Rosencrantz & Guildenstern, OCs [yes, really], Milliways

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

It was autumn in New York, the season when the leaves started to swirl around your feet and the wind was cold enough to turn up your collar.  The bird was on the wing, as the poet said, and another winter was on the way.  Rosencrantz picked up his steps as the winds howled, headed for the door of John Locke's.  A client had just sent his associate and himself upstate to "reason" with a certain recalcitrant debtor, a fruitful task that had taken several hours- after all, it was no little job to get a small-time hood to understand why he had to pay his debts according to Plato's definition of justice as offered in The Republic, or to explain how their treatment of him was in accord with John Stuart Mill's thoughts on utilitarian ethics.

Of course, they had also hit on him a bit with the pipe wrench.  Looking back, that was what had finally convinced the man.  But you could get just any thug to hit people with a pipe wrench, and Rosencrantz liked to think they had implanted a bit of the true philisophical spirit in Nicky the Hammer.  Maybe enough that they would not have to hit him with the wrench anymore.

Rosencrantz pushed the door open and walked in.  A few seconds later he stopped and turned, instinctively lifting his trombone case to keep from hitting the man behind him.

"Guildenstern...are my senses deceiving me, or does this not look like Locke's to you?"