Five minutes. Not too much to ask, is it? Sometimes five minutes fly by without you noticing it. Other times, like this morning, five minutes can be an eternity; when all you want is five more minutes in bed before starting the day. And when you've had a night like the one I had, five minutes'll make all the difference.

My troubles started yesterday when I went to the library to return that Charlie Huston novel I raved about. Doing so, I poked around a bit in hopes of finding an exciting, eye-catching book. Keep in mind I don't belong to any literary circles or book clubs, so I'm on my own when it comes to finding new material. This is where judging a book by its cover comes in handy. Of course, that goes against the age old adage, but do you think I care? I didn't spend my teen years listening to punk rock for nothing; I'm a fuckin rebel.
Well there I am, parusing the new books section when I spot a novel marked with a local author sticker. Intrigued, I pick it up and read the back cover, instantly killing any notion that I might find something of interest.
For one, the cover was of a warlock with a dwarf on his shoulder, the warlock clutching the reigns of a dragon, and the dwarf holding up an axe, while they rode on toward some cheap knockoff of Valhalla. The dragon was breathing fire and I'm sure the dwarf had a hard-on. Not only that but there was like 19,000 pages between covers! Then there was the title: "Golden Shores of Forbidden Time: Saga of The Ylsclovviaxnoeuergren Part XXXXVIIIVIIMX."

Who reads that stuff? Who sits down and says, "Wow. Nothing revvs my enginge more than a twelve pound book which happens to be the 58th novel in a series of three hundred, whose characters' names I cannot pronounce, will take me six months to finish, and includes ogres, gnomes, dragons, and warlocks."?
Who are you people? And why are there so many books like this cluttering up library shelves?
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a well-written science fiction/fantasy story just as much as the next person but there's got to be more to it than the whole "let's think of the most fantastical situation,world, galaxy, etc." premise. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to owning over thirty science fiction books/collections/anthologies. Truth is, I'm a sucker for Ray Bradbury and Theodore Sturgeon and whatever I can find published by them (especially the latter) I purchase without question. So don't go thinking I need stories so drenched in "reality" they're soaked to the core with lame-ass CSI scenarios, 'cause I don't. But this book I held in my hands? I couldn't stop myself from thinking, "WTF??", as I read its back cover.

"Blah blah blah has written over blah blah blah novels ranging from topics of blah to blah blah, including blah, blah, and blah." And so on.
Here's where the trouble begins.
I reach the page bottom and see a photo of the author. I recognize him. I've been to the library enough times in the past six years to know that face anywhere; he's the librarian! What luck! To think, here standing in the same room as me, a real live author who I can share my feelings with!
Blood boiling, heart pounding, I lugged that half-ton book over to the information desk and asked him a few questions.
"Excuse me sir. You write this?"
"Why yes, young man. Yes I did."
"That's amazing! Let me ask you something. How long a book like this take to write?"
"Bout a week."
"Well that's good. At least you didn't spend years writing this shit." and I dropped that brick to the floor.
Thud.
There wasn't one person there who didn't hear that book cut the silence like hot farts in a church pew. That smile he wore, dripped off, slowly faded, dissolved into a grimace. All of a sudden I had the feeling I'd done something not too smart. He raised his finger, pointed at me, shaking with enough anger to get the Golden Gate Bridge swinging.
"You dare mock the great Fjyurgrfbenstein? Master of a thousand galaxies, magician envied by millions, rivaled by none? Foolish mortal, I shall show the error of your ways!" and he started unbuckling his belt.
Images of an angry alcoholic dad poppped in my mind.
His right hand went to his button-up shirt and tore at it.
Images of a nutball author/librarian popped in my mind.
Dropping his pants, ripping his shirt off, I saw that Fjyueryj95ebnstein wasn't stripping down to his skivvies, but to reveal a robe instead! A robe which blazed with images of a billion moons, stars, suns, and comets. Chest heaving, Fjyuergrentste5#in let out a roar, stretching his hands in my direction.
Something stung my face.
Thumbtacks? Did he really just throw handfuls of thumbtacks at me? I didn't want to find out, I ran out the door, to the parking lot where I could peel out in the safety of my Honda. My super-fast Honda. If it would start, that is.
The starter must be going, or something, because every now and then when I turn the ignition I get a big fat nothing. Just a click. No engine turning over. Nothing. That was the last thing I needed; an angry magibrarian and a dead car. Before making it out, I heard him shout, in a much deeper, menacing voice, "You shall never escape the wrath of Fjyurgrenstein!"
You must be a real shmuck if you think I'd turn back after that. Once outside I booked it to the Accord, attempted to unlock the doors but, my uncontrollable hands dropped the keys. I heard an evil laugh. He was outside! Snatching the keys I let myself into the car, ducked down, and stuck them in the ignition.
Turn.
Click.
Turn.
Click.
"SHIT!"
That evil laugh of his was closer. I ducked down even further in my seat, however, still able to see him combing the parking lot. "Come out, come out, wherever you are" he said, and I understood what made his voice so deep.
He held to his mouth the brown cylinder you're left with after going through a roll of paper towels. God, I was so queered out. Seconds passed as he walked car to car, peering in windows and windshields. Desperate and running low on time, I tried something unorthodox; I leaned close to the tapedeck and whispered, "Come on baby, be a good girl for Daddy and start. Can you do that?" Then, with my left hand raised I gave the keys another turn. Just as I thought my luck couldn't run out anymore the engine turned over, started, puttered a bit, stalled, went dead.
Fjyurgerentse53in snapped his neck in my direction. He knew where I was! With nothing left to do but run, my hand slammed down the driver side door lock, I hopped to the other seat, bashed my crotch smack dab on the shifter, slid over, opened the door, locked, shut it, and ran for the hills.
By car it takes at least fifteen minutes to reach the library, so it's not like I could get home on foot. Besides, the last thing I needed was for that magibrarian to cast a level 9 Death spell on my Honda; sooner or later I'd have to return for the old girl. I was gonna have to bide my time till things cooled down.
Eight blocks later I found myself standing outside Bill's Beer Barrel, choking for air. The last thing an Old Mill will do is hydrate you but, even with flushed cheeks, gasping, my first thought was to order one. The bartender went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle, popped the cap, and slid it my way.
"This one's on the house, Mac" he said, and I knew he knew I needed it.
"Thanks" I said, my beer raised toward him, my head tipped.
A guy to my right sat and stared all slack-jawed and such. There were a few things I could've said to make him turn his gaze but I figured my smart mouth had gotten me in enough trouble for the day; instead I concentrated on the smooth, cold, crisp beer.
Four bottles, three hours later and it was time I got back to my car. Paying my tab, I nodded to the bartender, stood, and was about to leave when the jerk to my right said, "Nice earrings, queerbate."
2006 and I still can't go two weeks without someone questioning my sexuality for no better reason other than the fact that I've got both ears pierced. (Sorry. I like symmetry.) Any other night and I'd roll over, forget that prick even said anything. Not tonight; I was angry, I was buzzed, and I wasn't in the mood to put up with some douchebag too ignorant to realize it wasn't 1982, that I wasn't George Michaels.
"Fuckbag. Let the records state that while I may not be a fag, I'll sure as hell fuck your ass up" I said.
"Oooh, looks like we got ourselves a tough guy" he countered.
"Tough? You wanna see tough?" I threw my bottle in his face and left.

On Sundays the library closes at 5:30, so for me to stay at the bar till 9 was a bit overkill, however I wanted to be sure Fjyurgrentsteion had enough time to cool off and go home. Boy I had no idea what I was in for.
Sitting on the hood of my Accord, while two minions patrolled back and forth, was the magibrarian. I'm not sure what was scarier, the chanting minions or the clackity clack clacking of their twelve-sided dice. Creeping back into the darkness, I leaned against the building and formed a plan. Getting past him and his goons was going to be tricky; for all I knew they could summon Neo-Bahamut and wipe me off the face of the earth. I closed my eyes and pondered.
Stepping out from the safety of the building I got their attention by yelling, "Hey dipshits! I'm over here!" which, thinking back on it now, probably pissed them off even more; the minions started toward me. Still without a plan I ran the other way around the building, into the light, onto the sidewalk where, because I'd been looking back to see if the minions were gaining on me, I collided with a passing idiot.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't little miss Nolan Ryan run right into my arms for a hug."
Shaking my head, spitting blood from my bit tongue, I looked up to see the prick I'd thrown my beer at leaning over me. Aside from a small bump under his right eye there didn't seem to be any wounds from his recent encounter with a bottle. He knew what I was thinking and answered my question, "You throw like a girl" and I was lifted by the scruff of my neck.
It was then that the minions appeared; seeing me held up by the collar they shrieked a warning to Fyjurgrensterin. There was a sound from above our heads, like the sound a pulley of a clothesline makes when you reel your laundry in. Speeding down from the library roof, on a zip-line, came the magibrarian letting out a fierce, "Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" His landing was pretty smooth until he lost grip on the zip-line, fell, skidded, rolled a few feet and crashed into a tree. I heard him grumble, "god-fucking-damnit piece of shit zip-line" under his breath. Standing up, he brushed the dirt off his robe, raised his pointer finger (the universal "gimme a second" sign) and turned away from us to search through a patch of shrubs. Returning his attention to us we saw the item he retrieved from the bushes; a long brown tube stripped of giftwrap. Speaking into the tube he boomed, "Fjyurgrensteein commands you, put the boy down."
The drunken idiot holding me scoffed, "What the fuck kind of name is that? You foreign?"
"Foreign? Yes. You could say that. I hail from the lost planet of Zenarathia, home to the now-extinct Zenarathian race. Our language is so complex your human tongue would tie itself in knots if you . . ."
"Do I look like I fucking care?" interrupted the drunk.
"Call me Dave" added Fyjurgrenstein.
"That's more like it."
"Now hand the boy over. We have unfinished business to attend to."
"Like hell. This little shit threw a beer in my face. You can have him when I'm done."
"FOOL! Do not anger Fyjurgensterein! This is your last chance! HAND HIM OVER."
"Fucking. Try me" said the drunk and let me loose.
Fyjurgerenstewn again brushed the sleeves of his robe, and with arms outstretched yelled, "Fyujugremstein's wrath knows no bounds! Now you must choke on some Mounds!" and the minions started pelting the drunk with fun-size candybars, hitting his groin and face. Surprised at this, the drunk fell backwards to the ground, kicking his feet in the air until the two ran out of ammo. The magibrarian laughed into his giftwrapper tube and asked, "Had enough?"
The drunk, lying silent, began laughing as well. And then he pulled some Jackie Chan type of move, jumping to his feet from the prone position. He cracked his knuckles, ran his fingers through greasy hair, "Recognize me yet, Dave?"
His mouth agape, the magibrarian looked upon the drunk with new eyes, gasped, "No . . . no . . . it can't be!"
"Ha-ha! Oh it can be! Tis I, Lord Gralmatrore from the conqueror planet of Vlammidon! We destroyed you pathetic Zenarathians on your own turf and now I shall finish the job by exterminating YOU, the last of your kind."
Fyjurgerestein turned white. "Minions! Flee, warn the others! Save yourselves!" And the two were gone.
"Others?" asked Lord Gralmatrore, "Someone's been busy all these years. No matter. I'll destroy them too! But first, I'll deal with you . . . "
The magibrarian shook his head. Then Lord Gralmatrore called out, "BUDWEISER BEER BELCH OF DEATH!" and out came a measly burp. Fyjurgenstein fell flat on his ass, screeching all the way down. "No! No! Not this time Gralmatrore! Not this time!" adding, "Now it's my turn." He threw the brown tube to the ground, crumpling it under his left heel. "WINDMILL OF DEATH WITH BULL HORNS!" and the magibrarian charged Gralmatrore, head bent forward, fists clenched as they circled his upper body. Making contact, the two dropped to the ground and wrestled around.
This continued for a few hours.
It dawned on me that I was free from both those freaks so I walked back to my car, curious whether or not it would start. It did. Hella bitchin' is right. I drove straight home, ready for bed. By the time my head hit the pillow it was well past two-thirty. I was asleep for what felt like minutes when I heard a knock at the door. Fyjurgrentsein! Lord Gralmatrore! They found me!
My eyes popped open. I sat straight up, stiff as morning wood. I looked at the clock. 8:45.
"Time to get up" my brother yelled.
I fell back, shut my eyes.
"Five more minutes" I said and went to sleep.