The Lorac

At the far end of town where the Pepe-Grass grows and the wind smells slow-and-dank when it blows and no birds ever sing: O-ooooooooooAAAAE-A-A-I-A-U-
JO-oooooooooooo AAE-O-A-A-U-U-A-
E-eee-ee-eee AAAAE-A-E-I-E-A- JO-ooo-oo-oo-oo EEEEO-A-AAA-AAAA

excepting old crows... is the Smemet of the Lifted Lorac.

And deep in the Pepe-Grass, some people say, if you look deep enough you can still see, today, where the Lorac once stood just as long as it could before somebody lifted the Lorac away. What was the Lorac? And why was it there? And why was it quickscoped and taken somewhere from the far end of town where the Pepe-Grass grows? Keemstar still lives here. Ask him. He knows.

You won't see Keemstar. Don't knock at his door. He stays in his Fortress on top of his store. He lurks in his Fortress, cold under the roof, where he makes his own clothes out of miff-muffered moof. And on special dank midnights in August, he peeks out of the shutters and sometimes he speaks and tells how the Lorac was lifted away. He'll tell you, perhaps... if you're willing to pay. On the end of a rope he lets down a tin pail and you have to toss in shrek and satan and the shell of great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather snail.

Then he pulls up the pail, makes a most careful count to see if you've paid him the proper amount. Then he hides what you paid him away in his Snuvv, his secret strange hole in his memetastic glove. Then he grunts, "yo pass the aux cord" so you pass it up. Up goes the aux cord, up to his ear, and the old Keemstar's whispers are not very clear, since they have to come down through a snergelly hose, and he sounds as if he had Barry Bee Benson up his nose.

"Now I'll tell you,"he says, with his teeth sounding gray, "how the Lorac got lifted and taken away... It all started way back... such a long, long time back... Way back in the days when the Pepe-Grass was still green and the pond was still wet and the clouds were still clean, and the song of the dat bois rang out in space... one morning, I came to this glorious place.

And I first saw the memes! The Dank memes! The bright-colored tufts of the Dank memes! Mile after mile in the fresh morning breeze. And, under the memes, I saw Rare Pepes frisking about in their Rare Pepe suits as they played in the shade and ate the Dank weed.

From the rippulous pond came the comfortable sound of the Sanic humming while splashing around. But those memes! Those memes! Those Dank memes! All my life I'd been searching for memes such as these. The touch of their tufts was much softer than silk. And they had the sweet smell of fresh Mountain Dew.

I felt a great leaping of joy in my heart. I knew just what I'd do! I unloaded my cart. In no time at all, I had built a small shop. Then I chopped down a Dank meme with one chop. And with great skillful skill and with great speedy sanic speed, I took the soft tuft, and I knitted a Memeed! The instant I'd finished, I heard a "YEAH BOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!" I looked. I saw something pop out of the stump of the meme I'd chopped down.

It was sort of a man. Describe him?... That's hard. I don't know if I can. He was shortish. And oldish. And brownish. And mossy. And when he spoke, his voice was sharpish and bossy. He took a great breath, and then he said...

"According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway, because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh! Black and yellow! Let's shake it up a little." he said with a sawdusty sneeze, "I am the Lorac. I speak for the memes. I speak for the memes, for the memes have no tongues. And I'm asking you, sir, at the top if my lungs"- he was very upset as he shouted and puffed- "What are you doing in my swamp?"