“…Smithsonian J. Ip Man Mexico Danger Merriweather, Ph.D, DDS, MLS, HLIC!” cut through the pain, nausea, and shame that followed a good Billypunch and I retook my senses to this sound.

The lysergic librarian? The guardian of the sacred and profane; generic and sui generis? Why was he looming above me dressed like Hercules Poirot? (In fact, he was just Hercules Poirot because I’ve never seen a photo of NW.)

He was barely five feet, but at least seven feet wide: not a speck of fat. He was like a hedge made out of muscle.

The man next to him was tall and reedy, smelled like syrup. Canadian, my sweet dick! Spider-man is British, and  so is Superman; our president’s from Kenya, and our damn band is in the be-mittened hands. Soaked with beaver blood, those hands are! Back in the good old days,  Bobby got some Canadian money in change and he totally lost it, and shrieked “The Parallax! We’re through the Brane now!” He took off running; they found Bobby the next morning sleeping in a culvert like a confused angel.

The Boys weren’t xenophobic, they just hated and feared foreigners. Things change.

“My name is David Le–

And all of a sudden, there was this massive roar, the sound of the sea and the sky meeting and clashing and being big together. WHOOOOSH and his lips kept moving, but I could make nothing out.

“We kidnapped you and then stuck a rubber fist in your–”

The sound of seagulls rushed about, filling every corner of my ears and again i could hear nothing.

What? I said, after a fashion. I must admit, enthusiasts: I was toying with my captors now.


From the next aisle of shelves came the sound of a homeless man who had snuck in and was now loudly molesting himself.

Maybe you could get miked a little better, I said.

Kidnapped by Big Dead!

To be further continued…