Everyone here'd love to be you, Gaston.
Even when taking your lumps...
●●●●●
"Get outta the road, asshole!"
With a strange, blaring horn, a yellow carriage barreled down the road towards him. Or at least that's what Gaston thought it was. The metal wagon was entirely horseless, and the driver appeared to be sitting inside the buggy instead of on top.
"Use the fuckin' crosswalk, moron!"
As Gaston scrambled to get out of the way, the driver continued to hurl insults that he was sure would have made even the most seasoned of fishermen blush. Even amongst the confines of his tavern, Gaston had never heard such foul language before.
With a confused scowl, Gaston stood on the corner of the sidewalk, debating where to go next. Like a stubborn pebble in the middle of a strong current, the crowds of people parted and rushed around him. Some appeared annoyed-- or at the very least, inconvenienced-- but most, never once, even bothered to look up at him.
"What an interesting hat," Gaston commented as a red-headed, teenager paused alongside him.
The stripped tail on the fur cap swung wildly back and forth with every movement of the boy's head.
"I hope you don't mind me asking," Gaston spoke up as he pointed to the teen's head. "But what is that made of?"
"Your mom's chest hair!"
As the flashing white hand in front of them suddenly turned into an orange silhouette, the boy glared over his shoulder before sticking his tongue out at Gaston. If they had been back in France, the hunter would have pursued the little wretch and tanned his miserable hide. But as the boy ran across the busy road that Gaston had just clambered from moments ago, he decided the brat just wasn't worth the effort.
Every where he turned there were fluorescent lights and copious amounts of noise. God, there was so much noise-- and the people of this strange, new world were even more rude than he could have ever imagined. Not to mention, their faces were all buried in some sort of animated, hand-held device. Eye contact was practically impossible here, if not entirely non-existent.
As he began strolling down a particularly bright patch of sidewalk, a glowing, white and green mermaid suddenly caught his eye. The smile on her face seemingly mocked him as he stared in a dazed stupor at the people walking out with the most awful smelling shite in their cups.
"Should be called dead-bucks," Gaston muttered as he read the wording above the doorway.
With a heavy sigh, Gaston continued moving down the street.
"Hey, you!" A portly looking fellow, dressed in a navy-blue uniform yelled out. With a raised brow, Gaston turned towards the man. "Yeah, you!" He pointed towards the hunter. "You got a permit?"
"Permit?" Gaston frowned down at the man. "A permit for what?"
"Oh, a real smart guy, eh?" The man snorted with a roll of his eyes. "Everyone knows you need a special permit to carry within city limits."
"Carry?" Gaston shook his head in confusion. "I don't-- carry what?"
"Alright! I'm only gonna ask you nicely for this once." With a hand suddenly placed on the holster of his gun, the man gazed up at Gaston expectantly. "C'mon," he gestured towards Gaston's pistol. "Hand it over, big guy."
Gaston weighed his options as he looked down at the man. He had no idea who this guy was, but judging by his authoritative tone and formal attire, the hunter could only assume the man was apart of the city's night watch.
"Hand it over?" He could feel his temper rise as he repeated the words. Though he was positive he could best the man, albeit in strength or by speed, Gaston slowly unbuttoned the leather strap and handed over his pistol.
"Wait a minute," the man chuckled as he turned over the weapon in his hand. "Why didn't you just say it was an antique?"
"An antique?" Gaston was appalled, his mouth falling agape, but he was stopped short when another man in blue approached them.
"Everything alright here, Maddox?"
"Yeah, Sarge." The man acknowledged his taller superior with a quick nod. "I thought he might have been our 10-32 from earlier, but it's just an antique."
With an outstretched hand, the Sergeant took the gun into his own hand.
"Double-barrel flintlock," the taller of the two muttered. "Refurbishment? Or--"
"It's an original," Gaston snapped. "And if we're all good here, I'd prefer to be on my way."
The tips of the huntsman's ears were beginning to burn as he reached for his pistol. How dare they disarm him and then insult one of his most prized hunting possessions. Many of the creatures mounted on the walls of his hunting lodge back home had been taken down by that 'antique'.
"Yeah, alright." The man called 'Sarge' replied warily as he handed Gaston back his gun. "I can see by your interesting choice in fashion that you're not from around here."
Gaston gave his pants and red, leather jacket a once over before glancing back at the two watchmen. "I can assure you, this is all the rage in France," Gaston defended.
"Maybe at the turn of the century," Maddox snickered before elbowing the Sergeant in his ribs.
The two burst into a chorus of laughter as they turned away from Gaston.
"Just stay out of trouble there, pretty boy," Sarge called back over his shoulder. "Cause I'm pretty sure you wouldn't last longer than five seconds in the pumpkin patch."
*****
Gaston readjusted his coat collar as another harsh wind whipped against him. The sun had set a few hours ago, and a light drizzle had begun shortly after that. With no place to call home, the large hunter was forced to take shelter under an awning with a few other poor, unfortunate souls.
As he had aimlessly ambled along the streets of New York, it wasn't hard to see why the Enchantress had sent him here. Sure he had deserved to be sent to a place without happy endings, but at least Hell would have been warm.
Mindlessly, Gaston fingered the sack of coins dangling from his belt. He had attempted to secure a room for the night, but the clerk at the front desk of the establishment had laughed in his face when he tried to pay with the gold francs. After suggesting he visit currency exchange in the morning, Gaston had found himself not so kindly escorted from the building and tossed back out on the streets for the remainder of the night.
Not surprisingly, that was how he had ended up here. Standing shoulder to shoulder with some of the most putrid beggars he had ever had the misfortune of smelling. As a toothless old woman smiled up at him, Gaston rolled his eyes in disgust before looking away. He'd had one encounter too many with an ugly hag to be amused.
Suddenly, the old loon shoved Gaston, easily catching him off balance and knocking him over. As the large huntsman crashed to the ground, the beggar reached out and snatched up his coin purse. She gave a shriek of excitement as she ran out into the city, disappearing down a dark alley as she went.
Immediately, Gaston was up and chasing after her. He probably should have just let it go. That certainly seemed like the easiest option, but he was a hunter-- and in the moment, years of combat training combined with natural instinct had taken over. He could definitely track down one crazy old bat. But it wasn't until he found himself scaling the slippery shingles of an old cathedral tower, that he stopped to wonder-- should he?
The scene before him seemed all too familiar as large rain drops splashed in his face. Just twenty-four hours ago he had been in the same predicament, dangling from the top of Beast's castle. Gaston grimaced, his grip beginning to slip. Only this time, it wasn't the claw of a furry beast that would bring him back to safety.
"Just hold on there!" A soft voice called out to him. "I've got you!"
As he clung to the ledge for all he was worth, a delicate hand reached down.
"C'mon, take my hand!" She yelled. "I promise I won't let you fall!"
And in that moment, Gaston wondered if maybe-- just maybe-- he had died and gone to heaven instead.