I agree that my ego is large. But I am a large man, what do you expect? I am tall, handsome, a skilled huntsman and at least as strong as four average men. I have worked very hard, training myself to be the best I can be, and better than anyone else.
It all started when I was just a lad. My father was like me, big, strong and handsome. He was the best huntsman this town has ever known – until I was, but that is beside the point – and everyone loved him. He wanted me to become just like him, and better. But I wasn't always this strong. I was born a little too early, so for the first few years of my life I was weak and scrawny. Luckily I was too young to remember any of that. When I was five, my father decided it was time for me to start manning up.
"We've got to stop treating him like a flower, Isabelle," My father said to my mother, "or else he'll grow up that way."
My mother was a worrier, and very over protective. She had lost several children before they were born before, so being the only child to have survived she wanted to make sure I continued to.
"But he is strong, Armand, he is the only one who lived."
"Yet you won't let him live."
That day my father went out and purchased as many chickens as he could get his hands on – we were not a poor family, my father did relatively well selling the skins and meat of the animals he had hunted – then from that morning on my breakfast consisted of eggs. Two dozen until I reached the age of seven, then at the age of ten my portion increased to four dozen. Father started keeping the bigger game for us and selling the smaller so I could have good red meat to build muscle. I hunted with him. He taught me everything he knew and I figured out how to improve it. I was never book smart but I had instinct. My reflexes were fast, my eyesight sharp and there was not a better shot with any weapon around by the time I was twelve. Not even my father could beat me in a shooting contest. Soon I was selling as much game as him as well.
Then when I was fifteen, my mother got sick. She was pregnant again, but she wasn't holding up well in the winter's cold even though we had several dear and bear skin blankets piled on top of her. We brought in the best doctor we could find, and offered him anything if he could make her better. But he couldn't, my mother was a lost cause. She died a week later. It was just my father and I. We got along well, spoke the same language. Not words though, actions. We didn't cry, at least not in front of others. Yet we both knew each other's pain, and sadness. Hunting was a good way to keep our minds off of it, but my father's aim kept getting worse. He got worse. Even though he was strong, the strength of his will no longer matched the strength of his body.
When I was eighteen we were hunting a large bear in the woods, the biggest either of us had ever seen. He was caught in our trap, roaring and slashing at the air trying to break free. The victory was ours, we had him in our trap all we had to do was put the beast down. I was already thinking about what we could do with the fur. Sell it and make enough money to buy my father and I matching rifles – and not just any rifles, but rifles of the highest craftsmanship that could stop a beast in a single shot – or keep it as a trophy and feast on the meat and put the skin in the center of our house. But during my dreaming my father had went in with an axe. He had a perfectly good rifle but he decided to use his axe. He was yelling at the bear, hacking at it. The bear was roaring back, batting at him. I aimed at the beast, figured my father was just making himself a distraction, and fired one off into the beast's back. The beast roared with agony and started swatting more aggressively.
"No son, let me do this," he grunted.
My father was agile, dodged most of them. He knew what he was doing, or at least that's what I told myself. "Probably just getting a good adrenalin rush," I thought to myself.
Until the beast knocked the axe out of his hand. Father reached for his rifle but it was too late, the beast's claws had sunk into his chest, ripping his clothes and flesh. As I saw my father crumple to the ground, I quickly loaded my gun and fired into the filthy monster's head until he was just a heap on the forest floor. I ran to my father, but it was too late, he was gone. There was a faint smile on his face though, which could mean anything I thought. "He was probably just glad he died like this, in battle with a ferocious beast. There's no way he just planned to go out and die like that. It was just bad luck."
I ended up selling the bear, to pay for my father's funeral. I didn't cry, at least not until I was at home alone. I made a vow to protect anyone, everyone from dirty beasts, man or animal. If I died, I would die valiantly in battle like my father, only protecting the town or whoever.
Now I have my trusty lackey Lefou and my eye on the town beauty Belle. I am the strongest most handsome man in town and yet she still wouldn't have me. But now it seems as if she has gotten herself kidnapped by a beast. And you can bet I will do anything I can to save her.
My name is Gaston, and I am not evil, I am a protector.