# 2026-09-13 - Dewey Disciples by Tom Filecco
This story seems appropriate considering the local library has armed
security guards these days. I dug the D&D and Star Wars references.
Copyright (C)2023 by Tom Filecco [1]
CC BY-NC 4.0
I'm sitting in the library reading the New York Post, minding my own
business, when those damn Dewey Disciples come in with a group of
four hostages. Six of them, in neat dark brown tweed suits, and round
wire frame glasses. The scent of apple-flavored pipe tobacco starts
to linger in the air as they enter. Number One had an old break-top
revolver in a well-worn holster of brown leather, like the one
Harrison Ford carried in the Indiana Jones movies. Number Two is
carrying a skull-shaped bowl. The librarian notices them, nods their
head in acknowledgment, and disappears. I decide that I'm going to
ignore them, and concentrate on reading about the current drama in
the rivalry between the Yankees and the Red Sox. Connecticut is
disputed territory, but I was born in Yonkers. My status as an
expatriate New Yorker makes it important for me to know what's going
on with the teams in case I'm questioned by a co-worker. Never mind
that my favorite team has their stadium in Queens.
The Dewey Disciples have been in the news a lot recently. One of them
was arrested in Tennessee for smuggling copies of Maus into the
state, and distributing them to minors. Last month the Texas Attorney
General called them terrorists after boxes containing copies of
Naked Lunch, Slaughterhouse-Five, Our Bodies Our Selves, and
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret showed up at school libraries
across the state. The Disciples response was a simple
"Est??s pero si bien pendejo." Not to be outdone by the
Attorney General, the mayor of Austin declares his city a sanctuary
for the group. The Disciples sent him a nice postcard as thanks with
the complement. "Haces que yo quiera ser una mejor persona." Just
this month they gifted a "Fortieth Anniversary present" of
Soul On Ice and Go Ask Alice to the Island Trees High School, having
written "For Steven Pico" on the fly leaves.
Alas, my plan for minding my own business isn't going to work. Number
One walks up to my table, and tells Number Two "Place Yorick here."
Number Two sees my copy of The Post, points at it, and lets out an
earsplitting hissing shriek reminiscent of Donald Sutherland's
character in Invasion Of The Body Snatchers. The others start yelling
"Give him Burroughs! Give him Bukowski! Give him Palahniuk! Give him
The Village Voice!" Number One raises a hand, and they all fall
silent. Number Two places the skull bowl across from me, and everyone
sits down at the table. Number One sits in front of me and pulls
items out of the bowl. The first is a big old-school Silver Dollar
coin, the one with President Eisenhower on the front. The second is a
deck of well-used playing cards from some casino called The Aquarius.
I think it's in Nevada, but not Las Vegas. Finally a pair of 10-sided
dice, one red, one white, that look like what I used to play D&D
with. They start chanting in what I think is Latin. "Ad maiorem
cognoscendam fortuiti viam eant. Sic fiat fiat." The other members
all reply "Sic fiat fiat."
My thoughts are racing at the speed of light. In my jacket pocket is
a little .38, a J-Frame Smith, but there are six of them, one of me,
and only 5 rounds in cylinder. I'm cursing myself for not carrying my
Glock today, but who the hell expects to find themselves in a hostage
situation at the library? Thinking further, I decide that my little
wheel-gun is a tool of last resort, and that it's best to see how
this all plays out. The librarian is nowhere to be seen, and all the
other patrons are just going about their business. It's like armed
English professors bringing in a bunch of hostages with bags over
their heads and hissing at people reading the sports pages is a
normal occurrence here. Maybe it is. I've only been coming here for a
month now.
They take the bag off the first hostage's head. The hostage looks
nervous. Number One tells them, "Pick your section from Yorick." The
hostage flips the coin, heads. They take the dice and roll a 30.
Another one of the Disciples takes them into the 300 section of the
stacks. They come back with a thick tome containing essays by
Lysander Spooner. This is starting to get weird. What group of
terrorists goes and forces someone to read Lysander Spooner, of all
people? I look at the New York Post in front of me on the table, and
start getting nervous. I could get up right now, remove myself from
this situation. The five shots in my J-Frame would at least give me a
chance to escape. Yet, I remain seated for reasons I can't quite
explain.
The second hostage doesn't hesitate. As soon as they hear their
fellow hostage sit down, they rip off their hood, defiance and
determination in their eyes. They flip the coin, get heads, roll the
dice, get the number 62. Without even waiting for their captors, they
get up, walk over to 620, and come back with a copy of
Getting Started In Electronics by Forrest Mims. They sit down with a
righteous glare at the disciples. They all nod without saying a word.
I guess they approve of the hostage's actions. The hostages, for the
lack of a better work right now, aren't acting someone being held
against their will. Nor are the Disciples acting like typical
terrorists with hostages. Other than setting up shop at the same
table, hissing at my newspaper, and making some author suggestions,
their interaction with me has been minimal. I think that makes me all
the more nervous.
The third hostage flips the coin, gets tails. They take the card
deck, shuffle it, and lift off the top card. It's the Jack of Hearts.
Number Two tells them "The letter G." Number One says what sounds
like "Get the gimp," and I wonder if I'll have to be witness to a
reenactment of one of the more disturbing scenes from Pulp Fiction. I
guess "gimp" was really "gib" as a disciple brings back the hostage
with Neuromancer by one William Gibson. I remember that book from
high school, back when I contemplated getting a BA degree from SUNY.
Instead, my parents convinced me to attend trade school. Not that
becoming an HVAC technician was a mistake. I wonder what kind of
terrorists would force someone to read cyberpunk fiction, especially
that one. There is now one hostage left, and I wonder what fate is
going to match them with today.
The fourth hostage also flips tails. They shuffle the deck and get
the King of Spades. A Disciple leads them off into the fiction
section where a heated discussion in muted tones ensues. The hostage
can't seem to decide what book to get. After about five minutes they
come back with a copy of On the Road by Jack Keruoac. The hostage is
complaining about having to read it. The Disciples take the book, and
walk back into the fiction section. The come back with a
significantly bigger work. The severe-looking visage of who could
only be recognized as Ayn Rand is staring at everyone from the cover
of one Atlas Shrugged. "No!" the hostage sobs. "Please, anything but
Ayn Rand!" they entreat their captors. The hostage's pleas are met
with silence.
Their business with the hostages completed, Number One turns their
attention to me. They reach across the table, and grab the copy of
The Post I was reading. The jig is up as the copy of Utne Reader
hidden underneath the sports section is now exposed for all to see.
They smile at me, and I notice some details that previously escaped
my attention. The revolver Number One was carrying is unloaded, but
that wasn't all. On the lapel of the Number One's tweed suit is a
small pin. Fans of Star Wars would recognize it as a Mythosaur. The
recognition in my face does not escape unnoticed. "This is the way,"
the leader tells me. Something inside grabs me, but they turn away
before I can say anything.
The Dewey Disciples lead their hostages out of the building, carrying
the books they found or were given. The hostage who received Ayn Rand
is still quietly sobbing. I put back my copies of the New York Post
and Utne Reader, and walk out to my car. I recall something I read by
Edward Abbey in which he says, "I always write with my .357 magnum
handy. Why? Well, you never know when God may try to interfere."
Tucked under the driver-side windshield wiper of my car are two
business cards. The first is for a clothier in a nearby city. The
second is an admissions councilor at the local college. Now that I'm
thinking about it, I could use a new suit, and taking a couple
classes at night might be a good idea.
This is the way.
tags: collapse,fiction,literacy,political,short story
# Footnotes
(TXT) [1] Original source
# Tags
(DIR) collapse
(DIR) fiction
(DIR) literacy
(DIR) political
(DIR) short story