Disclaimer: Hark! Who owns the Phantom of the Opera? Nay, not I! Pray, somebody stop my Shakespearian speech!

This story is called:

The Phantom, O Woe, The Phantom

But may also be known as:

In which the Phantom moans his very existence, the Rats Who Share His Lair Leave in a Huff and Possibly a Chuff and Maybe Even a Muff and Erik leaves His Lair and His Magnificent Chair, to Find a Victim. Said Victim Does the Unthinkable and Is Hence Subjected to Prolonged Utterings of Woe and Shame by the Phantom. General Exaggeration of, Well, Everything. Overuse of Simlies and Metaphors. That Covers About Everything…

Roll tape. Shadows, Camera, Action!

The Phantom, for that is who he was, in essence, in soul, in very being, sat dejectedly in an ornate, antique chair which happened to be gilded in gold. He was terribly lonely. He thrust out his lower lip and scowled beneath his pure, white mask; the mask that hid his terrible, terrible scarring.

"O woe is me!" he lamented, "For I hath no one to converse with, no one to torture and dismember, no one to hang with my beautiful Punjab lasso." He paused, took a breath and continued, "I even hath no one to sing my songs of death and desire and tragedy to! I hath not a soul to which I can bewail my existence!"

So ended his soliloquy.

The resident rats took off in a huff, raising their diseased noses and twitching their tails in disdain, for the Phantom had acted as if their long suffering ears had never heard a word pass from his lips, as if they had not listened to every mournful word he said, when in fact they did for he was far more interesting than the Fop, Raoul whom they did not like, and desired to bite.

The Phantom stood, shaking off the shadows and despairs of loneliness and shame, and gathered about him his cloak, as if he were gathering to him the essence of courage, bravery and morbid imagination.

He strode from his lair and poled gracefully upon the underground canal in his gothic, ominous gondola. Having reached the other end of the canal, he made his way, from shadow to shadow, to dim light, to shadow again, until he was above ground. Fortunately it was nighttime so he was not accosted by gypsies and do-gooders. He waited patiently, biding his time, for the perfect victim. Dark clouds oozed across the sky, blocking the light of the waning mood, and generally making the scene very gothic and scary.

Another man in a cloak, hat, a full face mask and shiny, shiny boots walked across the empty intersection at the other end of the street. The Phantom and he acknowledged each other's quests of vengeance with respectful cloak swirls

Said victim, an average man in a suit and a bowler hat, of no particular importance than will soon be realized, strode by the gloomy alley in which the Phantom lingered. He was quickly snatched, blindfolded, gagged, bound and knocked unconscious by the Phantom, who had practiced the exercise many times and had become quite the expert in abducting strangers at night. The victim managed only to emit a strange strangled sound as his throat was crushed.

The Phantom returned to his lair with the man and placed him in a rather ordinary, worn and boring chair, opposite to his marvelous antique seat. The man, for that was what the Phantom was, stared at him for a time, his boredom consuming all thoughts of Christine, Raoul, organs, chandeliers and home made bombs. So, holding out a glovèd forefinger, he prodded the man in the chest repeatedly until his abductee awoke.

The victim awoke startled and afraid, as one should be when faced with the masked, the foreboding, the ominous, the Phantom of the Opera!

"Ah!" He said loudly, "Who are you?"

"I am the Phantom of the Opera," replied Erik slowly, with a deep voice, "You are in my lair, and death awaits you."

"Oh," said the man, "I'm Jack by the way."

"Nice to meet you Jack," said the Phantom.

"You too Phantom,"

"Now, Jack," began the Phantom, but Jack interrupted him.

"What's that? Over there! It's…it's…it's!" he cried.

The Phantom, curious as to what exactly his victim was hallucinating about, turned to look behind him, and was henceforth duped. For Jack was a terrified somewhat educated man, and had deigned to distract the man who had taken him from the gloomy streets above ground. He was, however, no match for the Phantom of the Opera!

The Phantom chased him round his lair, around chairs, tables, half finished scale models of important buildings, life size Bride Christine models, life size Dead Raoul models and the Swan Bed. It was not long before Jack was tussling with the Phantom, destined to lose. In the ensuing struggle Jack got a hold of the Phantom's mask and yanked it off the musical genius' face!

The Phantom gasped, Jack's mouth fell open and he stared at the mask in his hand, terrified at the imminent wrath that would soon fall upon his flabby shoulders. Eric had covered his face with his hand and begun to wail!

"O! You have ripped my mask, my shield from my face! This face! O – this face! This loathsome visage! It must terrify you! It must make you quiver and shake and pray that you never see again! You must be blinded by the sickening scars that disfigure my countenance! O, this loathsome gargoyle, this repulsive carcass, in sooth, it sickens me also!"

Jack pointed out, "I can't actually see…"

At which Erik ripped his hand away from his face and looked Jack straight in his boring, brown eyes, "Look! Feast you eyes and turn away in disgust and fear! Alone I was, in my youth, and gypsies trapped me like an animal in a horrid cage! They let customers see me, the devil's child, for a price, and they would moan and groan and twitter! I was humiliated and felt shame, longing to end my existence!"

The mark was small, pink and rested upon Eric's cheek. Jack thought aloud, "I think it's a birth mark…"

"Yes," cried the Phantom, "Indeed I have been plagued with these horrid scars since birth, since the time of my entrance unto this world, my birthing. And when my mother saw me, small and fragile, she cried out in horror and abandoned me to the cruelty of the world! A freak, a plague, a walking disease, a cursèd man, they called me and I heard them say it so!"

Jack tried to pacify him, "It's really not that bad!"

"Lies! Tell me no more of them! Seek not to bring me false happiness with your untruths, for I know the reality, and the reality looks back at me from a mirror. A horrible monster! O they laughed! O how cruelly they laughed! They mocked me! They laughed, and I knew it was me they were laughing at, for I heard them and they pointed at me! They pointed, accused me of the worst of sins, and stole my lunch money! They insulted me, and told every girl that I fancied, that the author of the sweet poetry they gushed over in the school yard, was I. O these scars! Would I have been born with a clear face! A beautiful face! I would have been a dancer! An opera singer! An artist! A pianist! An engineer! Alas, for twas not so! Woe! Woe! Ah, the cruelty of fate! The dagger of destiny is logged in my breast! It twists and delves deeper in my heart! I feel the pangs of pain, the raking of its claws when I behold my Christine, especially when I behold my Christine with Raoul! Woe to me – a wretched beast! But don't you see! I burn, I writhe, I wither, I thrash, I gnash in Hell, but secretly, O secretly, discreetly, slyly, and furtively I yearn for beauty."

Jack resigned himself to many hours of writhing and teeth gnashing. He patted Eril on the back, "There, there…"

The Phantom of the Opera, sniffed, wiped his nose, and sighed, "Now you can never be free. You must die."

DD - This is something I typed up instead of doing my homework. Yay! Hope you liked it - exaggeration is intentional.