...That's what you've chosen, huh? No, it's fine, no really, I said I could make any of them work and I stick by that. I also said I'd take this seriously and a narration is only as good as its word, in a very literal sense. Here we go, then...AHERM!....
...The library was chaos. Long brought to the brink of collapse, its last shreds of conceptual stability may well have fizzled from reality without a fuss, had the outburst of a certain Willis not "triggered the alarm," in a manner of speaking. The more obvious and immediate danger had initiated the annoying little professor's shift into what was, for the curious, a much closer visual representation of the entity's true self than the one you're accustomed to, and in this narration's opinion, a far more respectable adversary. A return to something more primal, in a sense, before the abstract force began to manifest into your perceptual parameters as the concept of "literacy" for reasons that would be truly impossible for you, or admittedly even myself, to fully comprehend.
As far as you and I should be concerned, this was all to say that the concept of literacy had just hatched into a very big, very agitated cylinder of biomaterial ending in a lot of terribly sharp parts.
It also wasn't alone.
All around the endless sea of bookshelves, library subconceptoids were undergoing a similar sort of "mask off" emergency devolution, or however you want to frame it, as much to vie for dominance amongst themselves as to protect their environment from existential threats. Media formats both living and dead arose from the stygian trenches between labyrinthine bookshelves, hoping to either retain or reclaim their importance in the grand scheme of reality, while core conceptoid mildews and silverfish gathered to feast on the remains of the losers. The meddlesome old flesh would no doubt be purged from the library in this cataclysmic process...but there was little predicting what the zone might look like once it reemerged from its own rubble.
And in the midst of it all, unnoticed by the looming monstrosities...the true agent of chaos, the unwitting hitman of the Old Flesh, the grey-zone meat blob so deviously simple, its steady damage to The Library had gone insidiously unnoticed.
The malodorous little creature had a name, once. But over t%8me it had accrued too many more for that name to be remembered, each filling it with more pride than the last. How loved it must be, after all, to have been named so many times by the human caretaker it considered its all-knowing, all-powerful mother. Names like Shuddupp, Pleezshuddupp, Shuddahellupp, Nokkidoff, Yewbasdird, Eyehaychu, Noddindahowz, Noddondaflorr, Wuddzamadderwichu, Wwhydeergodwwhy, Eyeshuddagoddakatt, and its favorite name of all, the one its beautiful perfect mother uttered so frequently with such powerful emphasis on its every magnificent syllable:
Nobad, as he thought of himself, happily wiggled the gross hairy tip of his spinal column as he watched the surrounding orgy of violence and destruction. My most name is no bad he thought to himself proudly. The most no bad boy. The most yes good boy thought this thing that our lives all now depended upon. No, really, very good choice, I'm sure. Don't worry about it!