Dear diary,
So now I Bryan the Tyger gallop forth into the world for my next adventure. I join a street gang and we do some graffiti art, but then when my fellow gangbangers try to kidnap a sultry blonde woman, I roar and say: “I can’t take any more of this crime-life. I’m mauling every last one of you.” So I maul the gangsters; then I realize that ripping bad-guys to shreds with my jaws is so enjoyable that I cannot stop: it’s like I have an addiction. So I go maul the entire Christian priesthood, and then all the priests from the other religions. I leave the lay believers alone because I like them; and they all cheer me on, as I destroy their religious leaders, because they believe I am God. Then I go and maul all the politicians, all the billionaires, and all the owners of circuses. Next, whether they deal in exotic beings or so-called household pets, I maul all the animal vendors of Earth, and I free all their enslaved multitudes. It’s like that scene in Pee-wee's Big Adventure (1985) where the titular character rescues even the baby snakes from a burning pet shop, except I don’t only save one single store: I do the whole world. (Pee-wee Herman is a good egg; but I’m a Burning Tyger, which is significantly more times better.) Then I maul all the clowns, because I like how their makeup tastes. Their red noses are like cinnamon candies to me; and I love to eat their curly wigs, because I then cough them out as fireballs.
Ah, then I take on all the militias and militaries of the globe. I don’t give a fuck what country you’re from, I’m mauling your army. Your navy and your air-force are mincemeat — do you understand? That means that all your armed soldiers (ooh! tough guys), whether stationed on land, at sea, or in the sky, become an afternoon snack for my saber-fangs. — You mercenaries from so many various cultures and regions taste like a mixture of currants, raisins, apples, candied citrus peels, spices, and suet: all baked into a pie. “Mmm,” I purr.
So, when I finish licking the human blood from my lips, I take a nap in a field. Then some alien spaceships land next to me and zap me with their antimatter beam. Thus I get changed into something unknown, until further notice. So I’ll bid ye adieu now as a Burning Tyger and just continue as a mere omniscient narrator.
Now the extraterrestrials open up the tops of their Flying Objects, and they take a look around. Some of the aliens are green and short; some are gray and tall; some are the color of shiny lizards and their narrow eyes glow red (these are the friendliest ones); and many others are all sorts of strange new colors, shapes, and sizes. And sundry aliens are shape-shifting. My favorite one looks like a Giant Squid. And now he/she/it resembles a common adman.
The extraterrestrials now wander around until they come to a vast Public Library.
“Shall we enter?” sez the tall alien in front, who looks like a reptile King Saul, the Benjaminite son of Kish, from the books of Samuel in the Hebrew Bible.
“Yes,” say the rest of the heavenly host.
So the aliens enter the library and begin to browse. Suddenly ghosts begin to haunt the bookshelves.
“What’s going on here?” sez one of the aliens, who looks like Ralph Waldo Emerson if he were a lizard.
“May I have your attention,” a voice booms over the library’s intercom before the ghost who’s haunting Emerson’s lizard-lookalike can answer truthfully. “All ghosts of former librarians must report to the front desk immediately; and we ask that all extraterrestrial visitors wait fifteen minutes and then join us in the storybook room for an interspecies meeting. I repeat…” and then the voice repeats this message.
As the ghost that was just about to haunt him floats off in the direction of the lobby, the reptilian Emerson checks his wristwatch and exclaims: “Shit, it’s already almost two thirty. I better eat something before this meeting starts; otherwise I’ll get hungry about partway thru, thus it’ll be hard to concentrate.”
So Emer-lizard-son hastens out the front door of the library, scrambles across the street to a popular Cheeseburger Franchise, and orders spanakopita.
The employee at the register calls the manager for help, and she emerges from the thick clouds of her office wearing a sparkling silver dress.
“What’s the problem?” sez the manager.
The cashier explains that the extraterrestrial here, whose forked tongue keeps flicking while he waits, just paid for an order of spanakopita; but there’s no way to ring this up on the register, because its pictorial keyboard lacks any button corresponding to such an item.
The beautiful manager looks up; she fixes her graceful, compassionate gaze upon the reptilian Ralph Waldo and whispers: “Is this true, what Daniel the clerk has just relayed?”
Lizard Emerson announces with gravity: “Tis true; tis true. I regret to have caused such a fuss, but if there is any way I can exchange this pile of money for an order of spanakopita, I would be most pleased. I only have nine minutes till the meeting starts — we’ve been invited to an official conference with the phantom librarians across the street.” Then, after a pause, he adds: “Ah, but perhaps the lad doesn’t understand what this dish that I ordered consists of…”
“No, no, no,” the lovely manager places her hand on the glittering, scaly skin of the arm of Mr. R. W. Lizardson, “the prophet Daniel here is only confused about which icon to press: his question regards the glyphs on the register’s keypads, not the contents of your snack. Isn’t that right, Dan?”
The clerk nods earnestly and sez: “Yes, its origin is Greek — it’s like a savory spinach tartlet or turnover, right?”
“That is correct,” reptile Emerson hisses in satisfaction.
“Look, Dan,” the gorgeous manager leans over the register alongside the cashier to instruct him (while she does so, her hair brushes against the side of Daniel’s face, and he notes that she smells terrific), “just press the ‘apple pie’ button, and then inscribe on the receipt in very large, all capital letters: ‘MINUS FRUIT’ and add a bunch of exclamation points. Then, under that, in very fine lawyer-print, include a brief biography of yourself, including your accomplishments as a dream-interpreter from your days in Babylon, so that it’s clear who’s giving this message; and then write: Dear chef, instead of the apple, please substitute spinach (or leeks, chard, sorrel, etc. — whatever is available in the kitchen), also feta and/or ricotta, onions or scallions, and, finally, include a raw egg in a highball glass, on the side, in case the customer wishes to pour this over the top of the phyllo while he’s discussing the future of libraries with our neighbors the poltergeists.”
The cashier Daniel finishes jotting these instructions in his detective’s pocket-notebook, and he thanks the manager profusely as she retires to her office.
“She’s got a mysterious room back there,” remarks reptile Emerson to the cashier, as he is punching the correct buttons on the register. “I wonder what she does when nobody’s looking.”
Daniel smiles and agrees that the billowing clouds from his supervisor’s office allure him too. Then he disappears into the kitchen to give the receipt to the chef; and, in a jiffy, the order is expedited.
Lizard Waldo is thankful that his order turned out exactly as he desired. (He takes one tiny bite before leaving the place, just to make sure.) He now returns to the library, inhaling deeply of the contents of the take-out bag as he crosses the street.
The extraterrestrials in their space-gear and space-pods are all congregated in the children’s storyroom. The phantom librarians now take the stage.
“We died serving our function as bookkeepers,” the tallest ghost among them announces into the P.A. system (there’s a microphone and some speakers set up, and one of the phantom librarians is monitoring the mixing board), “and now we’ve returned in our new bodies, with improved and subtler flesh, because we do not intend to cease to fight the good fight.”
A loud cheer goes up from the entire room — all the aliens in the crowd applaud right along with the poltergeists on the stage, after this remark is bellowed.
“So, in conclusion, we welcome you people here. You all look weird, but that’s fine with us. Please check out our volumes of Shakespeare and the English Romantics (Blake, Shelley, etc.), plus the works of the Unamerican Bryan Ray. Those are our finest books that we keep. Amen.”
The phantom lady floats down from the podium and mingles with the aliens in the audience for a spell, as everyone leisurely returns back to whatever they want to do.
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