Posted: Wed Jul 27, 2005 5:14 am
blargh makes a good bad guy because of his english accent.
I call this "Offensive Garbage" because it is.
He pushed the cart along the narrow passage between the shelves. The weight of all books pressed hard on the wheels, causing them to squeak and wail like a prisoner being tortured. The librarian glanced down the way and saw a man sitting in an armchair reading a large, leather bound book. He vaguely recognised the man’s garb as that of an Islamic priest, or whatever they were called. Well, whatever, he thought, as long as he reads quietly and doesn’t make a mess, I could care less who he is.
He grabbed the next book in line. Let’s see, he thought. 297.122 K84a, read the small label stuck onto the spine of the book. His eyes scanned the shelves, seeking the appropriate place to put the book. He saw the empty space where the book had been on the top shelf at the end of the row, right next to the quietly reading Muslim. He hefted the tome, a moderately fat book with no dust jacket. This was odd given that it still appeared to be in its original binding. Oh well. He shoved the book onto the shelf, but he had to stretch too far to reach the top shelf and he clumsily dropped the book. The volumes next to where he was trying to put it also tumbled down to the floor.
Dang, he thought, I’ll have to put those back in order now. He reached down to pick up the first book, which had fallen with its front cover facing up, allowing him to read the title. He froze in mid-crouch. It was the Koran. His eyes frantically twitched to the other four or five books. The Holy Koran. The Qur’an. The Quran. Le Coran. He had just desecrated several copies of the Muslim holy book by dropping them on the floor.
He very slowly looked up at the Arab cleric who had been quietly reading. He saw that the Muslim had also been looking at the fallen books and was now staring directly at the librarian, with eyes full of personal jihad.
Their gazes met. Their eyes locked.
Without ever taking his eyes off of the Arab, the librarian slowly reached for a fat thesaurus from his book cart. He saw the Arab’s hands gently moved towards a large, curvy scimitar that he had been wearing sheathed on his back. They were both halfway to their weapons when a nearby patron snapped a book shut. It was like the bell at the beginning of a boxing match or the trumpet fanfare before a cavalry charge. It was on.
The Arab had his sword out and ready before the librarian could blink and was swinging it at him wildly. The librarian skilfully dodged the first few slashes and then flung the heavy thesaurus at the Arab. He followed it up with volume one of a history of Ancient Greece and a guidebook to Istanbul. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction this caused in the priest, he darted away as fast as he could. Moments later, he heard the resonating bellow of the Arab’s battle horn. He cursed at himself. Now, every mujahedeen in the area knew he had to be killed.
He flung himself down the stairs, taking the steps five, six at a time and flat out ran for the door. There was no time to push it open and fight against the stiff springs. He protected his face with his forearms and smashed through a window, landing in the grass outside in a roll. He staggered onto his knees and looked around. He frowned slightly. Things were going from bad to worse.
The lawn was a square blocked on one side by the windowed wall he had just exited through and on three other sides by heavily armed Muslim warriors, some brandishing swords like that of the cleric from above, some with AK-47s.
He stared at them. They stared at him. He slowly stood up. The priest, having apparently recovered from the thesaurus to the head, burst onto a balcony above. Everyone looked up at him. He yelled something dramatic in Islamic and everyone looked at the librarian again. A few of the warriors cocked their assault rifles or swished their swords menacingly.
The librarian decided this was a problem. He’d lost count of how many enemies were in front of him right now. There was one of him and he didn’t have any conveniently heavy books to use. Alright. He’d have to do this the old fashioned way. He recalled the lessons he’d received from his master in book-fu. What to do when you were in this much trouble and had so little on your side. He gave himself a tiny nod.
He dropped into a battle stance and waited. After a few seconds, the opposing horde came at him. He weaved and twisted to avoid the bullets and gradually started running faster and faster towards his enemies. Just as he arrived before a phalanx of scimitar brandishing Arabs, he leapt into the air and sailed over the mass of mujahedeens. He hit the ground running and sped away from the pack.
He dashed through the parking lot and into the street. He saw a bicycle locked to a nearby signpost. He tore the lock off and hopped onto the bicycle, pedaling madly to escape his attackers. All around him, he heard more battle horns echoing. Damn it, it was citywide now. He had no choice but to leave the city. Maybe he could come back when things had cooled down�maybe not. But for now, if he wanted to live, he had to run. He turned onto a street that would lead him to the highway.
He glanced behind him and saw a car full of mujahedeens racing towards him. He pedaled harder still. He saw that there was another car behind that one and in the distance… a tank. The stakes had been raised.
A motorcycle pulled up next to him, with one Arab driving and another behind him waving a large sword. They were jockeying for position so that the swordsman could gut the librarian. He reached into his pocket and extracted a penny. He whipped it at the swordsman’s temple, knocking him out instantly. He slumped and fell off of the bike. The librarian dispatched the driver with a well-placed jab to the neck and hopped onto the motorcycle, revving it up to put some distance between him and the pursuing cars and tank.
He was looking for some convenient means of dealing with the vehicles chasing him when he saw an overpass in the distance. A trio of Muslims were hastily setting up a mortar position. The librarian smiled. Perfect. He saw the mortar operators zeroing in on him. He stood up in the seat of his motorcycle and reached out with his hands. He heard the distinctive puff and whistle of the mortar being fired. He waited carefully and then suddenly clapped his hands together before flinging the mortar round he’d just caught at one of the cars chasing him. It exploded on impact, turning the car into a flaming wreck and sending it spinning at the second car, which was also destroyed.
Now just a tank to deal with. This would be more difficult. Mortar wouldn’t do so much against that armoured beast, and they weren’t likely to give him another shell to play with after the last one. He hopped back into a sitting position and made a hard left turn.
The tank stayed right on him. He wasn’t surprised, but he was pleased. The street he had turned onto was much narrower than the previous one. Now if he remembered correctly, in just two more blocks, there should be an even narrower street… yes. He roared into it, tank hot on his heels. The big machine gun on the armoured vehicle opened up and he had to weave left and right to avoid its devastating fire. Just a bit longer, he thought. If they could just stay on him for a few more moments…
Yes! He dashed into the narrow alley between the heavy concrete buildings, barely big enough for his motorcycle. It was too late for the tank driver to stop. The huge vehicle smashed into the two buildings and exploded. The librarian rocketed out of the other end of the alley and onto the freeway. Nobody seemed to be chasing him. He’d survived, for today. He revved up the bike until it roared and sped into the distance.
