Raoul's Revenge

Summary:

Everybody make for the trees and protect the children: Raoul's got a marker! And this idiotic fop will stop at nothing to get what he wants, all of the fop bashers terminated, along with a ducky named Shooku

Raoul de Chagney searched his kitchen for the perfect weapon of mass destruction. His wife, Christine, came in and saw him crouched in the corner mumbling about going to Bismarck with that cheese (needed to put that…when I slept over at my friends house she was sleep talking and said this).

"Raoul?" she called to him. "Raoul honey, what's the matter?"

"Haven't you heard of this, this…FANFICTION, Christine?"

Christine shook her head and motioned for him to continue.

"Well, it an awful thing that obsessed fans write about perfectly innocent people, demeaning them in the most insanely smelly way possible, and they hurt my llama!"

Christine looked at him, utterly confused. "Llama, Raoul? We don't have a lla-"

"Yes," continued the raving idiot. "Yes, and do you know what they said about me?"

She once again shook her head.

"Every single one of them…THEY CALLED ME A FOP! WROTE AWFUL STORIES ABOUT MY FICTIONAL IDIOCITY FOR PAGES ON END!"

"Oh, that's horrible!" said Christine raising her hands to her mouth.

"Yes, yes, I know. And do you know what they say about you? They say you are a whore that still loves the Phantom!"

"Well, that's understandable," she mumbled.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Well, you can try to ignore all these 'fan fictions,' can't you? I mean, it's not like you really are a crazy idiotic fop that is obsessed with his hair and worships a rabid rabbit."

"Yes, I guess you're right…" he paused. "Wait…I read a fanfic that said exactly that! Christine, did you write that?"

"Oh, of course not!" she said nervously, shaking her head. "I mean, we don't even have computers, this is the 19th century after all…"

"Oh really?" said Raoul. He went to the closet and pulled out a laptop and turned it on.

"Well, that's just odd. How is this possible, I mean we don't even have cars yet, how can we have a-"

"Christine, I say this with all of my love and devotion as a husband, but please shut up for the next few hours."

Christine stared outraged at her husband for a few moments, then turned her head. Raoul logged onto and looked up the story that they were talking about. "Ha! It says right here, 'by Christine Daae!' Explain yourself, woman!"

"How can I explain myself when I'm to be quiet for the next few hours?"

Raoul stared at her, outraged. "How dare you talk! Didn't I tell you to be quiet?"

"Well, yes but you see, you told me to expl-"

And suddenly the fop started to cry. "I thought you understood me!" he sobbed. "I knew everyone else thought these horrid things, only a few Raoul fans out there. But I thought you were one of them, Christine!"

"Well, you know, you do get rather annoying-"

"Shush!" he silenced her. "You must not talk. I am going to go on a quest to do something about all these 'fop-bashers!' And I will start with you, my dear Christine."

"Well, what are you going to do? Spray me with that hair crap?"

"No, oh no, much worse." he grabbed her and walked back into the kitchen, searching all of the cabinets for something while Christine stood there impatiently. She gasped as his hand went over the handle of a knife, but then moved as he grabbed the most feared of all writing utensils: the black permanent marker.

"Raoul, what are you going to do to me?" she screamed, trying to escape from him as he gripped her wrist tightly.

"Quiet, my love." He opened the marker and drew a mustache on his wife. "Ha! Now you are permanently scarred for life, and forced to live and awful life, frequently being mistaken for the opposite gender!" He tilted his head back and laughed a maniacal laugh, then let go of the sobbing Christine.

"There!" he said to her. "I hope that teaches you! You shall never again make fun of the great Raou de Chagney! Never!" he walked out of the house, combing his hair infron of the mirror on the way. "I want to look dashing before a journey, you know," he explained. And with that the mad Fop was off, armed with his marker.