January 7, 2010

The coxcomb was fit to be tied. After the fitting, he was free for the rest of the afternoon. He wandered the streets, gazing into various shop windows and dreaming of unprecedented fame. Urchins assaulted him verbally many times, physically twice. Finally, he repaired to his favorite fish shop for a bite to eat.

“What’ll it be, CC? The usual?” asked the proprietor, freeing himself with some difficulty from the hammerlock of his burly wench wife.

“A single sardine, Jean Pierre. I was fitted earlier and mustn’t gain weight,” said the coxcomb.

“To be tied?” queried the host, kicking at his helpmate, who was intent on burying her teeth in his ankle.

“True,” confirmed the coxcomb, bobbing his head and smiling proudly.

“Well, good luck to you,” offered the shopowner, handing a sardine to the coxcomb while fending off a knife attack from the mother of his children.

The coxcomb bowed away after consuming the sardine and reported to the fortress at 6 o’clock sharp. There he was tied.

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