0 comments/ 4797 views/ 2 favorites The History of Don Cocksote By: MatthewVett Chapter I: In which Alan Cox, ordinary man, becomes Don Cocksote, righter of wrongs, lover of love, and world-famous fighter for all manner of romantic justice. * In a town in New England, the name of which I have no desire to recollect, there lived not long ago an older man, nearly sixty, of the kind who have an old scooter in the garage, an elderly cat to keep them company, and a rocking chair on the porch on which to spend his summer days. In his house he had a housekeeper, a woman nearer the grave than the cradle, who handled the meals, cleaned the house, and took care of any errands that arose. Our subject had a strong constitution, a lean build, a gray beard and moustache, and an extraordinarily large bank account left to him by his father, which ensured that he need never work another day in his life, and sufficed to keep him and his well-paid housekeeper, as well as anyone who turned up at his door selling candy for school or asking for donations, very happy. He arose early and went to bed late, and kept in shape through fencing, a sport to which he had become attached very early in life and never left. They disagree on his name; some say it was Alphonse Cook, others that it was Albert Kix, but the majority, and the wisest, says that his name was Alan Cox. But this is of little importance to our story, for when his name was such, he was entirely unknown outside of his small town, and only achieved fame under his cognomen. Our subject spent his idle time, which was the majority of each day, reading works of erotica, watching acts of pornography, and consuming every licentious, lascivious, lustful story that he could find, with such single-minded dedication that he neglected entirely the ordinary joys of his age, even yelling at children to vacate his lawn, and at times, even forgot to eat, and he truly would have starved to death long ago were it not for his housekeeper, who kept his stomach full and his body nourished. Day in and day out, he read these erotic stories, and considered them so full of wisdom that he absorbed all that they spoke of and racked his brains in order to make sense of their plots and characters and sentence structure, and because of this great folly he lost his wits and addled his brains, and spent many a sleepless night trying to understand how Anastasia and Christian could fall in love, and many other mysteries besides. He had frequent debates with the priest of his town, who was second only to our protagonist in his fondness for erotica and pornography, about which stories were greatest and which couples most to be admired, about why this story had received a 4.92 while that story, far superior, had received only a 4.15. They argued over who was the better author or the more attractive porn star, and when they returned to their homes, voted with their passions, with little concern given to quality. Nevertheless, their fights were not of a malicious nature, but rather a debate between two learned experts in their field, and the next day, all had been forgiven and forgotten and they began anew. In short, be became so absorbed in his erotica and pornography that he spent his nights from dusk till dawn watching, and his days from dawn till dusk reading. He had tried writing once, but had received a single bad review on his first day and so abandoned the entire enterprise completely, refusing to allow such brutish ruffians to so damage his stories and his ego. Through lack of sleep and excess of reading, his brain dried up and he lost his sanity. Fantasy filled his mind with everything he read and watched—flirtations, exotic positions, contrived coincidences, affairs, misfortunes, and impossible nonsense. As a result, he came to believe that all these fictitious adventures about which he read were true, and for him, there was no more authentic history of the world than these. And so, having laid down the melancholy burden of sanity, he conceived the strangest project ever imagined: to become a champion of love, to sally forth into the world in search of adventures, to make the unrequited love mutual, to assist the loveless and lonely, and to spread eros, liebe, and amor throughout the world. He would put into practice all that he read about on websites and in books and movies, and so delighted was he by this idea that he immediately set to work. He took his old Vespa VBB 150 Sidecar out from the garage, and called a mechanic who could restore her to perfect condition. The two of them cleaned and repaired it until it was as good as new, and then our subject painted it himself: gunmetal grey, to represent his iron will in this endeavor, with red trim, for his passionate love for all mankind. He spent three days thinking of a name for his vehicle, wanting to capture its glory, its speed, and its magnificence. He filled an entire notebook with names, written and scratched out, before he finally decided upon the perfect cognomen for his ride: Celery, a name that in his opinion was not only at once calliphonic, sonorous, majestic, but also perfectly represented its rapidity and speed, being derived from the Latin celer, meaning "swift." Having thusly named his scooter, he turned to himself. This decision took six days and three notebooks before he was satisfied, and finally, when all was said and done, he decided to dub himself Don Cocksote. Having a name and a means of transportation, all he needed now was a love interest, for after all, in every story he had read, the main character had a woman to desire, and since he knew his own thoughts and actions better than anyone else's, it was only natural that he was the protagonist of this story, and therefore, in order for his story to be complete, it needed a leading lady, for a protagonist without a love interest was a blowjob without an orgasm, and a series without a conclusion; it simply wasn't done. However, there had never been a woman in town who held his interest and gripped his heart and loins. Indeed, had there been, our story never would have come to pass. However, he refused to let such a minor obstacle stand in his way, and so he decided to choose the name first, and resolved to discover the maiden to whom it belonged later, for it often happened that a woman was named before she was introduced, and so no objection could be made to him doing so, as well. Since her beauty, virtue, chastity, and eagerness for experimentation were to be known across all the nations of the world, he gave her a name from the international language, and declared that she would henceforth be known as Rozabela. And thinking back to his stories, he realized that in most of them, the more exotic a woman was, the more greatly she was desired by men of all ages, races, and creeds, and so he gave her the most exotic origin of which he could imagine, and dubbed her Rozabela de Norumbega. His transformation now complete, Don Cocksote left a note for his housekeeper, explaining his quest, and made arrangements for her continued pay while he was away, for he knew how easily women in sore spots turned to prostitution for money, and he had no wish for her to resort to such straits as that, nor did he think she would long survive on the income she would receive. He bade farewell to his cat, gassed up Celery, collected a few things, and took off towards adventure. Chapter II: In which Don Cocksote sallies forth for the first time and encounters the Unrequited Lover. As our amorous adventurer traveled through the streets of town, wind blowing through his hair, he thought to himself about the imminent fame he was about to acquire, and what should best be done with it once he had it. As the world's foremost paranymph, ought he to charge top dollar for his services? No, too mercenary. Better to help the young and the old, the rich and the poor, in short, anyone in need of succor on the battlefield of love. He would be a Tirant lo Blanc of eros, going into battle on the weaker side and fighting against the blasphemers and heretics of amore. Who could stand against him, when Love itself was with him? Surely, he was favored by Venus and Aphrodite, by Freya and Ishtar, by Pai Mu-Tan and Turan! So engrossed was he in these fantasies that he nearly ran over a dejected soul who happened to be crossing the street. The man leaped out of the way with all of the agility of an inebriated giraffe and stumbled onto the sidewalk, nearly concussing himself on a postbox as well. Cocksote stopped Celery. "I have the worst luck today!" the man grumbled to himself as Cocksote approached. "First I get rejected, and now this..." "Did you say 'rejected,' good fellow?" asked our hero eagerly. "What? Um, yeah." Don Cocksote offered the man his hand and helped him up off the street. "I mean, not that it's any of your business, but I just asked a girl out and she shot me down. Am I bleeding? It feels like I'm bleeding. That'd be perfect, wouldn't it? The cherry on today's shit sundae..." "Fear not, for you have been fortunate enough to encounter I, Don Cocksote, and I swear on my love for Rozabela de Norumbega that I shall ensure that you and your beloved become united under the auspices of Aphrodite!" "Um, okay? Do you do this for a living, or?" "Of course! What manner of life is worth living other than one that seeks to encourage love to grow, wherever it takes root and begins to bloom? Now then, tell me about your inamorata, in order that I might best formulate a strategy for conquering her heart and planting your flagpole into her courtyard." The man looked around himself suspiciously, but finding no hidden cameras, he decided that any help was better than none, and even if this strange old man before him gave naughty but terrible advice, he could always pursue its opposite and still come out ahead. "Well, she's really sweet. She's always volunteering at the food shelter and the old folks' home, and-" "No, no, no! I asked you to describe her! That means height, weight, hair color, and bra size, all in a row! Have you never described a woman before, you novice? Honestly, as if her hobbies merit mention before her physical charms." "Well, she's about half a foot shorter than me, probably one-twenty or so. Her hair is this beautiful carroty red; I just love it. Even her eyebrows are red! I don't really know her bra size...maybe a B cup?" "Bee...cup? Do you mean to say they're the size of beehives?" "No, like a B cup. A-B-C, you know?" "I've read enough stories to fill the Libraries of Alexandria and Matthias Rex, with enough left over for Monticello, and never in all their descriptions of women have I ever heard of any of those letters used to describe a woman's bosom. Surely you mean she's a D cup, or double D? I've never heard of anything smaller." "You know what? You are right. Hey, wow, actually, I think I have to go to the hospital, so..." "Nonsense! Not until we've achieved success! A story cannot end without a resolution, and you cannot have a resolution without first trying, so try we must, and conquer we will!" Don Cocksote bade the man to lead the way, all the while giving him a proper education in the arts of love, so that he would be able to seduce his beloved as easily as Casanova in a convent. "There she is," he said, pointing towards a girl at the register of the book store. "Mary. Isn't she gorgeous?" "Had she been present at the judgment of Paris, the whole war would never have happened, I dare say! Now then, do you remember what I told you?" "Yeah, but I really don't think whipping my dick out is going to help matters. Can't I try it, like, without it?" "Without it?! There's no faster way to seduce someone than for them to see you au naturel! For once someone sees another nude, love inevitably follows, even if half of what I've read is incorrect! If you dare to risk those odds, go ahead and do so, but I shan't be held responsible for such reckless risks as these." "I'll risk it..." he decided. Cocksote watched, hidden behind a bookshelf, as his new student made his way to the checkout counter. "Hey Mary," he greeted her. "Roger? I'm working, and I already said no. Look, you're a good guy, but I just don't think we're really compatible." "No, I just wanted to talk. About..." Roger turned back to the bookshelf, whence Cocksote flashed him a broad grin and a thumbs-up. "...about my mansion." "You have a mansion? Really? Okay, tell me about it, then." "Uhh...okay. It's...big. And has some nice columns out front. And there's a large, gorgeous swimming pool in the back, and it's in Newport." "It sounds marvelous. Where'd you get the money for it?" "I won it in a contest. I entered a story contest and first prize was a mansion. Third prize was a potato, so I'm glad I got first. Did you know that people thought potatoes caused leprosy back when they were first brought to Europe? People had to be tricked into eating them. One Frenchman planted a bunch in Paris and then posted guards there every day to arouse the peasants' curiosity. Then, at night, the guards left and the people would steal potatoes from the garden to try them, because they thought they must be good to require an armed guard. Interesting, huh?" "Your rambling, Roger, and I'm pretty sure you're making fun of me, too." "No, it's not like that! I-" "I have to get back to work, Roger." He slumped over like a puppet without strings. With heavy feet, he plodded his way back to Don Cocksote, whose broad smile still shone across his face, completely oblivious to Roger's own expression. "How did it go? Did it succeed beyond your wildest imaginings? Every man knows that a woman simply cannot resist a wealthy love interest with a European mansion!" "It didn't work... I think we should just give up. Thanks for everything, but she just doesn't like me," Roger opined. "Give up?! We cannot give up! For no story ends without a resolution, no matter how long it takes to get there. Therefore, if we have met only with failure so far, it is because we have not yet reached the ending, which must contain a satisfactory conclusion to this amorous affair. To give up now is to leave your story half-written, and having been the victim of many such a tale, I adamantly refuse to commit such a grievous sin as that." Roger sighed. "Okay, what's your next idea?" "Wait here for one moment, I saw a deli up the road, and I shall soon return with our means of victory!" The brave don left the bookstore, leaving Roger behind to pine over Mary. Meanwhile, at the deli, Cocksote insisted on sampling the various wares on display, for he believed that even a prop should be the best of props, and so he went through every salami, prosciutto, mortadella, and capicola available, before finally settling upon a fine soppressata. He rushed back to the shop at quickly as he was able, and presented to Roger his secret weapon. "No." "Do you love this woman or not, man?! If you wish for her to be yours, it takes effort. And what about once you're in love, and wed? Will you simply abandon the relationship over a minor obstacle? How can you say you're truly in love if you refuse to do a task as simple as this which I can guarantee will lead to your immediate conjugation! If you refuse, I'll do it myself and prove myself correct, and you shall have to live out the remainder of your days haunted by your failure of boldness! Aude audere!" "Okay, okay! I'll try it. But this is the last piece of advice you get to give me. After this fails, you have to leave me alone, deal?" "You might as well make me promise to leave you alone once a key wraps itself around a serpent, for both things are equally impossible and would portend miracles, but I shall acquiesce to the deal nevertheless, if it shall satisfy you, for I have nothing to lose, and indeed, if this plan of mine fails, I promise never to sit while eating nor eat while sitting for all of the rest of days!" "Good enough for me," Roger replied, before temporarily withdrawing to the restroom in order to enact Don Cocksote's plan. A few minutes later, he approached the register again. "Roger? What are you... Oh my god, what is that?!" Running down Roger's pant leg was the piece of soppressata, four inches in diameter and sixteen in length, with which Roger was supposed to impress Mary, but now, he found himself unable to utter a single, solitary word. His lips fluttered about like butterflies in the breeze, but no words could escape his throat. Fortunately, Don Cocksote saw his distress and arrived to aid his charge. "Young madam, now that you have seen how impressively endowed this man is, are you not seized with lust and consumed by lascivious desire? Do you not burn to experience the sensation that such a manhood can give?" "Roger? Is this man with you?" Roger nodded gravely. "Oh my goodness... I had no idea you were so kind-hearted, Roger! It's so good of you to take care of someone with...special needs." She smiled. "Why didn't you ever mention it?" "Oh, you know... I don't like to brag..." Mary smiled. "So this is why you've been acting so strange today. I suppose you've been trying to help out my friend Roger, haven't you?" "I have, and have succeeded as well, as you can clearly feel within your own bosom! It is I, Don Cocksote, who have instructed this young stud in everything that he has done today." "I see... You know what, Roger? Give me a call sometime, after you're done with taking care of Mister Donkey Soda here. Maybe we can get a coffee?" She scribbled down her phone number upon a scrap of paper and placed it in Roger's trembling palm. "Th-thanks," he stammered. "Anytime. See you later. And I hope you have a nice day, too, Mister Soda." "My day is already as fine as possible, for I have brought together what was split asunder, and proven myself a true acolyte of Aristophanes, for each has found their other half, and now can go through life together, rather than apart!" "Um, well, that's very nice. Thank you," Mary replied before turning to the next customer to check them out. Once they had walked some distance away from the register, Roger collapsed onto the ground against a bookshelf. "I can't believe that worked... You had a plan the whole time, you sly fox! How'd you know she'd dig the whole caretaker routine?" "There is nothing of love of which I am ignorant, and if one day, you have learnt one seventh of what I have carelessly forgotten, you shall be a king among kings in the realm of amor. Although the path was, I admit...unfamiliar to me, I knew our destination, and with I as your guide, you shall never become lost in the wilderness, dear Roger." "Well whatever you did, thanks. I can't believe I got a date with Mary! I'm gonna go buy lottery tickets; today's my lucky day. Thanks again, man!" Roger scrambled up and skipped out the door, buoyed by his good cheer and fortune. After watching him leave, Don Cocksote got up and made to leave the store. Chapter III: In which Sancho Pantsless is met and is asked to join the good don in his amorous adventures. Flush with success, Don Cocksote proudly strode out of the bookstore, and directly into a short, slightly plump man, whose cheeks were hidden with stubble. "Sorry, sir, I wasn't looking where I was going," he apologized. "I should apologize. Here, you had the perfect opportunity to bump into a young maiden and strike up a relationship, and I've gone and sprung the trap prematurely myself. If you so desire, I'll send a lovely lady this way, and you can bump into her at your leisure." "I have one woman already, and if I had a second like her, I'd be leaping off bridges, not falling onto the ground. My Theresa... She loves me in a funny way, but I can't help but love her back. I was just returning these books. They promised to help me with our relationship, but they only served as ammunition, and now, I'm all out of ideas..." The History of Don Cocksote "What luck! Our meeting today was destiny, there's no doubt about it! I am the famous Don Cocksote, master of the amorous arts and champion of love! If you stay with me, I promise not only to teach you how to become the world's second greatest lover, after myself, of course, but also you'll receive much coitus, per os, per anum, et more ferarum along the way." He scratched his head. "So, per year?" "Let me see...probably about three hundred times, at least, more if we're fortunate, but I certainly cannot imagine any less." "And the coitus, there'll be a lot of it?" "Enough to fill volumes! You'll be the envy of every sultan, emperor, and khan who ever ruled. Every one of them would trade all of his earthly belongings to be in your place right now, with how bright your future looks. Why, you might even get a chance at the fabled gomorrahmy, or even the lioness crouching on the cheese grater!." "It's that valuable?" "Why, it's the most precious thing in the world, more so than sapphires or pearls or platinum itself. Men and women will do anything for it, climb any mountain, swim any ocean, sit through any dull movie, even for the slightest possibility of acquiring it! It's a treasure like none other!" His eyes grew wide with avarice and he whistled in appreciation. "Perhaps our meeting was destined. I've just lost my job last week, and was wondering how I would survive, and now you've been put in my life. I hate to ask, but they say a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Coitus in the future is all well and good, but what about in the present? If I go along with you and work for you, can I get paid, as well? I don't need much, just enough to fill my stomach and put a pillow under my head each night, until we get the coitus." "Paid? Well, it often happens that men pay others for their time and services, but never in this way... Yet, I suppose I've never come across any objection to it in the literature I've read. I suppose the usual rate is..." His fingers danced and he bit his lip as he attempted to convert payments. "Would fifty dollars be sufficient?" "Per day?" "Not even for the most vulgar of prostibulae! No, per hour. I know it's not much, but you won't be doing all that's customary, so I gave myself a bit of a discount, since you seem to be such a good-hearted person." "That's quite alright, I can live with discounts like that. Thank you very much, Don Cocksote!" "Oh, that's much too formal. You can simply call me 'your grace.' And what is your name, good sir?" "Sean Painter," he replied. "It's good to be properly introduced." "Sancho Pantsless!" Cocksote interpreted. "A name that bodes well for the adventure on which he now find ourselves!" "No, your grace, actually it's Sea-" "Hurry, Sancho! Adventures await, and they won't wait for us forever! We leave now!" "Y-yes, your grace! I'm right behind you!" Don Cocksote led the way, while Sancho brought up the rear, his head already imagining the coituses he would receive, glimmering like gold and shining like diamonds. How Theresa would respect him if he came home so wealthy as that! Chapter IIII: In which a brother pines for his sister. Sancho climbed into the sidecar of Celery, Cocksote started up her engine, and the two of them began their adventure. First, they would need to find someone in need of their unusual sort of succor. "I have an idea, Sancho!" cheered Don Cocksote. "What?! I can't hear you over the wind, your grace!" "There's no need! For just as the hands need only to listen to the brain, and don't require mouths of their own, so, too, do you need only to obey my excellent advice in order to achieve success! Onwards!" "What?!" In all of the stories that Don Cocksote had read, there was no place more full of the lovelorn and the hopeless than the local bar. Here congregated deviants, perverts, and lovers of every stripe, and he knew that they had only to throw a rock to hit someone in need of their assistance. Soon enough, they came across a suitable bar, next door to a small motel. The sun hadn't yet set, and so there were only a few cars in the parking lot, but surely those would be the most desperate and most desirous of help. He parked celery near the door and walked through the door. In the dimly lit room, a few men played billiards, a scattering of people were at the bar, and one man sat off by himself, with three empty classes around him, and another half-full glass in his hand, his head resting in the crook of his arm against the table. "There, Sancho! That's whom we're destined to aid! I can feel it in my bones!" "Are you sure? My bones don't feel like anything right now. How do yours feel?" "Like destiny, Sancho! Like destiny!" The two of them sat on either side of the man. "Tell us your problems, stranger. I assure you that my compatriot and I can assist you with any problem you may have," offered Cocksote. The man lifted his head high enough for his bleary eyes to take in the two men. "Just let me drink myself into a stupor in peace... I'm a freak." "There's no such thing," replied Sancho. "Each of us is made differently, but we're all made for a purpose. If a screwdriver thinks it's a hammer, it'll think it's a freak of a hammer, but once it realizes it's a screwdriver after all, everything will be alright in the end. I think that right now you just think you're a hammer, but if you simply realize what you are, you'll be back to normal in no time." Sancho moved the man's drink out of his reach. "Trust me, that stuff won't help you. Now tell us why you're so depressed." The man hesitated briefly. His eyes flashed from the glass to Sancho, and he relented. "I love my sister." "Well, that's only to be expected! You're family!" "No, I mean, I'm in love with her." "Oh! Oh..." Sancho coughed. "Well, if a car were meant to be a dog, it wouldn't have been a kitten. You two were born brother and sister, and if you were meant to be together, wouldn't you have ended up in different families?" "Sancho! Incest is the purest of loves, as we can see from the tales of the ancient Greeks and Romans, whose gods always found partners from within their own family trees. Not only that, but even the pharaohs of Egypt married their siblings." "Yes, but they're fake and dead, respectively, and don't make for good role models in any case," Sancho retorted. He turned to the man again. "How does your sister feel about this? Does she know?" The man sighed. "Yeah... She caught me whacking off to her pictures and called me a pervert, so I came here to drink my memories away. I don't even know what I'll do if she tells anyone. I'll never be able to get a job or make friends or get a date. Nobody wants to be associated with a sisterfucker." "What an odd reaction..." Don Cocksote mused. "Why, in my innumerable experiences, nothing else is required for a familial relationship to turn from storge to eros but that one member has to see the other nude. And to be masturbating! Why, I wouldn't have thought there was a sister alive who would be able to resist her brother after seeing that. I dare say, this is the first instance of such an event I have ever heard tell of! Are you certain that you were manustuprating yourself?" "I'm pretty sure. It's kind of hard to mix that up with knitting. God, I can only imagine what she thinks of me now... She must think I'm a monster. She's so innocent, too; I'm pretty sure she's a virgin." "A virgin? Why, her heart must be of adamant to be able to resist such a sight, for virgins are the most voracious of women," Don Cocksote instructed his audience. "For, just as one who has never tasted water feels insatiable thirst, so, too, does one who has never tried sex have an unstoppable yearning for it." "Is that really true?" asked Sancho. Chapter V: In Which Don Cocksote replies to Sancho. "Of course!" Chapter VI: In which Don Cocksote and Sancho Pantsless advise the drinker of the sorrowful figure. "Can we get back to my problem, please?" "I apologize, but the ways of love are a secret to everybody. It is therefore part of my sacred quest to share them with all at any moment, and to exposit what is otherwise obscure, in order that one day, the entire world will shine in amorous enlightenment," Don Cocksote explained. "As for your problem, let's look at it rationally." Don Cocksote raised his fingers with each point he made. "You are in love with your sister. She has apparently rejected you. You do not wish for anyone else to know. And you are quickly becoming drunk. "The solution is obvious!" "It is?" Sancho and the drunkard asked with one voice. "It is! You must walk in on her masturbating!" he exclaimed, pounding his fist into his open palm. "She has, by some sorcery, failed to become enraptured with you after seeing you naked, but if she were to be seen naked by you, why, it is impossible that she would not become besotted and enthralled with her voyeur. It's the way of the world!" The man groaned and sunk his head back into her arms. "It's hopeless..." "It's not hopeless, my friend. God doesn't give you more than you can handle, and he won't start now. His grace was right in the beginning, we do need to think about this reasonably. It may be a sad one, but it's a fact nonetheless that your sister does not share your feelings. I do not know whether or not you're an incapable man, but I truly believe that this is an impossible deed. "All you can do now is move on. You can't change the way she feels about you, any less than you can simply wake up tomorrow and stop caring for her. All you can change is how you act, and soon your actions will become habit, and habits will become your character. If you avoid your sister and try to move your feelings somewhere else and pray for guidance, you'll be able to get over this. "It's not the end of the world to have sinful thoughts, but nothing good will come of following them. You need to accept that you and your sister just aren't meant to be together." "Sancho..." whispered Don Cocksote. "I cannot believe you would speak such blasphemy!" "I can't say otherwise, your grace, and if it means I'll never find a mountain of coitus, then so be it, the truth must be heard! If he stays on this path, it'll break the hearts of his entire family. It's hard, but he's her big brother, and that means doing what's best for her, even if it's hard for him, and right now, that means he needs to get over these feelings. It'll be a long journey, but he'll make it to the end of he stays on the straight and narrow path." "Hmph, well, perhaps in this particular case, you're correct, Sancho, but in general, there is no better love than that between family." "I can't disagree with that, your grace." Sancho turned to the man. "Do you think you'll be alright?" "Yeah...yeah, I think I will. Thanks for the advice. I needed it. I think you're right. If I really love her, I'll do what it takes for her to be happy, right? So that means loving her like a brother, and not what I've been doing. H-hey, if I need help...can I call you and talk?" Sancho smiled. "Of course." He scribbled his phone number onto a napkin and handed it to the man, clasping his hand between his own. Don Cocksote looked away as the two conversed. Finally, when they had finished, he grabbed Sancho roughly by the shoulder and led him outside, barely allowing him the time to finish saying goodbye to his new friend. "Come, Sancho! We have wasted enough time here. Let us depart and search for new lovers to bring together." "Yes, your grace..." The two of them exited the bar, but they had spent so long on their fruitless endeavor that the sun had set. Don Cocksote wished to continue until the sun rose again, but Sancho convinced him to rest for the night, instead, and save his energy for fresh endeavors, rather than send good effort after bad, and so the two retired to the hotel and slept. Chapter VII: In which Don Cocksote's attempts at succor are foiled by the cruel, cold facts of an uncaring universe. By the time Don Cocksote and Sancho Pantsless awoke, it was the time for an early lunch, in Sancho's expert opinion. They had a simple lunch of roast beef sandwiches, with horseradish and mayonnaise, which Sancho enjoyed with three large pickles, as well. So eager was Don Cocksote to begin their adventure anew that he forced Sancho to finish his drink on the road, and the result was that half of it ended up on the street, half of it on his shirt, and only a few sparse drops made their way between his lips. He had half a mind to complain, but he didn't dare to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, and it was a small cross to bear indeed for the benefits that were to accrue to him at the end of this quest. Sancho was just trying to get the last few ounces into his mouth when Celery stopped short, catapulting what was left into his face. "What was that for, your grace?" he asked with a sputter. "I held my tongue before because of our friendship, and I know I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, but free drink or not, it's now all over me, and Theresa will knock me about until I'm as spotty as my shirt if I bring it back this stained. Why did we stop?" "Nonsense, Sancho! Stains are to be appreciated greatly. For it never happens that one's shirt is stained without it requiring laundering, and while it's being laundered, then is the time to strike! Many seductions take place while clothes are being washed, although why this is, I cannot say. It is enough to know that it occurs, and so you should thank me for your current good fortune. "As for our stop, look over there!" Sancho did as he was told, but saw nothing extraordinary. "That's just a high school, your grace." "Just a high school? Are you entirely illiterate, Sancho? There is no greater location for finding love as a high school, for even though students are there for just a short time, the stories are full of lascivious students and amorous teachers, all of whom inevitably encounter each other here. Even though the age of eighteen makes up but a short slice of our lives, the number of stories that occur at that age is nothing short of remarkable. Why, you'd be astounded at half of what occurs at your typical high school, even if only a tenth of what I've read is correct." "I've been to high school myself, and I remember nothing of the sort. My teachers felt strongly about me, but no one would mistake their treatment for love. The other students didn't care much for me, either, and the only love I remember receiving was from my pet pig, Oinkers." "You must have been the exception, then, Sancho. I know we're certain to find someone here in need of our assistance." He parked Celery in the parking lot, and the duo made their way to the school. The school sat squat and flat in the center of a pavement lake, its red brick exterior marred only by a row of six foot tall brass letters reading its name. To Sancho, it resembled his own educational institutions too much for his own comfort, but to Don Cocksote, who looked at it through the eyes of a madman, it appeared much different. He saw not the small, sad, underfunded building that it was, but a magnificent academy worthy of Plato himself: a Romanesque building of marble with spires and towers, topped by a chiming clock tower decorated with gargoyles, a building that would make the other buildings at Harvard and Oxford blush with shame, such was its opulence. Once they had gotten closer, Don Cocksote bent down and clasped Sancho's shoulder. "There, can you see him? That young man on the steps, what else could make him so morose but a defeat on the battlefield of love, what else could cause those hunched over shoulders, those baggy eyes, those disheveled habiliments?" "He looks like an ordinary high school student to me," Sancho ventured. "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure! Never in my life has doubt entered my mind, even for a moment, and today won't be the day I end such a glorious tradition. Come, let's ask him." The two men walked to the steps and sat on either side of the young man. "You have the look of someone wounded by Cupid's arrows about you, good sir," stated Don Cocksote. "Perhaps my friend and I can serve as your paranymphs. I am more knowledgeable in the ways of amour than Cyrano de Bergerac and more willing to assist than Marcus Antonius himself." "What?" "You look like you've been dumped, is what he means, although you wouldn't know it from listening," translated Sancho. "A trouble shared is a trouble halved, they say, if you want to tell us what's bothering you." "Oh, yeah." The boy sighed deeply. "Marcela just friend-zoned me. I thought we were gonna go to prom together and everything..." "Have no fear! Don Cocksote and Sancho Pantsless are at your service! You have only to tell us your predicament and it's as good as solved with us here!" "Really? Okay... Well, it all started at my seventeenth birthday party, and-" "Wait, you're not yet eighteen?" asked Don Cocksote. "No, why?" Don Cocksote stood up. "Come, Sancho, there is nothing for us here," he said, already briskly walking back to the Vespa. Sancho hurriedly caught up. "But your grace, I think we could have helped him." "Nonsense, Sancho! I have read every work of erotica, from Aaron and the Amorous Abbess to Zoologists Find Love in Zurich, a masterpiece of the genre, by the way, and in none of them have I ever encountered someone younger than eighteen. Clearly, it is only at that age that young men and women become capable of love, and not a day, an hour, or even a second before. Such great stories have no reason to obscure the facts of life, and when the evidence weighs to greatly on only one side of the scales, there can be no doubt as to what is true." He climbed onto Celery and lowered his goggles onto his eyes. "Now then, let's depart, Sancho, and find someone whom we can aid." "Yes, your grace..." he replied, climbing into the sidecar. "But if you need to help someone, I wouldn't mind a new drink." Chapter VIII: In which the romantic potential of the undead is debated at length without settlement, and in which Sancho consumes the best drink of his life without fully realizing it until several years later, at which point he'll return, try to find the drink again, and be disappointed. The two now entered a rural stretch of territory, an almost Arcadian plain of rolling hills. They encountered few fellow travelers, seeing more bovines than humans as Celery floated over the smooth, meandering roads. Don Cocksote began to worry. Already, they had been dealt one defeat that day. One setback was little to worry about, for what story didn't have struggles and trials before its final resolution, but if he were to meet with another defeat, he would have to consider whether or not he might be the antagonist in someone else's story. For the protagonist, everything ought to end happily ever after, with not a single dark cloud intruding upon the eternal sunny day that was their future, of that much he was sure. He didn't dare disturb Sancho with these thoughts, though, for he was unsure of the young man's mettle, and didn't want to break a tool that had so recently been acquired. When he saw a crowd, therefore, he increased the throttle and sped towards it, desirous of proving to himself and the world that he was Don Cocksote, unstoppable victory, unconquerable lover, friend to lovers and enemy of prudes the world over. A gathering of people stood in a loose crescent in a cemetery, the sort that dots New England even to this day, with dull grey gravestones dating back to the colonial era, full of beloved mothers and respected fathers, decorated with winged skulls and skeletons, in order that the viewer might memento mori. Short, verdant grass covered the small, slanted graveyard, and a single tree provided shade for weary visitors. On a typical day, perhaps a classroom of schoolchildren might be making wax rubbings of the reliefs right now, but today was far from typical. The History of Don Cocksote "Calm down, calm down, everyone!" barked a tall, thin, strigiform man, standing at the focus of the crescent. "You're all being irrational!" "You've seen the proof with your own eyes, Madapple!" shouted a middle-aged man from the crowd. "What more do you need, a corpse? I won't wait until my family's dead before something gets done!" "Anecdotes are not proof. We still don't know what exactly we're dealing with. I agree that we need to exercise caution, but there is no need to leap to impossible conclusions simply because we don't know what's happening," the man named Madapple explained, sunlight glinting off his round eyeglasses. "Excuse me, I'm sorry to have to ask, but we only just got here and haven't had time to learn much about this town. What's happened?" asked Sancho. Don Cocksote whispered in his ear. "That was extremely impertinent, Sancho. Had we only waited a paragraph or two longer, they doubtless would have exposited sufficiently for us to deduce about which they were speaking." "What if they hadn't, your grace? We would have been a sorry sight, standing her dumbly for hours on end, waiting for them to say the right words for us to understand them fully. I tell you now, neither my legs nor my stomach nor my brain have that sort of patience. If yours do, you can cover your ears while they answer me, and go back to waiting afterwards, but as for me, I believe the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and I'm greatly in need." Madapple's eyes narrowed at the two intruders. "What are you doing here? Never mind, it's not important. We're currently dealing with a nocturnal intruder, and nothing more." "Tell them everything, Madapple!" jeered the same man from before. "Tell them about the disappearances and the shadows skulking about at night. Tell them about the monster that haunts this town!" Madapple sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. With clenched eyes, he wearily droned, "There is no such thing as vampires." "Vampires?" asked Don Cocksote and Sancho simultaneously. "I know everything about vampires, good townsfolk!" Don Cocksote lectured. "And if you will allow my friend and me the chance, I believe we can solve your problem quite quickly." "You know about them?" asked an old woman, clutching her ivory rosary beads. "I dare say I am the leading living expert on them, for I have read everything concerning them that I have been able to get my hands on, and several I could not. You will find no one better qualified than I in all the world to handle this situation." "Have you ever met one?" asked an eager young woman, pressing a bound codex of toilet paper to her heaving bosom. "I've met dozens, each of them the perfect gentleman, and every one of them a special, unique, kind-hearted individual fighting against the ill reputation accorded their race due to the despicable acts of the rest of their kin," boasted Don Cocksote. "Well, I doubt we have to worry about that," mused Madapple. He stepped aside and pointed to the grave around which the crowd had congregated. The grass above it was yellowed and dying. The gravestone was slightly crooked, a dark grey slate. An ornately carved rose sat at the top. It read, "Here lies Patience Greene. Daughter of George T. & Mary E. Greene. Died Jan. 17, 1878, aged 19 years." And beneath that, "You cannot kill an unquiet spirit, and I know that my impending death will not mean the end of Patience Greene. In the dead of night, walking along the lakeshore, you will sense my presence. When you wake to a sudden chill, I will be in the room. And when you find yourself alone on a foggy night, know that my life was cut short, and your ancestors killed me." "Personally," Madapple opined, "I don't know why the mason bothered to carve that second bit. It always struck me as macabre, but I suppose he had his reasons. "Anyways, since her passing, this town has been plagued by the rumor of a vampire. She was executed for it, and left behind the last words you see before you. Since then, every mysterious death and disappearance has been credited to her, and this time is no different, despite there being absolutely no proof that she was involved, or even proof that she's not a regular corpse." "Then what's happened to Catherine Moritz?!" asked someone, and anew, the townsfolk burst into argument, jeering and yelling at each other. Madapple extricated himself from the crowd and made his way to Don Cocksote and Sancho. "Let us go someplace quieter, and I can discuss everything with you. At this point in time, I'll take a placebo over nothing." He led them to a small brewery and pub and took them to a small booth, where they could speak in private. He allowed our duo to choose their own meals, but as for their drinks, he insisted they try the town's local beer. "It's our little specialty, and it brings in a bit of extra income to the town. I'd be greatly thankful if you'd tell your friends about it once you leave. I guarantee you'll enjoy it. "As for the alleged vampire, a few weeks ago, a young woman disappeared, Catherine Moritz, and no one's seen her since. No notes, no contact, nothing. Then, just the other day, another person disappeared: Peter Magnusson. Ever since Catherine vanished, people have been reporting seeing figures moving throughout the town at night. I'd write it off as hysteria, but there have also been footprints and drops of blood left behind, so something's happening. "We live in a small town, Mister Cocksote. There are no strangers here, except for you two, and so I doubt this is the work of vandals or hoodlums. Nevertheless, whatever's happening has thrown a large part of the townsfolk into a panic, and I have a responsibility to this town to keep everything running smoothly. "My idea is this. The two of you have shown up with much to-do and ceremony, and soon word of your arrival will spread throughout the town. I'm willing to pay you to patrol the town tonight with me. If nothing happens, we'll put some ashes into a pretty little urn, say you staked the vampire, and the city is now cured of its curse. And, of course, I'll pay your for your 'vampire hunting' services. How does $200 sound for a night's work, each? It's a bargain if it will end all this." "What if we come across the real vampire?" asked Sancho. "I have no experience hunting them, and she has had over three centuries of experience hunting men. It seems unfair, is all, if it comes down to a fight." "There's no need to concern ourselves with such a predicament, Sancho. Vampires are romantic creatures, concerned more with the heart's emotions than its lifeblood. If we come across her tonight, the greatest danger we face is that of being ravished, and I assure you, that's an outcome that shan't be regretted," Don Cocksote explained. "Nonsense, your grace! They're murderous monsters who prey upon the living!" "Monsters? They're simply disabled, Sancho, and it's very rude to call attention to it. They cannot help their peculiar diet. If they had the choice, I'm certain they'd prefer sangria to sangre." "They are! My grandmother used to tell me stories of them when I was just a boy on her knee. They're wolves, feasting upon humanity. Their only interest in you is the same as I have in a meal, and with the same result. I might like a slice of pizza, but even at my most desperate, I never dated one. They're evil creatures!" "They're noble souls and passionate lovers!" "They're neither because they're imaginary," said Madapple, "but if they were real, I'd have to agree with Sean. Ah, our food's arrived. I absolutely refuse to discuss business while there's food to be eaten, so we'll have to delay now." "A man after my own heart!" cried Sancho. He took a deep quaff from his glass, and when he put it down, he was a man inspired. "This is amazing! Excuse me, waitress, could you fill your largest growler with this beautiful beer for me?" The waitress looked to Madapple, who nodded approvingly, and off she went to fetch Sancho his reward. With clean plates and full stomachs, and with Sancho emptying his third glass, the three of them returned to the matter at hand. "Now that you've had some time to think about it, what do you think of my deal?" asked Madapple. "How can we refuse the opportunity to encounter such a unique specimen, and simultaneously to clear the name of a besmirched maiden, for I am confident that when we find her, everything will work out as I have read and predicted, and she will in actuality be a lonely, misunderstood wretch, desperate for love," Don Cocksote proclaimed. "And you, Sean? If you agree, I can convert your payment into the local lambic, instead, if you prefer." "I'd rather have this beer, personally, but either way, I'm afraid I have to. If neither of you will protect yourselves, I will." He took out a small silver crucifix necklace from underneath his shirt. "This will protect us tonight from that demon, and besides, I ordered extra garlic on my pizza tonight in expectation of being dragged into this mess. A word to the wise is sufficient, but even a fool can recognize a pattern when it happens often enough." Madapple smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. Well then, gentlemen, tonight we'll kill a vampire." Chapter IX: In which the vampire is discovered and a weighty decision is made. A waxing gibbous hung in the sky, defying all proper conventions of meteorology for a night such as this. A new moon, leaving a dark sky, would have been fine. A full moon, even better. Even a thin crescent might have sufficed, if no other moon were available. But a gibbous moon? Whoever heard of such a thing heralded a momentous occasion? "This isn't proper," hissed Don Cocksote, his eyes on the moon. "We should wait a few days until the moon is full." "I've waited long enough," whispered Madapple. "Did Cyrus wait until the proper time for campaigning when he fought Croesus? If you think tonight is inappropriate, then our adversary will be all the less suspecting, and the advantage will be ours." "He's right, your grace. Whether this vampire is moral or monstrous, it doesn't hurt to catch her by surprise." The good don grumbled, but agreed. The three men waited in the graveyard together, although for what, none of them were sure, except for Don Cocksote, who has sure, but incorrect. They had already been waiting for four hours, with no companions except for bottles and books. "What's that?" asked Sancho, pointing towards the nearby stream. Madapple and Don Cocksote followed his finger, and saw a dark figure making its way towards one of the houses. "It looks like it's going towards the Tuckers' house," Madapple reported. "She must be after the entire family, hoping to complete the full set of lives she's taken!" Sancho groaned. "She must be enamored with someone in that house, and, fearing the prejudices of mankind, only dares to approach her lover under the cover of darkness, for she knows that were her love to become public knowledge, she would be persecuted and hunted by the very kith and kin of her beloved." "It's moving pretty slowly. I think we can intercept it; come on, let's go," said Madapple, leading the three to the slowly moving figure. They ducked and weaved between hedges and against walls, and through great exertion, managed to catch the figure just as it had reached the door of the home. "Stop, foul monster!" "That's no way to speak to a lady, Sancho..." A bright light came from Madapple's flashlight. A young woman's face became illuminated, her lips bright red, her skin pale, her hair as dark as night. "Stand back, your grace!" cried Sancho, brandishing his argent cross at the woman, shielding Don Cocksote with his own body. "She can't touch the faithful!" But Madapple stepped forward and gently pushed them both behind him, and with a gentle sigh, said simply, "Catherine." "Catherine?!" "Mister Madapple..." "My my, it seems I misspoke before when I said our village had no strangers. It appears we have one on their way. How far along are you, Catherine?" "About five months, sir..." "Your parents kicked you out when they found out?" "Oh no! Nothing like that! I...I wasn't sure what mom would do when she found out, so before I started to show, I ran off. Peter's big brother had a cabin in the woods. I figured if we stayed there until the baby was born, my parents wouldn't be able to try and stop us or get mad." "Ah, a fait accompli. Very sound, strategically. Never ask permission for what you're going to do anyway... But the whole town's worried sick, Catherine. They thought Patience had gotten you." She giggled. "The vampire? Who believes in that stuff?" she asked, while Don Cocksote and Sancho both found a sudden interest in constellations. "I'm sorry I made everyone worry, but we were just afraid what everyone would think, and this seemed simplest..." Madapple placed his hand on her shoulder. "Well, you're an adult, so it's your choice, but after seeing how your family's taken it, I think they'll be thrilled to have not only their daughter back, but a grandchild, as well. "If you want to stay hidden, though, please, stay with Hope and me, so that someone can keep an eye on you. Our house is big enough that we can keep you hidden from the town until your time comes, and we'll take you to the hospital, too." "Really?" "Really. Is Peter still at the cabin?" Catherine nodded. "Alright, let's go get him, and you two can decide what you want to do." Madapple turned to Don Cocksote and Sancho. "As for you two, thank you for your help tonight. If you want, you can head back to the house. Hope will make you up a bed, and we'll finish all this in the morning." "That sounds wonderf-" "Not until this couple is happily reunited, mayor!" brayed Don Cocksote. Sancho's eyes narrowed as he continued. "We insist on escorting you to your destination, and only after everything has happened satisfactorily will we allow ourselves to rest. Isn't that right, Sancho?" "Yes, your grace..." The four of them made their uneventful way to the cabin and Peter. Once they arrived, the three men waited outside, while Catherine and Peter discussed what they thought was best for them. After a long while, the young couple emerged from the cabin, and asked to be brought back to their families. Chapter X: In which families are reunited and Mayor Matthias Madapple gives Don Cocksote and Sancho Pantsless their rewards. Madapple insisted on waiting until morning before the reunion, reasoning that whether things went well or ill, everyone would benefit from first having a proper night's sleep. During the night, the sounds of banging and moans awoke Cocksote and Sancho. "Your grace!" Sancho whispered. "Wake up, your grace!" "What is it, Sancho? You just ruined my waltz with Maria Theresa! Ah, and she had quite the décolletage on display, too..." "Your grace, listen! The townsfolk were right, and there is a vampire! Can't you hear it struggling above us? It must be attacking Madapple and his wife!" The two of them listened. Passionate cries came through the ceiling. "Ahh..." Cocksote mused. He cleared his throat. "Ah, well you see, Sancho... Before bed, Madapple told me that he happens to be a master of the sport of vampire wrestling." "A master?" "Yes! Why, he's a grandmaster, at least, and a black belt, a yokozuna, and a strategos, to boot. If we were to attempt to aid him now, I guarantee you, we would only get in the way. I suggest that we allow him to continue his conquest alone for now." "What about his wife?" "Oh, I'm certain he's taking excellent care of his beloved right now, Sancho. If you like, I'll keep watch, and if the vampire comes downstairs, having vanquished our stalwart defender, I'll awaken you, and your faith can keep us both safe while we attend to Madapple, but for now, we would be easy prey for any vampire, and so let us leave it to the expert." "If you think that's wisest, your grace..." "I do, Sancho. Now return to your slumber, and I'll rouse you the moment I see a vampire." "If you wish to borrow my necklace, your grace, you can defeat him alone, and wake me up when it's all over, too." "I'll do that, then. Get your rest, Sancho." And so Don Cocksote kept watch for another half an hour until the sounds stopped and he could return to his Hapsburg dreams, having honorably discharged his duties both to Sancho and to love. The next morning, the families reunited, and there was so much celebration that, were I to write down even half of what took place, this story would have to be submitted in two parts, and so it is with a heavy heart that I must omit what took place, except to say that nine months later, there were a number of new additions to the village. As the festivities wound down, Madapple approached our heroes with a beautiful, bespectacled, Celestial woman, whose two massive jugs attracted Sancho's gaze. She handed them to Sancho with a smile, who eager grasped them with both hands. "Here's your reward, as promised, Sancho," said Madapple. "As much of our beer as you can carry. And as for your reward, Don Cocksote..." "Put away your checkbook, Mister Madapple, and give my reward to Sancho in the kind to which he is accustomed. He risked his safety for mine last night, and danger or not, such bravery deserves its own reward. A few more dollars will not make me any happier, but I believe that Sancho's condition will be much improved." "Your grace... Thank you, sir, thank you!" "Think nothing of it, my friend. Had she been a real vampire, you would have saved my life!" "Can your Vespa carry any more, though? If you want, we can ship it your home, and it can wait there for you," offered Madapple. "A miracle delivered right to your door? Yes, please, Mister Madapple!" Sancho scribbled down his address on a piece of paper and handed it to the mayor. "Ah, but I have one more reward for you, Don Cocksote, one which will make you happier, I guarantee it." He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a yellowed map, marked with a large, red X. "Follow this map, and you'll find something wonderful at the X, something which you of all people can appreciate most. Well, I'll let you two be on your way. You've spent enough time here and accomplished enough. We can't thank you enough." "No thanks are needed! It is my sacred duty to bring lovers together whenever possible, and join those together who have been separated. But I thank you for the map, and I cannot wait to discovery whence it shall lead us. Are you ready, Sancho?" "Yes, your grace! The sooner we begin, the sooner we can take a rest stop and have an excuse for a drink! The early bird gets the worm, so let's leave now so we have time for a few stops before nightfall." "Onwards, then, to more adventures!" Chapter XI: In which the fabled and legendary Gates of Yamaku are found and a revelation is had. Don Cocksote and Sancho Pantsless left the town only a little later, after saying goodbye to Peter, Catherine, and the rest of the town, weighed down a little by full stomachs, and a little more by Sancho's reward. With Madapple's map to guide them, they passed through the countryside, past small towns and farms, over bridges and through tunnels, until finally, they approached a small city: their destination. Celery sputtered and gasped as they bobbed up and down the numerous hills and around the ubiquitous turns, until finally, they reached what they had come all this way to see. Don Cocksote stopped Celery and parked, leaving Sancho to diligently place a few quarters into the parking meter, lest they receive a ticket. By the time Sancho caught up with Don Cocksote, the old man was on his knees before a large, ornate gate. It was intricate black iron, with a red cross in a white oval at the top. On either side of it were tall, brick and stone columns. Behind the gate stood a wide field of green and behind that, a large, academic building. The History of Don Cocksote "The gates of Yamaku Academy!" cried Don Cocksote in disbelief. "I had no idea it was so near! I can scarcely believe that I have been so fortunate as to live to see these! Yamaku Academy: scene of the greatest romance of our age, known to young and old alike! Every intelligent person knows of the stories that have taken place just inside these gates!" "I've never heard of this place, your grace. Where are we?" "Never heard of Yamaku? You've never heard of Hisao and Hanako, or Lilly or Shizune or Rin or Emi? You've heard of none of them, Sancho?" "Not a one of them, your grace, unless Lilly's the flower, in which case I know that quite well. They're Theresa's favorite, and I always get her a bouquet for our anniversary. She prefers the white ones." "No, not the flowers, Sancho, although if it were possible to give form to a story, lilies would grow wherever it touched the ground. "No, the story of Yamaku Academy is the greatest I have ever experienced. Come, Sancho, let us explore this blessed isle!" Don Cocksote bounded through the gate while Sancho struggled to keep up. The good don looked this way and that, his eyes only stopping for the briefest of moments when we recognized a building or thought he recognized a person, but he never found those for whom he was searching. Even so, the smile on his face threatened to sever his skull in half, so wide and broad was it, and his bones were immune to fatigue, or so Sancho thought, with all the walking hither and thither that Don Cocksote did that day. Finally, satisfied that his eyes and ears had absorbed all there was to experience, he came to a rest upon a stone bench. A few moments later, Sancho arrived, dragging himself along and panting. "Your grace, I need to rest," he mumbled. "I can't keep up with you. Why are you so excited? This school looks plain to me, perhaps a little prettier than most, but I've seen pretty things before." "Ah, you can't understand without the story, Sancho. It's a wonderful tale of love," he began with a clearing of his throat. "A young man, Hisao, once came to this school, and fell in love here, with one of five virtuous maidens, and their love was so powerful that they brought forth all of the feelings from all who witnessed it, even from those thought to have neither heart nor soul nor brains." "One of five?" Sancho asked. "Which one did he end up with?" "You're speaking nonsense again, Sancho. Stories never end: authors just stop writing. But the story goes on and the characters continue to live their lives, even if unseen by readers' eyes. We may not know it, but even after the story ends, they keep going, and happy marriages bear fruit, and children grow up, and love blossoms and flowers, and even though we don't know what happens, we can imagine it, and craft our own stories, and if we're lucky, the author himself will check in on his friends from time to time and update us on their lives, and thusly we know what Eric and Megan get married, while Baoqing and Matthew have three children and live a happy life together until the end of their days." Don Cocksote sighed deeply. "But all this talk of love and ends has made me weary, my friend. Perhaps our own story has gone on too long, and it is time to end it. I realize now that I have focused so greatly on others' loves that I have neglected my own. What of my Rozabela de Norumbega? I know that she is out there somewhere, and yet I have not found her, instead wasting my time scurrying about, concerning myself with relationships that I cannot be a part of. "I think, perhaps, that it is time for us to part." Don Cocksote pulled a crumpled checkbook from his pocket, filled it out, and handed it to Sancho. "Here is your payment, my friend. You are free to do as you like." He stood up. "As for myself, I am going to find my Rozabela and find my own love, to nourish and raise until it is as tall and strong as the oldest oak in the Schwarzwald." Sancho took the check delicately. "I can do whatever I want, your grace?" Don Cocksote nodded solemnly. "Then I choose to stay with you," he replied, tearing the check in half. "My life has been more exciting than I can remember ever since we met, and I'm not ready to end this story yet. It must go on!" "Very well, then, Sancho! Onwards, to adventure! Let's find Rozabela de Norumbega!" "Yes, your grace!" The two of them, their energy renewed, their bodies rejuvenated, ran together to the gates and to Celery. Don Cocksote turned the ignition, and the small engine coughed to life. And from there, they left, leaving behind the gates of Yamaku Academy forever. However, here, this history must come to a pause, for the author of this history cannot find anything else written about the deeds of Don Cocksote. And yet there must exist more extant, hiding in ancient libraries and dusty tomes, for who among us is ignorant of Don Cocksote's other adventures, of his exhibitionist excursion to Neo-Mossynoecia, or of his erotic adventures that resulted in Sancho Pantsless becoming governor of an insula? Once these documents are found, this history shall continue, and with this thought in mind, do not despair, dear reader, for this author shall not sleep nor shave nor know the touch of a woman until he has brought to you the second part of the History of Don Cocksote. * * * * * Thank you for reading! Please vote and comment; I love to receive feedback from readers, and I'd greatly appreciate any comments or constructive criticism you may have. As you can probably tell, I really enjoyed writing this story. Hope you didn't need to use Google or a dictionary too much while reading this, but I trust that you learnt a few new things. This was my little affectionate take on erotica tropes and Don Quixote, with a swipe at Tirant lo Blanc thrown in for good measure. I'm sure we're all aware how unrealistic our stories can be sometimes, and I wanted to have a little fun with it. If you enjoyed the story, please check out my writing blog: there's a link to it in my profile. I update it regularly, so it's the best place to keep track of my stories and updates. I hope you enjoyed the story! And if there are any references you can't figure out, mention them in the comments, and I'll explain them. Thanks for reading!