The Beast

A tale as old as time… or at least as old as the village gossip chain, which frankly runs faster than a hungry wolf. The Beast. You’ve heard of him, right? Half man, half fur rug, all legend. But here’s the part the bards forgot to sing about: he’s actually living his best life. He’s got it made. Best friend Gaston? Check. Weekend hunting trips where they argue over who bagged the bigger buck? Check. Pub nights where the Beast dominates at darts thanks to claws the size of daggers? Double check. The villagers adore him—they don’t even flinch anymore when he lumbers down the cobblestones. Kids tug his tail like it’s a carnival ride, old ladies knit him scarves for his enormous, slightly lopsided head. Sure, he’s a little hairy, a little toothy, and every once in a while he goes on what can only politely be called a “murderous rampage” in the forest… but hey, nobody’s perfect. Semantics, really. The real monster? Oh, that would be Belle. Yes, yes, everyone thinks she’s the poor, innocent, bookish girl. Wrong. That woman is the village’s most committed stalker. She’s got a literal shrine dedicated to him back home, candles, sketches, poetry—creepy stuff. She lurks outside his castle windows reciting bad sonnets. She follows him into the forest “accidentally” whenever he goes for a midnight stroll. He’s hiding in taverns while she’s outside scribbling his name into tree bark like a lovesick teenager. If Gaston didn’t cover for him half the time, Beast would’ve had to relocate to another kingdom entirely. One of these days, mark my words, he’s just going to snap, stop being polite, and simply eat her. Not because he’s hungry. Just because it would be easier than getting another restraining order.