Once upon a time, there lived a young, beautiful, carefree schizophrenic named Belle. She lived in a distant village with her eccentric father, Maurice, who spent most of the day smoking reefer with his pipe.
Always deep into her psychosis, she spent most of her days frolicking in the forest and talking to various creatures that didn’t exist. One day, the sun “spoke” to her and told her she should look more like him. From that day forward, she was always clad in a bright yellow dress.
Also in the village was Gaston, a strong, kind, handsome hunter who maintained a happy harem of three buxom blonde wives.
When not hunting wild boar in the forest, he spent his days pleasuring his three wives (as well as various other women in the village). His wives would often playfully torture Gaston’s hobbit slave, Dingleberry.
All was well in the village.
One day, as Belle was entering the village tavern, Gaston, spying her luscious breasts, bowed to her gracefully and opened the door for her. “Welcome, young lady,” he said to her. “If there is anything I can do for you, you have but to ask.”
Belle smiled at Gaston, when suddenly, the tavern door screamed at her and said, “Don’t trust him! He’s a rapist!”
“Get away from me you rapist!” she shouted, and slapped Gaston in the face and walked past him.
Gaston, knowing it was dishonorable to strike a woman, merely glared and rubbed his face, saying nothing, feeling sorry for the poor, crazed woman.
Later that evening, Maurice discovered, to his horror, that his stores of precious reefer were depleted. Since the leaf was indeed the most important thing in life to him, he mounted his horse and rode deep into the woods to acquire more. Late into the evening he dwelt, harvesting the various reefer plants in the woods.
Suddenly, a shadow loomed over him, and he turned to see the Beast.
“These are my lands,” growled the Beast. “And this is my reefer stash. You are stealing from me. Go home old man, and trouble me no more.”
“Nay!” cried Maurice. “Only men have property rights! You are nothing but a beast!”
“Oooookay, enough of this,” said the Beast, and he swooped down and picked up Maurice like a rag doll. He bore him away to his castle within the forest and locked Maurice in his dungeon. “I shall release you when you learn to respect the property of others.”
“Go screw yourself!” Maurice spat, and the Beast left him alone to consider his thoughts.
The next day, Belle was quite agitated, being unable to locate her father. Seeking him in the forest, she came across the Beast’s castle. She knocked on the door, and the Beast answered. The Beast was quite surprised at noticing that Belle did not have an ill reaction to his countenance, as Belle was too insane to notice she was actually talking to a Beast.
“Hello, kind sir,” she said, “I was wondering if you have happened across my father, Maurice.”
“Indeed I have,” the Beast snorted. “He was stealing my ganja, so I locked him in my dungeon. He is also quite rude.”
“Oh sir,” Belle pleaded. “If you could release him, I shall consider that most kind.”
“No,” said the Beast. “He is a thief. Thieves must be punished.”
“Surely, there is something I have to give in trade for my father’s release?”
“How about these?” said Belle, as she pushed out her amble bosom through the top of her dress.
“Well,” said the Beast, considering. “It has been quite a while. Okay.”
And so it was that Belle and the Beast did the funky funky for hours and hours all over the castle. Once spent, the Beast released Maurice. When he bade his daughter to follow him home, she refused. As she coughed Beast hair from her mouth, she explained that she was having a wonderful time talking to the clocks, cups, and candlesticks in the castle, saying they were all very friendly conversationalists.
Fed up with his insane daughter and eager to smoke his reefer, he grunted and left, returning home to the village.
Belle then spent the next several days talking to the various objects in the Beast’s castle, with the Beast looking on, shaking his head at his hopelessly schizophrenic yet sexually skilled paramour.
Back at the village, Maurice went to Gaston, saying, “As you know, there are werewolves in the forest, and one of them has stolen my daughter! He must be slain, and my daughter rescued!”
Being the noble and valiant man he was, Gaston agreed to rescue Belle. He rounded up several armed men from the village, and led them into the forest, his three wives in tow. High as a kite on reefer, Maurice tried not to laugh as they departed, quite amused with his deception.
That night, while in the throes of passionate lovemaking, Belle and the Beast heard a loud banging on the door. “God dammit!” the Beast cried. “Who could it be now?”
“Perhaps it is a Jehovah’s witness!” Belle offered, with wide, psychotic eyes.
“He’s a rapist!” said a nearby candle.
The Beast grunted, rolled out of bed, angrily threw on a robe, and walked downstairs to answer the door.
Gaston’s look was of shock when he beheld the Beast. “You are no werewolf, furry as you are,” he said.
“No,” said the Beast, “I was once a man, but I was cursed years ago by an evil bitch, and now I am doomed to wear this form.”
“I see that you are a noble creature, and mean no one any harm,” said Gaston, nodding.
The Beast was about to answer, when suddenly, there were howls out in the forest, all about them. Indeed, it was the real werewolves. They had arrived, smelling prey and seeking slaughter.
Gaston drew his sword, shouting to the men, “Defend my wives! We shall slay these foul beasts!”
“I shall assist you,” said the Beast, baring his teeth and flexing his muscles. “I don’t know why so many people are trying to fuck with my property lately.”
Numerous werewolves bounded from the forest, and Gaston, the Beast, and the men of the village met them in battle. Claws raked. Swords flew. Blood splattered. Cries were heard. Limbs were severed. The battle was heroic as it was grim. Gaston, a skilled swordsman, slew werewolves in heaps. The Beast roared, clawed, raked, and ripped the unclean wolves to bloody shreds.
From atop the battlements of the castle, Belle watched casually while eating paint chips and talking to a nearby fork.
After several bloody minutes, the men of the village prevailed, though not without losses. Many men lay dead on the forest floor, though dead werewolves outnumbered them.
Gaston, bloodied and bruised, went to the Beast. “You helped save my life and the lives of my beloved sexy wives. Beast or no, from this day forward, I shall call you brother.” The two clasped hands, flexed their biceps, and nodded to one another.
And so it was that Gaston moved into the castle with his three wives and hobbit slave, having numerous foursomes and fivesomes (often including Belle in the fun), as the Beast looked on and laughed, smoking his ganja. The three wives spent the rest of their days enjoying their husband, as well as the Beast when in the mood for something different. Belle spent her life enjoying the two men also, as well as carrying on long conversations with her hairbrush.