Gaston | ON HOLD

TWO

Everyone here'd love to be you, Gaston.
Even when taking your lumps...
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"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.