A Different Story, part 1minutia_rOctober 6 2010, 16:55:43 UTC
Hey, you know why the Beast's real name is Adam? Because he's called the beast when he's a beast and "man" when he's a man, get it? I can't believe I first saw this movie when I was twelve and only just now realized that. Anyway, here's the story, or at least the first part thereof:
***
Gaston was many things. He was a lover and a fighter. He was a hunter, and a drinker, a sparkling conversationalist and a nearly godlike specimen of masculine beauty. He was not a florist.
But when the girl he intended to marry told him she’d reconsider his suit if he brought her a rose from the ruined castle in the woods, that was a different story. And when she’d slammed the door and muttered, loud enough for him to hear, “That’s gotten rid of him for a few days at least,” that was a different story altogether.
He’d get her a rose. He’d get her a dozen roses. He’d fill her bedroom with roses, and present himself on the bed, artfully strewed with petals -- he’d get LeFou to do the artful strewing. No one got rid of Gaston that easily.
Still -- he wished he’d left the village a bit earlier in the morning. The walk through the woods had been pleasant enough, with the sun shining and the birds singing. Gaston has manfully stayed focused on his mission and not taken a shot at any of them. And climbing over the castle walls had been invigorating. The only problem was, it had taken him all afternoon. The sun was setting by the time he found the shattered greenhouse. Wind whistled mournfully through the cracks, and the jagged teeth of glass glinted red and orange. It was -- well, it was spooky.
But damned if he was going to go back empty-handed now. He slipped through one of the broken panes, getting half-a-dozen shallow cuts in the process. Brambles caught at his hair as he strode along the weed-choked paths. Finally, swarming up a trellis and over the remains of a domed roof, he saw what he was looking for.
The trellis creaked and swayed under his weight when he started to climb it. Swallowing, Gaston took another step and reached out for a rose. A low growl erupted behind him, and he promptly fell on his ass into a clump of thorns.
In another moment, he was back on his feet, blunderbuss in his hands, scanning the bushes where the noise had come from. A flash of dark fur, of pale curled horn, and Gaston shot. Screw roses, anyway -- what girl could resist the freshly severed head of some majestic forest creature? He raised his blunderbuss for another try when a great clawed hand struck it away from him. The other hand was around his throat, lifting him off the ground seemingly with no effort.
“You’re trespassing,” rumbled the beast in a deep and sexy voice -- Gaston meant a deep and scary voice -- which is to say that the voice had no effect on him whatsoever. “And you shot at me.”
“No -- please --” Gaston tried to say. It came out more like “Ngh-- ghlz--” Gaston had once wrestled a five-point stag into submission with his bare hands, but this beast dragged him along with no more concern for his struggles than if Gaston had been a kitten that the beast intended to drown. Thankfully, Gaston didn’t see any ponds on his jouncing journey across the grounds. Instead, the beast took him to a dungeon, threw open the door of one of the cells, and tossed him in.
Gaston landed in a heap in the corner, and rubbed his abused throat. “What . . .” he coughed and tried again. “Whatever you’re planning to do with me, you won’t get away with it.”
“Do?” snarled the beast, slamming the door shut again and fastening the bolt. “I’m not going to do anything. You can rot, for all I care.”
Gaston flung himself against the bars of his cell. “Wait!” he cried. But there was no answer, except echoes from the empty dungeon.
***
Gaston was many things. He was a lover and a fighter. He was a hunter, and a drinker, a sparkling conversationalist and a nearly godlike specimen of masculine beauty. He was not a florist.
But when the girl he intended to marry told him she’d reconsider his suit if he brought her a rose from the ruined castle in the woods, that was a different story. And when she’d slammed the door and muttered, loud enough for him to hear, “That’s gotten rid of him for a few days at least,” that was a different story altogether.
He’d get her a rose. He’d get her a dozen roses. He’d fill her bedroom with roses, and present himself on the bed, artfully strewed with petals -- he’d get LeFou to do the artful strewing. No one got rid of Gaston that easily.
Still -- he wished he’d left the village a bit earlier in the morning. The walk through the woods had been pleasant enough, with the sun shining and the birds singing. Gaston has manfully stayed focused on his mission and not taken a shot at any of them. And climbing over the castle walls had been invigorating. The only problem was, it had taken him all afternoon. The sun was setting by the time he found the shattered greenhouse. Wind whistled mournfully through the cracks, and the jagged teeth of glass glinted red and orange. It was -- well, it was spooky.
But damned if he was going to go back empty-handed now. He slipped through one of the broken panes, getting half-a-dozen shallow cuts in the process. Brambles caught at his hair as he strode along the weed-choked paths. Finally, swarming up a trellis and over the remains of a domed roof, he saw what he was looking for.
The trellis creaked and swayed under his weight when he started to climb it. Swallowing, Gaston took another step and reached out for a rose. A low growl erupted behind him, and he promptly fell on his ass into a clump of thorns.
In another moment, he was back on his feet, blunderbuss in his hands, scanning the bushes where the noise had come from. A flash of dark fur, of pale curled horn, and Gaston shot. Screw roses, anyway -- what girl could resist the freshly severed head of some majestic forest creature? He raised his blunderbuss for another try when a great clawed hand struck it away from him. The other hand was around his throat, lifting him off the ground seemingly with no effort.
“You’re trespassing,” rumbled the beast in a deep and sexy voice -- Gaston meant a deep and scary voice -- which is to say that the voice had no effect on him whatsoever. “And you shot at me.”
“No -- please --” Gaston tried to say. It came out more like “Ngh-- ghlz--” Gaston had once wrestled a five-point stag into submission with his bare hands, but this beast dragged him along with no more concern for his struggles than if Gaston had been a kitten that the beast intended to drown. Thankfully, Gaston didn’t see any ponds on his jouncing journey across the grounds. Instead, the beast took him to a dungeon, threw open the door of one of the cells, and tossed him in.
Gaston landed in a heap in the corner, and rubbed his abused throat. “What . . .” he coughed and tried again. “Whatever you’re planning to do with me, you won’t get away with it.”
“Do?” snarled the beast, slamming the door shut again and fastening the bolt. “I’m not going to do anything. You can rot, for all I care.”
Gaston flung himself against the bars of his cell. “Wait!” he cried. But there was no answer, except echoes from the empty dungeon.
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