COUNTDOWN: 21 DAYS

Gaston was two drinks from finishing a pint of la bière anglaise, a speciality of the tavern which he technically owned but did not run. He didn't need the responsibility of operating a tavern on his already full to-do list. Especially if it was inhabited by this bunch of weirdos, who would sit on the damned chandeliers when you let them. He observed them: one group playing pinfinger, one man pouring a beer into a bowl for his pet dog, and the lone female patron being carried out unconscious by a man that Gaston knew (thankfully) was her husband.

Gaston took his second to last sip of beer, looking cozy enough seated in his favorite spot: a chair of his own design, made up from sundry dead animal pieces. He'd known how to do taxidermy before he'd known how to shave, or had needed to. Despite a rough background, he had some instinct for art and beauty; and the anatomical knowledge he gained from killing his animals himself meant he had an unusually fine understanding of the way to stuff them. His artistic skill was displayed across the entire tavern decor; and also in many other properties he owned about the town. Such had been his family's livelihood for generations back, since a time when all of the village was simply one great-great-great grandfather's farm. Gaston personally owned the lone street and all the buildings on it (apart from the bookshop, which his parents had lost in a fateful lawsuit). This whole tavern was effectively one of his trophies.

The small size of the town meant that Gaston wasn't rich by any French nobleman's standard, but nonetheless he was likely to be the wealthiest man any of the villagers would ever meet. His simple tastes, and the fact that he had been accustomed to relative poverty until he'd received his inheritance at age twenty-one, didn't leave him with much to spend all that money on besides his hunting equipment. He wasn't greedy, nor was he interested in making more than he already had. He lived well enough, and was content with that.

This day had been hard work indeed. He had spent the bulk of it repairing a hole in a tenant's ceiling, and the constant reaching and leaning and looking upward left even his huge and handsome muscles feeling sore. The long sleeved daffodil-yellow shirt he wore was soiled with dirt and plaster that had fallen down upon him. The work was, moreover, mind-drainingly boring. The most interesting part had been when he'd glanced out the window to see some girl being sexually harassed in the street. It was the inventor's kid — he couldn't remember what her name was, and didn't much care.

It was usual that, for both his own entertainment and that of his peers, he would liven up the tavern by singing a song or telling a spooky story — typical bar room behavior in a village that was centuries away from having a jukebox or television. People had to make their own entertainment, and Gaston was an entertaining one for sure. He had honed his storytelling skills on childhood hunting trips with his cousins, telling tales around the campfire, always looking to outdo his companions. His singing was self-taught, inspired by hearing a troupe of traveling actors at the annual Boef Gras, who could sing so loud they were heard from the back row. He wanted to do that, and he had annoyed his ever-patient mom for a year or two trying to perfect that style with his childish vocals. Once he was older, and his voice finally changed — watch out La Scala!

Seeing that the place needed some music, he stood up and belted:

Drink! Drink! Drink!

To arms that are white

And as warm as a rose in the sun!

Drink! Drink! Drink!

To hearts that will love

One only when I am the one!

Here's a hope that those soft arms will twine

Tenderly, trustingly, soon around mine!

May she give me a priceless boon:

Her love beneath the sweet May moon!

Drink! Drink! Let the toast start!

May young hearts never part!

Drink! Drink! Drink!

Let every true lover salute his sweetheart!

Let's drink!

It was a song like any other — a song learnt by rote. Gaston had no lover in mind as he put on his performance. He simply hit his notes and soaked up the attention it brought him.

Yet even that wasn't making him feel better on this occasion. Delighted as was the tavern audience, Gaston simply found himself in the midst of a group of potato-shaped people that only exacerbated his sense of alienation. He finished the tune, and decided to call it an early night. With the song's conclusion, he took his final sip of beer.

Tromping across the tavern's wooden floorboards, his path to the door was interrupted by the crackling call of his old friend and brewmaster.

"Hey, Gaston," said Limey Bastard, his nickname earned by being the man who first brought beer to the small French town that had only known wine, liqueurs and moonshine before. "There's an utterly hideous old lady at the back door. Wants to come inside. Says she won't buy anything, but she's offering a rose if we let her in."

Gaston shrugged tiredly, immediately regretting the flexing of his sore muscles. Their massiveness was that much more of an area to feel pain in. "So? Let her in," he said. "It's not like anyone else here is winning beauty pageants, but me." He caught his own reflection on a window pane and smiled at himself.

While Gaston wasn't really one to think about why he behaved the way he did, his infamous fondness for seeing his own reflection was a bit more complicated than mere megalomania. For one, it helped him to see what others were seeing, which on a practical level could help him to make any needed corrections. It also cheered him — on a very deep, unconscious level, it helped to reassure him in this strange world where he always seemed to be an outsider: a shining You Are Here spot on the map to help him orient himself. It was comforting, especially in moments where he seemed to be at odds with the world… which had an unfortunate effect of leading him to stare at his reflection during inopportune times when, to others, it seemed he ought to be focusing on what was around him rather than how he looked amongst it.

In short: his vanity was a nervous tic.

"She's really hideous," continued Limey Bastard, concern in his tone. "You should come out to look at her — "

"Jeez! Limey Bastard, why would I want to look at her if she's hideous? I look at enough ugly people every day," snapped Gaston, gathering his cape from the wall peg. "Just let her in. Better she's in here where everyone's too drunk to see straight. They'll probably mistake her for the prettiest girl in town."

Limey Bastard shrugged and retreated to the back, to let the old woman inside. Gaston fastened his wool cape of admiral blue about his shoulders.

It was one of those strange years, when Nature can't decide whether it is time for the bloom of spring or if winter's frost should persist well past May. A few warm days would come, the trees would start to blossom and grow lush. Then, just as everything seemed thriving and ready for new life, another cold snap would settle on and kill it all, yellowing the baby leaves and compelling the tired branches to wither and try again.

The little provincial town looked quaint when the sunlight shined upon its half-dead plants. But, by night in a town that had no street lighting, verdant green or sallow brown didn't matter.

Emerging into the cold night air, Gaston felt an ache in his arm. His right radius bone had been broken many years before, and it still pained him whenever the air became chilly or damp. He groaned aloud. Adding to his aggravation was the immediate whiff of feces all around him — horse, pig, cow, human. Even in winter, the density of the town's buildings (for this was before sewage) in combination with the popularity of work animals and the livestock of the surrounding farms, ensured that the quiet little town always smelled awful. It was one more reason that his favorite place to be was in the fresh, clean forest with its vegetative aroma.

To Gaston's dismay, he found that the intense fecal odor stemmed predominantly from a mound of something that he had already stepped in. Evidently some dog or drunkard hadn't found it fit to move beyond the tavern's front door before relieving himself.

Vile creatures. How hard was it to move a few steps to the side? Disgusted and annoyed, this was nevertheless hardly the first occasion on which he'd had to deal with this. He trudged to the nearby fountain and quickly swished his boot through the water to rinse it off. Damp coldness began to infiltrate his sock, but he figured, at least, he wasn't far from home and wouldn't need to bear it long.

From behind, Gaston could hear a ruckus brewing in the tavern — cheerful hoots and halloos, like something fun transpired within its walls. He wondered if he ought to go back inside and find out what it was. But, reckoning from the tone of it, likely it was just some drunk girl had taken her top off. He didn't care much for that. Really not much fun to see a topless girl if you are thoroughly unattracted to her.

Gaston had never been attracted to any girl in all his life. Many people, who either had observed this or had heard it stated from the man directly, presumed that it meant he was homosexual; but Gaston had never been attracted to any man in all his life, either. He just didn't see anybody who stirred anything in him — apart from himself. The ideal that he could be sexual made him feel so, at times; but it was never meant for anyone else's benefit. Even his hideously unattractive cousin, Robert called "LeFou", had had a girlfriend already. LeFou could easily find a girl at his level in the town. Meanwhile, Gaston, though loathe to admit it, had never even merited a kiss — at least not from anyone he wanted kissing him.

He had always been good looking. Even when a child, adults were awestruck by his beauty. The other kids noticed it too; but they considered it disturbing. Before he had adopted his daily hours of exercise, the work to make himself big and burly… little Gaston had been beat up a lot. He fought back valiantly enough to make it clear to his young peers that they took a risk when they picked on him, but childhood is not a time of great restraint. He had been obliged to learn swift and quiet movement as he walked, to avoid attention from local bullies; in turn he had become very good at observing his surroundings, in case other kids were laying in wait for the pretty boy who liked to look at himself in reflective surfaces.

Still, when it came to the response to his youthful good looks, the adults were even worse, especially the men. The kind who were openly stirred by his beautiful appearance were more dangerous than the bullies. By age six he knew enough about the ways of the world to comprehend exactly what they were trying to do with him. He had to avoid falling prey. When he was small, it was easy enough to steer clear of them; but as the age of the men in question began to more closely resemble his own, it had become increasingly difficult to differentiate friend from foe. But, necessity being mother of invention, he had developed a system that worked. These adaptive skills had become second nature, and proved useful in other situations — like hunting.

Notwithstanding the price he paid for his appearance, Gaston knew that his looks were an advantage to him, and he had cultivated them. When people were moved by his stunning figure, he received from them more regard, respect, and admiration than he seemed to be due under another circumstance. Gaston without his prettiness was… well, kind of a socially inept weirdo. Through many hours of exercise and deliberate makeovers, Gaston had brought his own body up to his own standard of beauty. He had been able to imagine what he wanted to be, and found the way to make it real. It required work and sacrifice, but he'd accomplished the dream — and evidently it was appreciated by the townsfolk. They loved it, and loved to look at him.

But to those who supposed that the only reason to look good was to attract people of the opposite sex, the sheer amount of work he put into his appearance seemed baffling when laid against his subsequent lack of interest in women, or really, in anyone. Indeed, he had never been in a romantic relationship, nor wanted one. It was the simple fact that it made him happy to look good. There was a special joy he felt when he observed himself in a mirror; a reassurance that he was something good in this world that appeared perpetually smeared with animal feces.

Indeed, Gaston could make himself stand out in a crowd; but he was never going to fit in. And to be so unique of a piece meant there was never a matching mate to be found.

Arm aching, foot freezing, and muscles still sore, Gaston hurried to his own door with a genuine eagerness to get upstairs for a good night's rest.

His home's doorway had been awkwardly widened some years ago, after he had grown too large to fit through the original frame. As he entered his peculiarly yet impeccably decorated abode, he smiled a little. It was hard to pinpoint what made his taxidermies, his trinkets, his beat up old furniture come together so beautifully, but it was so.

In his own room, while undressing for bed, he heard frantic and distinctively short-legged footsteps coming up the stairs into the house. It was LeFou, his cousin. They had lived together for the past ten years.

"Gaston!" cried LeFou from the livingroom, almost in a panic. "Gaston! You here?"

Gaston was annoyed at the interruption. "What is it now?" he called back, rubbing his sore shoulder and regretting that he hadn't gone to bed already so he could pretend deafness to his cousin's whining.

Gaston heard in turn the scuttling, and a few crashing sounds as his cousin wildly ran through the house, knocking things over. In a moment he burst through the bedroom door, out of breath. He carried in one hand a large, long-stemmed rose.

"Gaston, you missed what went on at the tavern!" cried LeFou.

Gaston stood shirtless in his bedroom, his almost laughably hairy torso on display, with a lone candle burning for light. "I'd heard something start up. What was it? A riot? A murder? A poetry recital?"

"No! Gaston, it was crazy! There was this hideous old lady that showed up, then all of a sudden she turned into a beautiful blonde, all dressed in green!"

Gaston started laughing. "In green, huh? Let me guess — absinthe again?" The local moonshine, made from wormwood, was notorious for producing hallucinations of beauty, oftentimes with a greenish cast to the fantasies.

"No, Gaston! This was real!" insisted LeFou, stepping forward and holding out the red blossom. "There were flashing lights, she bloomed like a flower. We all saw it! She said she wanted to reward the person who let her in. Limey Bastard said you'd given the okay, so she told us to give you this rose. And then she started dancing for the rest of us!"

Gaston shook his head, smiling. "Ah, LeFou. Any woman looks good to you. You fellows just slobbered over the same old crone who came in, once the booze hit you hard enough."

"I'm telling you, Gaston!" LeFou pushed the rose at Gaston eagerly.

Gaston grabbed LeFou by the wrist and dangled the little man so that the flower was held at his own eye level. He perused the blossom. "And what am I supposed to do with it?"

"Oh!" LeFou remembered there had been some kind of instruction. "She said you could use it to call her… if you… uh, what did she say?" He scratched his head with his free hand, inadvertently dislodging some dandruff and dirt.

"You're too drunk, LeFou," said Gaston with disgust. He claimed the flower and dropped LeFou to the floor with a hard thud.

A single flower. With instructions. Probably she wanted him to deliver it to her bedroom window during the night, where she'd invite him inside and expect this handsome devil to cheerfully fuck her silly, like he didn't have better stuff to do.

To Gaston it seemed plain that this ugly old woman was just one more pervert, trying to get at him.

Gaston looked around his room for somewhere to dump this bloomy thing. He noticed the box of his perfumed body powder out on his dressing table. In spite of his manliness, he was partial to beautifying powders, perfumes and pomades. (Or rather, his manliness was necessitated because of this fondness, which others had tended to view as effeminate in his youth.) His dusting powder, he knew, was scented with flowers. He opened the pasteboard lid and dropped the rose inside, so it would impart a bit more of its fine perfume to the mixture he used each day to combat the vile smells of humanity all around him.

"What are you doing, Gaston?"

"I'm putting it into my dusting powder. It's about all a plant's good for. I don't need a decoration of flowers in here! Why, if I need something pretty to look at — well —" Gaston began to stare at himself in the mirror on the dressing table and said no more.

"You're going to end up like that Necrosis guy," said LeFou, shaking his head in dismay.

"Who?" Gaston asked, baffled.

"Necro… Narco… something like that. In the old story, remember it from the school readers? He was a beautiful hunter, and he stared at himself in a lake till he kissed the water and turned into a flower, and some girl was in love with him and he wouldn't pay attention to her, and she turned into a voice that goes around repeating things that people say."

Gaston stared incomprehendingly.

"That troupe of comedians that came through last Mardi Gras did a joke version of it," added LeFou.

"Oh yeah," said Gaston, recalling the show with a smile. "She kept repeating things that sounded like swear words."

"Right!"

"And then Arlequin was so surprised that he did a backflip while holding a glass of wine, and he didn't spill the wine. Ha ha!"

"Yeah! You remember it! But the real version was in the readers we had at school…"

Gaston grabbed LeFou by the throat and lifted him from his feet. "You shouldn't believe what you read in books, LeFou. That stuff will rot your brain. Now get to bed, you've got some absinthe to sleep off."

He then tossed LeFou out his bedroom door, into the hallway.