Roscoe

Roscoe in a Courtly Mode

On the road, Roscoe met the women who died of love, some naked, some garbed as when love took them, a legion stretching to the horizon.

“Roscoe, Roscoe,” one warned as they passed, “love is a form of war.”

“I always knew that,” he said.

“Keep yourself chaste for your beloved,” said a woman dressed as a bride, “and if you want love, avoid lies and avarice.”

“I have no beloved, lies are my business, and without avarice we’d have chaos in City Hall,” Roscoe told her.

“Do not lust for every woman,” said a naked siren, still voluptuous in death, “for that turns a man into a shameless dog. Seek love where nubile women are found: the horse races, the theater, the law courts.”

“I’ve looked in all those places, but I’ve yet to find one for me. You have a nubile look about you. What are you doing tonight?”

“Nice try,” said the dead siren. “Just keep remembering that the pursuit of love makes an ugly man handsome, a fat man thin, that love transforms shame into glory, and falsity into truth. And if you fail with love, your only consolation is food and drink.”

Then she passed on, and Roscoe was enveloped by hunger, thirst, desire, and gloom.