Chapter 12
Dean voiced everyone's thoughts when he put a hand on Jimi's neck, and said, "You know, Jimi, I don't think we're in South Dakota anymore..."
It was, as Crowley had indicated, the Library not just from Hell, but of Hell. They pushed through the doors, the hinges creaking and groaning like the axles of a mediaeval siege engine.
The ceilings were striped with ever-so-slightly-strobing fluorescent tubes that rendered all areas either too bright or too dim for comfortable reading, and guaranteed a headache for anyone who battled on for more than a few minutes. A large pasteboard notice on an easel spelled out, in painstaking copperplate, the fines for overdue books.
FINES FOR LATE RETURNS:
5 – 60 seconds: one week in the Lower Circle
1 – 5 minutes: two weeks in the Lower Circle
5 – 60 minutes: three weeks in the Lower Circle
1 – 24 hours: hanging, drawing, quartering
1 – 7 days: dangling, dragging, eighthing
1 – 2 weeks: a fortnight as a Library Monitor
More than 2 weeks: You Are Invited To Discuss Your Atrocious Manners With The Senior Librarian
"Holy crap," whispered Dean, keeping Jimi close, "You weren't kidding..."
They walked under an intricate arch of metalwork, with lettering proclaiming that READING WILL MAKE YOU FREE, into the main area of the library.
It was, as Crowley had said, all about perceptions.
A large wrought iron frame hung from the ceiling by massive, cobweb-encrusted, corrosion-etched chains, which might have been at home anchoring an aircraft carrier. Within the frame, which swung and creaked slightly in some unseen current of air, was fastened a large sign, entitled RULES OF THE LIBRARY.
Crowley read the sign, and saw:
NO TALKING. NO EATING. NO DRINKING.
NO BOY WILL BE EXCUSED TO THE REFECTORY UNTIL ALL PREP IS COMPLETED.
ATTENDANCE AT LATIN CLASS BEFORE BREAKFAST IS COMPULSORY.
Bobby read the sign, and saw:
NO TALKING. NO EATING. NO DRINKING.
NO READING OF ANY BOOKS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
Sam read the sign, and saw:
NO TALKING. NO EATING. NO DRINKING. NO REASONING. NO DEDUCTION.
NO USE OF THE CATALOGUE.
NONE OF THE ITEMS IN THIS LIBRARY ARE SHELVED ACCORDING TO ANY SORT OF LOGICAL SYSTEM ANYWAY.
WE NAILED THE CATALOGUE DRAWERS SHUT TOO.
Dean read the sign, and saw:
NO TALKING. NO EATING. NO DRINKING.
NO MAKING OF ANNOYING NOISES. NO SNIGGERING.
NO ATTEMPTING TO VIEW STAFF MEMBERS' UNDERGARMENTS.
NO PASSING OF NOTES.
NO PASSING OF GAS.
NO NAPPING.
NO VANDALISING THE DESKS. NO VANDALISING THE BOOKS.
NO READING OF COMICS.
NO LEERING.
NO MASTURBATION.
NO FONDLING OF MEMBERS OF THE OPPOSITE SEX.
NO MAKING OUT.
NO REMOVAL OF UNDERWEAR.
NO FORNINCATING.
THESE ALL APPLY TO YOU, DEAN WINCHESTER, EVEN THOUGH YOU THINK THAT RULES ARE STUPID. I SWEAR, MY BOY, I WILL HIT IT WITH A RULER.
All of them read the same warning at the bottom of the sign:
BREACHES OF LIBRARY RULES WILL RESULT IN THE CULPRIT BEING INVITED TO EXPLAIN HIS OR HER ATROCIOUS MANNERS TO THE SENIOR LIBRARIAN.
"Wow," said Sam, swallowing, "Wow, that's... harsh."
"I did say," grumped Crowley, in a decidedly 'I Told You So' tone.
"So, where do we start?" asked Sam, "If we can't even use the catalogue..."
"What?" asked Bobby, confused.
"It says up there," Sam pointed to the Rules, "No using the catalogue."
Bobby squinted up at the sign. "That might be what it says to you," he griped, "I'm not even allowed to read the books."
"I get the feeling I'm not even wanted here," muttered Dean, "Even if I keep all my clothes on."
Sam approached one of the shelves that disappeared into a distorted-perspective distance, and pulled out a dusty tome. " 'One Slavering Daeva, Two Slavering Daeva, Red Slavering Daeva, Blue Slavering Daeva'," he read, looking bewildered.
"This must be the Imps' Literature section," suggested Crowley.
Bobby pulled out a book, reasoning that as long as he didn't open it he was safe. " 'The Little Rack That Could'," he read. "And here's 'The Tail Of Peter Rabbit'. By Dominatrix Potter."
" 'Charlotte's Web Of Lies And Betrayal'," Sam found, moving along the shelf. " 'The Very Hungry Werewolf'," he announced, pulling the large book out. "Oh, look, this one has pictures," he went on, "As the very hungry werewolf eats holes through the butcher, the teacher, the policeman, the doctor, the vicar..."
" 'Goodnight, Blood-Red Portentous Moon'," Bobby read. " 'Where The Wild Things Tear Souls Into Teeny Little Pieces'." He squinted at the next one. " 'Winnie The Mutant Black Bear'. 'Now We Are Sick'. 'Massacre In The Hundred Acre Wood'."
"Thomas The Strappado Engine'," Dean identified another series, and picked out a book. " 'Thomas the Strappado Engine lived in the Big Dungeon with his friends'," he read, " ' There was Mavis the Iron Maiden, and Gordon the Rack, James the Head Crusher, and Thomas's best friend, Percy the Choke-Pear. They all worked for the Fat Inquisitor. One day, the Fat Inquisitor came hurrying into the dungeon. 'Thomas!' he said, consulting his watch, 'The heretics are running behind schedule! We must get more confessions, and quickly!' " He shut the book, looking slightly green. "I guess it's more interesting than 'See Spot Run', but I can't see it winning any prizes."
"This looks to be more appropriate to fiends," mused Crowley, a couple of shelves along. " 'Tomorrow When The Apocalypse Began', 'Anne Of Gangrene Gables', 'The Famous Five Go Raping And Pillaging,' ah, and here's 'Sunset', hmmmm, now this series is really something," he looked thoughtful, pulling the book from the shelves. "It's a bit creepy, really, there are some very senior she-demons who are obsessed with this, they call themselves Sunset Ladies..."
"You gotta be kidding me," asserted Dean, grabbing at the book to read the back cover. " 'Della Swoon moves to a new town with her father, where she meets the mysterious Edmond, and the charismatic Jason. They tear her to pieces during one of their frequent outbursts of orgiastic depravity, and bathe in her disgusting human blood while pleasuring each other with their wide selection of'..." he dropped the book as if it had bitten him. "Bobby," he moaned, "Bobby, I really, really need a ginger cookie, like, NOW..."
"I had these run past Thomas Bowdler and his sister Harriet, and shipped off to some unsuspecting author Topside," Crowley grinned happily. "It lost a bit in translation, but it's working better than I could ever have anticipated. The stench of so many young brains rotting while still inside their owners' skulls is perfume to my jaded nose."
Sam stared at Crowley. "You really do have touches of evil genius," he stated flatly.
" 'Alimentary Adventures With Entrails', by Martha Stew-it," read Bobby. "Sounds like we've hit cook books."
"Or anatomy," mused Sam.
"It could still be an imps' book," Dean pointed out, "You know, Entrails the Hellhound grows up and learns to rip out peoples' guts then goes home for a nap."
It turned out to be a travelogue written by a witch-turned-demon who had very strange tastes in holiday destinations, landscape renditions and visual arts media.
Using Dean's talent for spotting patterns, Sam's height, Bobby's talent with languages, Crowley's scotch and a steady supply of ginger cookies, they tried to get some sense of where to look for what they were after, spreading out as much as they could while remaining within earshot of each other.
"Anything that might remotely be relevant," Sam muttered to himself, huffing as he put 'A Dictionary Of Offensive Onomatopoeia' back, "Pet care, training, See Gnasher Run, anything!" He scowled at the shelf. "There's nothing! No sense at all to the arrangement of this stuff. Anybody else having any luck?" he raised his voice.
"Yeah," replied Crowley, "I'm the one with the booze. Cheers, fellas."
Sam rounded a shelf, to find Dean sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading intently. "You found something, bro?" he asked.
Eyes alight with astonishment, Dean raised the book so that Sam could read the title on the cover. The Joy of Socks.
Sam gulped. "Dean," he began slowly, "Dean, tell me that you've found a book about... learning to knit."
Dean slowly turned the book around, craning his neck. "I will tell you," he answered slowly, "That there are some very interesting diagrams about how to tie the ends off so it looks neat."
"Oh, God," Sam swayed on his feet, "Bobby, I need a cookie! Bobby!" There was no answer. "Bobby?" called Sam more uncertainly. Bobby was conspicuous by his absence.
"Where did he go?" asked Crowley in a slightly panicked voice, hearing Sam call.
"I don't know!" Sam peered down several aisles. "Bobby!" He threw his hands up. "He was just one shelf along from me, and now he's gone!"
"This is not good, this is so not good," muttered Dean, putting down his book, "We have to find him, right now."
Crowley nodded vigorously. "For one thing," he pointed out, "Bobby has the ginger snaps. Bobby," he called, wandering along the ends of the shelves, "Bobby, where are you, not funny, Bobby, scaring people here, darling..." they scoured the immediate area, but Bobby and Janis were gone.
"Jimi will find him," asserted Dean, calling the dog close. "Bobby, J-Man," he said, "Find Bobby! Bobby! Where's Bobby? Find Bobby! Find Bobby, J-Man! He's got the cookies, dude!"
Jimi swung his head from side to side, scenting the air, casting for a trail to follow. He turned around a couple of times, sniffing, then dropped his muzzle to the floor, and began to follow his nose...
Picking up speed, he trotted briskly along a couple of shelves, then turned into a main aisle. A large arrowed sign on the wall read:
SENIOR LIBRARIAN - - - - - -►
"Oh, no," Crowley breathed, "No, no, oh, this is terrible! He's headed straight for her! We have to get to him first! Bobby! Bobby! Hang on, Bobby!" he cried, scuttling after Jimi, "Hang on! Be brave, love, we're coming to save you!"
Exchanging a look that was part concern, part bewilderment and part eye-roll, the Winchesters followed.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Perspective, visual or intellectual, can be a funny thing.
Artists expend a lot of effort learning about it (unless you're really just interested in putting sharks in tanks of formaldehyde or turning urinals into fountains, then the whole draw-the-railway-tracks-disappearing-into-the-vanishing-point is redundant, and you're actually just a pretentious wanker who's fooled a lot of fatuous idiots into believing that you are somehow a creative genius). Teenagers are notoriously deficient in it. Spoiled third-class celebrities who are not famous for any sensible reason and who cry long, loud and very publicly about being held to account for their own actions because, like, jail is just SO not for them, have none whatsoever. Politicians can also be sadly lacking in perspective, but they have people to tell the public that this is not the case, and anyway it's probably damned difficult to see anything clearly with your head that far up your own arse so maybe we should be a bit more understanding of our elected representatives. Or not. Not is fine.
There's probably no such thing as having too much perspective, but having a lot of it at once can be decidedly uncomfortable. Ask a parent with a new baby. Or somebody with a serious illness. Or a triage physician. Or a sapper trying to clear a road of IEDs. Or the cop who held some guy's head together after he was shot, until the ambulance arrived. Or a woman who's had to fly somewhere for work, and has gone into that bonsai toilet facility in the plane, which is always really brightly lit, to the point where it's feasible that they actually put runway landing lights around the mirror, and as she washes her hands, she notices that she actually has a jet-black hair like pig bristle more than an inch long growing out of the side of her face and she's never seen it before and JUMPING JESUS ON A FUCKING POGO STICK how long have I been walking around with that HAWSER hanging off my face? Months? Years? And why the hell didn't anybody SAY ANYTHING? And most importantly, is there a pair of tweezers anywhere on this plane?
The brain has ways of protecting itself from too much perspective, visual or intellectual, because that sort of clarity can do serious damage to your sanity. Which is probably why Dean, Sam and Crowley saw different things as they scoped out the large desk from the safety of the shelves.
The desk itself messed with visual perspective the way that a three-year-old will do, drawing Mommy and Daddy bigger than the house, and the flowers bigger again. (Unless we're dealing with some prodigy who's making a scathing indictment of the runaway speculation in the property market, with a row of Triffids representing Big Finance and the dog kennel representing all that ordinary people can afford, in which case, it might be lucrative to buy them a My First Pickled Shark Kit and get them on X-Factor.) From a distance, it looked to be the size of a bus, and the figure sitting behind it seemed to be too large to sit at it, but as they warily made their way closer, the distant scene resolved into something that a brain born human can cope with a bit more readily.
Behind the large edifice of ancient oak sat a female figure. And that's where visual and intellectual perspective started to go a bit pickled shark around the edges, if not actually being flushed down the urinal fountain.
Sam saw Miss Hennessey, an elderly lady who'd been ready to retire from her teaching job years before he came into her Elementary School class; one afternoon, in a fit of tidiness, she'd declared his shaggy hair an abomination unto Good Grooming, and had chased him around the classroom with a pair of scissors...
Dean saw Mrs Woodruff. She'd been their neighbour when he was eleven, and Dad had asked her to check on them, because Sammy was sick. He'd found a magazine in a dumpster when he took the trash out, with pictures of ladies with no clothes... he hadn't heard Mrs Woodruff let herself into their cruddy apartment, and she had shrieked at him like a harpy and grabbed him by the ear and dragged him next door into her cruddy apartment that smelled like cat pee, and she'd given him a good spray of horrible lavender water because she said he stunk of perversion and she spanked him with the rolled up magazine and told him over and over what a horrible, nasty, dirty, dirty, DIRTY little boy he was and how he was going to make it fall off if he played with it...
Crowley saw Sister Josephus, overseer of the younger classes, she who ruled over scripture lessons with an iron fist, and once reduced herself to exhaustion whilst explaining the numinous mystery of the Heavenly Father's nature to him. She did this by caning him repeatedly, shouting "God! Is! Love!", one word with each stroke, until the cane split...
But all of them could make out the same figure on the other side of the desk.
It was Bobby.
Reviews are the Amusingly Offensive Onomatopoeia in the Silent Reading Room of Life!
Now, as soon as you've done your review, anyone who read 'Monkey Business' should go IMMEDIATELY to Bartlebead's LJ page, to look at some FANART! A couple of kindred spirits share a moment of intellectual superiority over a nice banana...
http COLONSLASHSLASH rince1windDOT livejournalDOT com
It's the entry for 21 November.
Ook!