The Name of the Game (In Which Gaston Makes a Bet)

A New Strategy

Day 2 – Evening

"Perhaps... perhaps I've been going about this the wrong way. Perhaps I haven't been aggressive enough..."

Gaston rested his chiseled chin on his enormous fist, which in turn was supported by his elbow propped up on his knee. LeFou slowly but surely waddled towards him with more steins of beer. They went untouched on the table beside him. The Canterbury Tales also lay abandoned; he wasn't sure why he bought it, considering the fact that reading was never his strongest skill. Or a skill that he possessed at all, in any scope.

"No luck, eh, Gaston?" the stout man asked as he leaned against the arm of the chair. He fell when the hunter absentmindedly picked up his seat and turned it to face the fire. The men laughed.

"Well, Belle is a classy broad."

"An odd broad."

"An oddball."

"You gotta woo her!"

"Wow her!"

"Make her swoon!"

"Bring her flowers!"

"Chocolat!"

More helpful suggestions came from all sectors of the room, but they went unheard and unheeded by Gaston, who was too lost in thought to be bothered. Here he was, already two whole days into the weeklong bet, and he had made little to no progress in achieving his ultimate goal.

Imbeciles. They don't understand how to properly vie for a woman like Belle. You have to woo her, and wow her, make her swoon. You have to bring her...

And then a spark of genius, as if it were an idea all his own, popped to the forefront of his brain. Gears finally started clicking into place.

He would have to be straightforward with Belle. It was so obvious: a beautiful girl such as she would not have the time nor capacity to understand silly games. She needed attention, and gifts, and poetry.

Well, maybe not poetry, but Gaston had a new, more direct, plan of action. And this time it was going to work.

–

Day 3 – Morning (Five Days Remain)

"What do you think, LeFou? A dozen roses?"

"Ahhh, roses represent passion and romantic love," the florist, a middle-aged woman in the shape of a creampuff, swooned as she walked over to the pair. Gaston didn't like her tone. It was an insinuating tone, which meant that she was judging him, which meant that she was condescending, which meant that she believed she was better than him.

No one was better than Gaston!

"Who are these for?"

Gaston cleared his throat and declared proudly and without fear of judgment: "Belle, the most beautiful girl in town."

"Belle? Maurice's daughter?" the old woman laughed. "Wouldn't you be better off buying her a dozen books?"

Gaston grumbled under his breath. He had no patience for old people. Truly, he believed that anyone past the age of forty had long since outlived their usefulness. Maybe the Vikings had the right idea in disposing of the elderly by throwing them from cliffs, so as not to be a burden on society.

"What about these, then?" He spoke to LeFou, but the florist intervened once more.

"Poppies? They symbolize death, my dear."

Gaston fought the urge to roll his eyes. "If they're pretty, does it really matter what they mean?"

The woman handed him a bundle of tiny white and blue flowers arranged in round bunches, their stems tied off with twine. "Try these: hydrangeas for perseverance, and magnolias for dignity."