Part 3...
‘Slut!’
‘Cuntrag!’
Titus excused himself then, carrying the Dictionary and the Map, all he seemed to retain, towards the nearest stairway. Halfway there he caught a sudden flash and a thunderous rumble as behind him the Librarians attempted to exterminate one another. Oh well. He started the long climb up. The architecture didn’t play any games with him this time; the stairway led up, and only up, more or less directly to the ground floor. Only one obstacle still stood between Titus and the door: the Chief Librarian.
Jacques Derrida.
Or a cunning wooden replica, at least.
‘I command that you twist my titties and call me Susan,’ the wooden Derrida declared.
‘This is just silly,’ Titus exclaimed. And with that he walked out.
Titus arrived home to find Josef wrestling with thick, stout lengths of wood in the parlour.
‘How was your day, dear?’ Titus asked.
‘FÜRB delivered,’ he grunted. ‘And yours?’
‘Deeply unpleasant. But it passed the time. Something like a liquorice enema on a Sunday in February.’
‘Ah, yes. Is like that, Iowa.’
The pair spent the evening putting together furniture with the cunning array of hex wrenches included in the kits, becoming liberally coated in sawdust and sweat, pausing now and then for beer to rehydrate, and then for more beer when their first beers dehydrated them more, and so on in a truly vicious circle.