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.