amongst upward of seventy-five editions of Danteâs Inferno , of various vintages, languages, and bindings.
From here, I move to the area I affectionately call âthe 600,â which is Melvilâs class code for âTechnology and Applied Science.â Have to count aisles but Iâm almost at the point where I can find it on feel alone.
Enclosed by wire shelving, the mess in this fortysquare-foot cubicle disturbs my sensibilities, but these pockets are bound to form when one is engaged in ambitious projects like mine.
See, as I come across material that meets specific classification criteria, Iâve begun simply dumping it in the appropriate area like the 600 here. It makes for temporary unsightliness, but allows me to kill two birds without losing focus on the work Iâm doing when I come across volumes that obviously belong somewhere else.
In the midst of this chaos, two steamer trunks. One contains a generous amount of heavy-duty explosives. To be frank, I donât know where this cache came from or what use I could ever possibly put it to.
No, ignoring the accumulations of books and drifts of loose papers, as this mess is already making me sweat, I crack open the other box, a big blackened Louis Vuitton, and have a gander inside. Dig: two extra bottles of pills, twelve-pack of Purell TM , army blanket, yet more jerky.
Without knowing exactly why, I grab an old CD. Call it nostalgia. Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) ⦠used to listen to this record before going out on an assignment, made a boy feel bulletproof.
More of a talisman than anything else. Like Iâm gonna run into a CD player, dead tech as it is. I assume they once had them here but I arrived after the major looting had played itself out.
And now the items Iâm actually looking for: an ankle holster containing an ultracompact Sig Sauer P290, this pulled off yet another deceased Serb; what the hell, I strap it on, and whilst doing so I peep some items that give me a new idea with respect to the current weather â¦
A pair of miniaturized Maindeka limpet mines.
These I snaked off a digger up at the Bryant Park site on the surface above my head, and I take them now, anticipating the same construction firm I borrowed these from will have (again) sealed the exit for which Iâm bound.
They seal it; I blow it up using their own shit. Rinse and repeat.
What I donât appreciate is that this exit is not part of the original libraryâs fabricâso I have absolutely no qualms about destroying a nonoriginal door.
My horde disorder and enhanced paranoia paying off large, people. Iâm geared up.
Feeling a touch on the smug side, I pop a pill. Make for the tunnel, due northwest. Beyond the seemingly infinite shelving.
Thanks to the Army Corps of Engineers, the passage Iâm headed into now is going to provide me with a way out that the Cyna-corp fucks will not be privy to. Hopefully.
Just after 2/14, public buildings were prepped for use as mass shelters. Alternate in-and-out routes were essential. Hence the newish underground traverse beneath the length of Bryant Park, likely forgotten by the few who were aware of it in the first place.
This will deposit me at West 41st Street and Sixth Avenue. At which point my plan is take a mellow stroll downtown.
And hope against hope I donât get myself dead en route.
_______________
Dirt walls packed tight, reinforced by heavy plastic and wood, the penlight trained on the ground so I might avoid organic things and areas of wet. Focus focus focus, cause I donât like tight spaces, plus too jacked to get neuroticâhey now, Iâve got my wing tips moving and Iâm feeling myself in a big way. Color me jaunty. Iâm mentally whistling a little tuneless something, and I come around a final soft curve prior to the exit.
Yonder, I clock the slotted metal gate that will allow me access to the Avenue of the Americas, watery daylight weak as
From here, I move to the area I affectionately call âthe 600,â which is Melvilâs class code for âTechnology and Applied Science.â Have to count aisles but Iâm almost at the point where I can find it on feel alone.
Enclosed by wire shelving, the mess in this fortysquare-foot cubicle disturbs my sensibilities, but these pockets are bound to form when one is engaged in ambitious projects like mine.
See, as I come across material that meets specific classification criteria, Iâve begun simply dumping it in the appropriate area like the 600 here. It makes for temporary unsightliness, but allows me to kill two birds without losing focus on the work Iâm doing when I come across volumes that obviously belong somewhere else.
In the midst of this chaos, two steamer trunks. One contains a generous amount of heavy-duty explosives. To be frank, I donât know where this cache came from or what use I could ever possibly put it to.
No, ignoring the accumulations of books and drifts of loose papers, as this mess is already making me sweat, I crack open the other box, a big blackened Louis Vuitton, and have a gander inside. Dig: two extra bottles of pills, twelve-pack of Purell TM , army blanket, yet more jerky.
Without knowing exactly why, I grab an old CD. Call it nostalgia. Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) ⦠used to listen to this record before going out on an assignment, made a boy feel bulletproof.
More of a talisman than anything else. Like Iâm gonna run into a CD player, dead tech as it is. I assume they once had them here but I arrived after the major looting had played itself out.
And now the items Iâm actually looking for: an ankle holster containing an ultracompact Sig Sauer P290, this pulled off yet another deceased Serb; what the hell, I strap it on, and whilst doing so I peep some items that give me a new idea with respect to the current weather â¦
A pair of miniaturized Maindeka limpet mines.
These I snaked off a digger up at the Bryant Park site on the surface above my head, and I take them now, anticipating the same construction firm I borrowed these from will have (again) sealed the exit for which Iâm bound.
They seal it; I blow it up using their own shit. Rinse and repeat.
What I donât appreciate is that this exit is not part of the original libraryâs fabricâso I have absolutely no qualms about destroying a nonoriginal door.
My horde disorder and enhanced paranoia paying off large, people. Iâm geared up.
Feeling a touch on the smug side, I pop a pill. Make for the tunnel, due northwest. Beyond the seemingly infinite shelving.
Thanks to the Army Corps of Engineers, the passage Iâm headed into now is going to provide me with a way out that the Cyna-corp fucks will not be privy to. Hopefully.
Just after 2/14, public buildings were prepped for use as mass shelters. Alternate in-and-out routes were essential. Hence the newish underground traverse beneath the length of Bryant Park, likely forgotten by the few who were aware of it in the first place.
This will deposit me at West 41st Street and Sixth Avenue. At which point my plan is take a mellow stroll downtown.
And hope against hope I donât get myself dead en route.
_______________
Dirt walls packed tight, reinforced by heavy plastic and wood, the penlight trained on the ground so I might avoid organic things and areas of wet. Focus focus focus, cause I donât like tight spaces, plus too jacked to get neuroticâhey now, Iâve got my wing tips moving and Iâm feeling myself in a big way. Color me jaunty. Iâm mentally whistling a little tuneless something, and I come around a final soft curve prior to the exit.
Yonder, I clock the slotted metal gate that will allow me access to the Avenue of the Americas, watery daylight weak as
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