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

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[wordsareall]

"I dun' believe he ever owned a tavern," says a fellow a few tables away.

... What?

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

Huh?

Rosencrantz turns slowly to one side.

"I can assure that he does, on seventeenth and Lexington on da island of Manhattan. But, uh, who might you be? I'm afraid I was talkin' to my compatriot here."

[wordsareall]

"Guildenstern; why, don't you know which one you are?"

The way he's saying it, it isn't clear whether he's calling himself Guildenstern, or addressing the other man.

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

This in confusing.

"But he's Guildenstern." Pointing to the man who walked in with him.

[agreathunter]

"Your senses aren't deceiving you," says a man at a nearby table. "I'd know if it were my place."

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

"Indeed it does not appear to be Locke's." He turns. "But youse do not appear to be da Locke I knows, which I suppose is only to be expected since this is not da bar I knows either."

[agreathunter]

"Oh, no. If I were the Locke you knew I'd recognize you, but I don't. And you're in Milliways Bar. Bar at the end of the universe. Everybody walks into this place knowing it's someplace they've never been to before."

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

"Ah." Rosencrantz looks puzzled for a moment, though not for the reason most new entries do.

"But how do we truly know it is da end of da universe?"

[mm_lorna]

Shouldering his saxophone case, Guildenstern, in true philosophical manner, steps forward to take a gander before answering the other man's question. His eyes travel slowly from the bar...to the jukebox...to the vast, spiraling explosion through the viewing window, and shakes his head.

"It doesn't look like Locke's...but youse know, appearances can be deceiving. Might it not be the case that we never really saw the place before as it truly is?"

All this...spoken in a heavy South Philadelphia accent.

"On the other hand, does it matter?"

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

Rosencrantz nods, slowly, before turning to look at his partner.

"Youse have a distinct point, my friend. And of course, this might simply be a trick played by a malin genie, after da manner of Descartes. How does we know that we are physical beings at all?"

His accent is equally thick.

[just_as_mad]

"You and your Descartes," grumbles the other, though not unkindly. "If youse can feel, youse is a physical bein'. I thought we went over dis wid our friend back dere. He was corporeal, derefore he is. Otherwise, we would seriously have to rethink our method of persuasion."

He waves his free hand in the air, in the manner of one accepting a point awarded.

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

"That may be true." Rosencrantz tilts his head slightly. "But perhaps he is but a disembodied consciousness, as are we all, merely responding to da stimulus dat we tink we are applyin to his illusionary body. A true disciple of Descartes would argue dat it is not the lead pipe to da teeth dat truly persuades a man, but da perception of his mind dat he has been smashed with a lead pipe about the teeth."

Rosencrantz, obviously, is such a disciple. He even named one of his pipe wrenches Rene.