad. I think your dad got sick once eating a hamburger.” Again my mom shouted over- “Honey, didn’t you get sick one time eating a hamburger over there?!”

“Yeah, it was pretty raw in the middle, I think I threw up in their grill!” I heard my Dad give a slight curse, he must have messed up on a letter in the jumble.

“I just don’t get it.” It felt like my Mom was trying to solve the mystery of the century. “Dotty stayed at home even though they had no kids, God knows what she did all day. And he was some type of salesman—“Honey, what did Arnold Blake do again?!!”

Arnold and Betty Blake

“He was a salesman for ‘Nuts, Ah!’ Used to sell nuts all over Lankville, that was back when nuts were a big business, now I think all they’ve got is that kiosk in the mall!” I heard my dad turn on the TV, clearly the jumble was tough today and he didn’t want to be disturbed any further.

“What could a former nuts salesman and his more than likely alcoholic housewife possibly offer anybody in the way of food? And why are they asking you to try stuff? Are they just microwaving breakfast sandwiches?”

I tried to tell my mom that maybe she was being a bit too cynical and even though the Blakes might not be the most skilled chefs, an open mind was needed until the food was tried. This led into a little tangent about how I felt that they (my Mom and Dad) didn’t really respect my work at the paper nor realized how others in the community valued my critical look at most food-related things. But after my rant was done, I looked up to find my Mom had left the kitchen and was in the laundry room folding some sheets. She must have realized I was done ‘standing on my soapbox’ “Well if you are going over there I hope you know you are going to wear something halfway decent. Not any of your ‘Pizza A-Round’ garb, I won’t have Dotty talking about us to others.”

So a few days later I was practically skipping out my front door on a cool crisp evening eagerly awaiting the feast ahead. I had had a few days to dream about the possibilities of the culinary delights, putting my creative mind into overload. Knowing my articles and rep as a food writer, they undoubtedly had some dishes which were geared towards my “advance taste profile”. Maybe real cutting edge fancy stuff like my ‘Deep Northern Meat Bits Loaf Topped With Sweet Southern BBQ in a Green and Yellow Butter Sauce’ for example.

I was greeted by Mr. Blake almost as soon as I had turned into his street. It was almost as if he was waiting in the bushes for me. He shook my hand vigorously while guiding me quickly to their house. “Thanks for coming out Bri. We really appreciate you trying this food.” I tried to ask him which articles he and his wife had enjoyed that made them select me for this task. “Oh, you write for the Daily News? That’s great, you will really enjoy this then” all the while walking me with a steady pace and still pumping my hand ebulliently.

I thought that was pretty odd but really didn’t have time to inquire– we were now at the front door where Dotty Blake was waiting with a big smile on her face. “Good to see you Bri, thanks for coming. Did you bring anyone with you?”

“Oh no. Your invite clearly stated I should come alone. So Mrs. Blake, what do you have in store for my taste buds? They are ready to be tickled.”

“Step inside and see.”

I guess I didn’t have a choice, the momentum from my escort sent me straight through the door. Once everyone was in, the door was closed quickly behind. The Blakes lived in a smaller older northern suburban ranch style house, one that has both the living room and kitchen together in the front. I saw the pan on the stove top and quickly went over to investigate, truth be told I hadn’t had a bite to eat for quite a few hours, saving my appetite for this visit. “I’m keeping my mind open to anything,” I said. “In addition to this dish, if you have a breakfast sandwich or two you can microwave as well, my stomach is really growling–”

Advancing to the stove top I was in for a very bitter disappointment, the only contents in the pan were a few ‘southwestern wieners’ on top of some corn. My first thought was to of course keep the thoughts open, maybe the wieners were stuffed with something. I took a bite and then quickly spat it out, the wieners weren’t even cooked!! Nothing is worse my dear readers than putting a cold southwestern wiener in your mouth. I nibbled a bit of the corn which turned out to be your typical (probably from Foodville) canned corn.

I turned around. “What’s going on guys?”

​Fell for the ol’ ‘southwestern wieners’ with corn in a pan trick

Mr. Blake spoke first. “Sorry Bri, the whole opening a restaurant invite was just a ruse to get you over here. We had our orders, there is someone who wanted to talk with you in private.”

“Orders?”

My heart thumped with fear when two men entered from an adjoining room, they wore white robes with pizza slices on them. The Floating Baby Pizza Slice Cult!!!!!!

“Follow me into the rumpus room. The leader of the’ Deep Northern Suburban Sect’ wants to see you.”

I hesitantly followed. How could there be a deep northern sect? How deep did this cult go? And more importantly what horrors could await me in a place called a ‘rumpus room’?

I was made to sit down in a nice comfy armchair (much like my Dad’s). Mr. Blake was grumbling how that was his chair but the cult members told him to be quiet. There was a little ceremony involving candles, a bunch of yelling, interpretive dancing, and pizza slices. Both Arnold and Dotty Blake joined in, so they were definitely in this mad cult. Once this foolishness was done a cult member (with pizza smeared on his face) shouted “All hail The Deep Northern Suburban Sect Leader!”

Then from a back room this person walked out. At first I couldn’t tell who it was– their robe was very fluid, covering the face and body. Was it a man or woman? Could it be Lizzie Starlight (who is really BALD btw)? Slowly advancing, the figure stopped before me and pushed back the long hood. And I shit you not dear readers, it was a Lankville reporter, THE SAME LANKVILLE REPORTER WHO IS ALSO THE HEAD OF THE BSU (Breakfast Sandwich Underground). The ‘sect leader’ stood before me with a sinister grin taking in my dropped jaw. “Startling you again I see.”

I wasn’t sure if the comment was a reference to the time I was brought to the grocery store or just the other day when this person innocently knocked into me in the crowded paper bullpen. “You sure keep yourself busy, with the paper, terrorist attacks, cult stuff–,” I said.

“Shut up, we don’t have time to talk about me.” A real Jekyll and Hyde personality. This reporter, whose articles you read everyday, who you bump into on the streets and have a quick talk and laugh– you would never guess the true insidious nature that boils deep within. “I brought you here to talk about one thing, that manager of yours, Scott–”

“Where is he?!!” I hadn’t heard a word from Scott since the curious note he had left me (see my last two thrilling articles!!).

“Somewhere in Southern Lankville.” The cult leader/dear reporter shook their head. ” We thought he really was a chump but this guy is proving us wrong. He’s hell bent on finding Lizzie Starlight and is tearing through all the’ Southern Baby Pizza Slice Sects’. He’s a one man wrecking crew!! We need to find something to stop him, some kind of weakness. Only a person close to him will have the answer–.”

From one of the long robe sleeves a piece of sparkling glass in the shape of a pizza slice was produced. It was lifted in front of my face slowly where it was waved back and forth. “Now watch the glass and tell me how to stop him!”

I watched the pizza slice swing back and forth and its brilliant glow. After a few moments all I saw was the glowing pizza slice with the soft yet evil laugh of the Floating Baby Pizza Slice in the background. Yet with all this metaphysical trickery it could not compel me to reveal anything about Scott.

I wish I could tell you who this reporter is!!

“Damn must be the bumpkin in him,” my fellow reporter muttered. “Come on Bri, just tell us something-anything. I mean, we put all these scary robes on and everything.” This in a goofy comical tone. much like what you would expect.

“No way, Scott is my friend.” I clutched the sides of the armchair ready for the cult to do their worse. Mr. Blake briefly complained that I was ruining his chair but yet again he was silenced by the cult members.

The reporter’s face turned from comical to evil again (maybe bi-polar?) “I wish we could torture you, slowly grind this information out of your mouth here in this rumpus room. Yet I am forbidden to harm you for reasons which I won’t go into. Just remember this, if you hear from that manager of yours you tell him ‘The Floating Baby Pizza Slice Cult’ will find a way to stop him. Now go—”

“Do you mind if Ms. Blake heats up some of the southwestern wieners and corn? I haven’t had anything to eat since early afternoon and don’t know if I have the strength to get home.”

“JUST GO!!!”

Once safely back at the house I alerted The Pizza Cult Division of what had happened. Racing over there, they found the Blake’s house empty. The force (along with my folks) were pretty doubtful about my story until one officer pulled out the stove and found one of the wieners lurking in the space behind.

I will not reveal who the reporter was for two reasons- first and foremost the safety of my family. Second, even if I told the Pizza Cult Division who the person was I doubt they would believe me. I swear it would blow your mind!!

So with a heavy heart I can not give you the food review I was hoping for. I sure hope this cult business is cleared up soon and things can get somewhat back to ‘normal’. Until next time my gentle readers, please keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas. Happy Eating!!-Bri