Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters used in this admittedly silly fanfic. They belong to, respectively, Gaston LeRoux (The Phantom of the Opera,) Katherine Richards (I am the Great Horse,) Esther Forbes (Johnny Tremain,) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes,) J. D. Salinger (The Catcher in the Rye,) J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter Series,) and to the Disney Franchise (Pirates of the Caribbean.) "Love Story" belongs to Taylor Swift. While there may be some spoilers in this fanfic, there is nothing that you probably haven't heard about, so I suggest that you proceed. I decided to write it in script format because there are so many characters, and this makes it a whole lot easier to tell who's speaking. I appreciate comments and reviews! Realize, though, that nobody is perfect and I might have one or two or three or four grammatical/spelling errors. Please don't condemn me for it. As for content, everything is purely farcial and not at all serious. Now I present…. Fictitious Hero Idol! Enjoy!
~Paisley
The scene opens to a large room, about the size of your average dining room. The walls are ornately carved with rococo designs and are covered in gilt and fancily framed paintings of people in old Victorian clothes. It has no doors or windows. In the center of the room is a large, square table, ornately carved, around which four matching chairs are gathered. Everything is silent. Suddenly…
POOF!
Five familiar faces have suddenly appeared, four seated in the chairs, one sprawled on the floor. They all look around themselves, quite disoriented. After much pinching and prodding and knocking heads against the woodwork, to make sure they are not dreaming, one speaks.
Sherlock Holmes: (A tall, wiry, but strong man, dressed in an Ulster and deerstalker. He looks about himself, analytically) Where in the name of heaven are we?
Erik, the Phantom of the Opera: (An athletic, mysterious, masked man, who looks very violent, and is muttering) If someone does not tell me what I am doing here, it will be VERY BAD for a goodly number of the human race…
A feminine voice booms out of nowhere, as if coming from loudspeakers. It seems to issue from a painting of a Victorian lady attired in pink, whose hat is blowing away in the wind.
Paisley: Greetings! I am your hostess and master of ceremonies today. My name is Paisley, and I will be directing as you all play… Fictitious Hero Idol!
All of the contestants look at each other in astonishment.
Alexander the Great of Macedonia: (Attired in shining armor, the blond, energetic dictator looks absolutely befuddled.) What?
Paisley: Let me explain. All of you have been chosen to be contestants in a debate, the prize for which is a happy ending added on to the end of your story. You see, all of you can be found as principal characters in books, and demonstrate qualities that have made you, over the years, fictitious heartthrobs for bookish girls and women the world over. At the end of your respective tales, you have all ended up single (many gasps issue from the contestants, but they are ignored), which makes you even more eligible for the prize. This is your chance to prove that you are the best fictional hero ever written about. I will be introducing a series of questions and topics for discussion, and, during the course of our little chats, you will try and make yourself sound as wonderful as possible. Do I make myself clear?
Erik: (murderously) No, you do not. I have no understanding of why I should be whisked away from my organ and my masterpiece Operatic score to play at some trifling game.
Paisley: (with tears in her voice) Oh, you poor Phantom, how little you know of the future. You need this prize as much as anyone else.
Erik: I… I…. don't understand….
Paisley: (now upbeat) So, before Phanty over there gets a dropkick through the goalposts of reality, let's go around and introduce ourselves. We will start with…
A spinner, which looks suspiciously like the one from the game Twister, appears on the table, and spins. It stops, pointing at a handsome, enigmatic young man wearing the kind of clothes found in the Regency period.
Paisley: Rab, you get to start! Please tell us your name, occupation, talents, and why you think you should be the winner of Fictitious Hero Idol.
Rab Silsbee: (sounding uncertain, and subconsciously tugging at his sleeves) Um, hey there… I'm Rab Silsbee… I work at the Boston Observer, which is a newspaper based in Boston. But I guess that's obvious. (he seems to be warming up to the topic.) I set type and work on the printing press. As a sideline, I help the Sons of Liberty try to annoy the British into leaving us alone. I organized a quarter of the participants that engaged in the recent Boston Tea Party. I also aspire to join the Continental Army when we provoke the Redcoats into starting a war. My talents include horsemanship, dancing at parties, setting type, and making punch. I'm a good listener, and can strategize very well. I recently updated an old musket singlehandedly. But I don't know why I should win this game or whatever…
Paisley: (interrupting) DON'T GO, RAB!
Rab: Wha…?
Paisley: (sniffling) Nothing… nothing… Now, (sounding upbeat again) Rab, don't be so modest. You have given us and anyone in the audience that has not read your book no good reason to think that you deserve to be on this show. But, I chose you for a reason. Do any of you know why Rab should win the game? Hmm? (She, or, rather, the portrait, looks around the table at all the other contestants, who look thoroughly cowed.) Rab should win because he has no flaws. He is the single most likeable book character ever written about!!! (Her rant seems to become more and more irate.) He is kind and unselfish!!! And he's enigmatic!!!!!!! Now, Rabby, repeat that.
Rab: (sounding scared) O-kay… I have no flaws… I am the single most likeable book character ever written about…I am kind and unselfish…And I'm….?
Paisley: ENIGMATIC! You are very, very ENIGMATIC!!!!!
Rab: …Enigmatic.
A gold star appears on Rab's lapel.
Alexander: (looking miffed.) Oh, look, she's already picked favorites.
Paisley: Hush yo mouth, tyrant boy. As punishment for insulting Rab, you get to go next.
Alexander: (smiling winningly. You can tell that he's used to this kind of thing, and enjoys it) Friends, heroes, countrymen. I am Alexander the Great, King of Macedonia and its surrounding Empire, Emperor of Persia, and soon to be conqueror of the entire World!!! (he begins to laugh diabolically, but is silenced by a glare from the portrait.) I am immortal, the son of Zeus, and can conquer any foe that dares stand in my divine way. (here, he glares around the table, as if looking for a challenge. There are none, but Erik seems to be glowering intensely at him underneath his mask.) A master horseman since a young age, I tamed a wild stallion to carry me faithfully through all sorts of tribulations with only my innate cunning and courage! I can win over people from all walks of life through both strategy and force! I can inspire even the most worthless troops into incomparable action by a simple act of daring! I can…
Paisley: (cutting him off) Okay, Alex, enough about you. Since you are the only fictitious hero in this room who is proved to have also existed in real life, (an offended scoff escapes Sherlock) we all know about you, anyway. We also all know that you were quite the grasping little tyrant while you were bent on conquering the Eastern world.
Alexander: LITTLE? Who are you calling LITTLE? (he is obviously very defensive of his vertically challenged stature.)
Grabbing his sword from its sheath, he tries to run the talking painting through with it. Rab, apparently protective of the entity that give him a gold star, leaps up from his chair and threatens Alexander with his fists. Sherlock, wanting to keep the peace until he can deduce what is going on, grabs a riding crop and is about to wail on both of them with it. The Phantom looks calm, but his hand has disappeared under his cloak, presumably grabbing for his Punjab lasso. The fifth person is cowering under the table. But, the sword suddenly disappears from Alexander's hand.)
Alexander: Huh?
Paisley: (sounding disappointed.) I had hoped that you all would be able to control your tempers, but I was obviously wrong. I'm going to ask you to relinquish any weapons you have concealed about your person. Please place them in the middle of the table and return to your seats. There will be no violence in this competition.
(grumbling, all four weaponed men create a large stack of various guns, knives, swords, and lassos in the middle of the table.)
Paisley: Is that all?
Alexander, Erik, Rab, and Sherlock: (in singsong unison) Yeeeeeesssssssss…..
Paisley: I doubt it. Erik, empty your cloak.
(Erik proceeds to pull an additional sword, a dagger, and three nooses from his cloak.)
Erik: mumblemumblemumble…..
(Two more familiar faces- one in Hufflepuff Quidditch robes and one in pirate garb- suddenly appear in the room. Grumbling amongst themselves, they gather all the weapons and, turning on their heels, apparate out of the room)
Sherlock: May you be so kind, my dear Miss Paisley, as to enlighten us?
Paisley: They're the two fictitious heroes that didn't make the cut; Cedric Diggory of Hogwarts fame and Captain Jack Sparrow. They were considered for entry, but I decided that they weren't interesting enough. So they're on security detail for the duration of this game.
Sherlock: Very…interesting.
Paisley: Anyway… So far, Alexander has owned Rab in self-description, but it's hard to beat somebody whose only fault is enigmaticness, even if your name ends with "The Great." Rabby, step up your game. Alex, tone it down- I don't want you to strain yourself. Now for the spinner.
(the spinner spins again, this time pointing towards the person that was, until this moment, unnoticed and unnamed.)
Paisley: WHA….? Who are…? You're….
Holden Caulfield: (Skinny and waifish) Holden Caulfield.
Paisley: Holden Cau…? WHAT??? YOU'RE not supposed to be here! YOU of all people DO NOT fit the mold of "fictitious hero…" you're, like, an anti-hero! How did this happen???? (Those in the room can hear Paisley banging about her office, wherever it is. She seems to be rifling through filing cabinets.) I'm sending you back this instant!!!!
(A long silence ensues. The others look quizzically at Holden. Holden tries to look nonchalant, but slides off the wall where he had been previously leaning.)
Paisley: AHA! I've got it! I'll just send you back to where you came from… What's that? (some sort of small, probably fuzzy animal is whispering to her, and pointing at a piece of paper with its little claws. Somehow, they can hear this. Maybe it picks up slightly on the microphone.) ARGH, I can't believe it! My contract says that, once somebody is in the game, there's no pulling them out. So, we're stuck with good ol' Mister Holden boarding-school dropout drug user alcoholic foulmouthed delusions of crazy cliffs Caulfield. Ugh.
Holden: (adjusting his furry red hunting hat.) So… can I talk about myself?
Paisley: I suppose. What an ugly hat.
Holden: It's a Catcher cap.
Paisley: I noticed.
Holden: You kill me. You really do.
Paisley: I know. I read your book.
Holden: Oh? What do you mean by, "my book?" Am I… famous?
Paisley: NEVER YOU MIND! Just get on with it. You try my patience.
Holden: Don't blow a fuse. So, uh, hello. I'm Holden Caulfield, and I don't know why I'm here in this depressing, crummy game, but whatever. My achievements include getting expelled from boarding schools- three to date- and living on my own. I'm a sort of a terrific fencer, too. And I'm a madman at thinking. You know, deep thinking. None of that ol' lousy, phony crap- actual deep thinking. It kills, me, it really does. I'm very sensitive, too. I mean, little kids love me and I'm a nice guy and all that. When I grow up, I want to go and stand at the edge of this crazy cliff and catch little kids, y'know, save 'em from falling and all that corny stuff…
Paisley: Yes, we KNOW about your slightly delusional future career. I would suggest being a mute hermit, instead.
Holden: Whoa, how do you know what I told Sally about last year? Huh?
Paisley: (annoyed) I read your book, re-mem-ber?
Holden: That was a h****** bad day, I'll tell you what. It really was. G***…
Paisley: SILENCE! (a piece of duct tape suddenly appears over Holden's mouth.) I hereby decree that all foul language uttered during the course of this game will become fruits and vegetables! Continue, please.
(The piece of duct tape is forcibly ripped from Holden's face by an unseen hand.)
Holden: AUUUUGGGGHHHHH! Kumquat!!! Rutabaga!!! Squash you!
Paisley: (her portrait looks smug.) Wonderful. Now, Holden, your time is just about up, so please wrap it up in the next five…four…three…two…
Holden: Okra.
Paisley: …one. O-kay, then. Only two more to- wait a sec- (the furry creature in Paisley's room/office/lair is whispering again.) Fine! (Holden is suddenly sitting in a chair, and the table has miraculously turned from a square to and equilateral pentagon.) I forgot to introduce Zuzu, my cat. She's making sure I don't get in trouble by the fictional character union… (mumbling) though certain members of this party could use a little physical strain now and then.
The spinner begins to spin again, and this time lands pointing at The Phantom of the Opera.
Erik: (Rising to his feet) I am Erik, the Phantom of the Opera Garnier. I am a master architect, illusionist, kidnapper, torturer, and athlete. However, my true love is Chris- I mean, music. I am currently composing the most passionate and spectacular Operatic play ever to be given, Don Juan Triumphant!!! I am also the most gifted singer that any of your mortal ears will ever have the privlege to hear speak! I…um, hello?
(everyone in the room is gazing fixedly at the Phantom, enchanted by his dulcet voice. One can hear the steady drip, drip of drool from wherever Paisley is. Fortunately, as soon as he stops talking, they all snap out of it.)
Sherlock: (interrupting) You're… THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA??? I have been trying to solve the Mystery of the Opera Ghost for years! How dare you just show up here all impertinent-like and mock me to my face??? The ONE case that was never explained… the one mystery that I failed to conquer! Oh, cruel fate, why do you deride me so?!?!?!
Sherlock leaps to his feet and tries to tackle Erik, but finds himself being choked with a Punjab lasso by a vengeful Phantom.
Paisley: (outraged) I thought you said that you gave up all your weapons!
Erik: (innocently, though Sherlock's face is slowly turning purple) I did… but I secrete ropes about my person. How did you think I always somehow have a noose on hand, hmmm? They come out my pores.
Paisley: Well, that explains how you made a rope appear from nothing but a puffy shirt and tight Leading Man pants.
Erik: (sneakily) And when do I do that?
Paisley: When you're tying Raoul to the portico…
Sherlock: *Gaaaakk!! Splutter!*
Erik: I get to TIE RAOUL TO A PORTICO???
Paisley: Oops, said too much!
POOF! The rope disappears and Sherlock lands on the top of the pentagonal table, flopping like a fish but otherwise unharmed.
Paisley: I am very disappointed in you, Erik. Even if you are and outrageously talented, ingenious, and built Phantom, you can't expect me to let you go around choking people, especially if the person you're choking just happens to be the most beloved detective in the whole of English literature. You shall be punished by…by… I know! You shall be forced to sing "Love Story" by Taylor Swift! Oh, I am just too diabolical!
Erik: (looking at the sheet music that has appeared before him.) You cannot be serious. This song was written for a soprano with an accent indigenous to the southern part of North America proper, not a classically trained tenor from central France! I cannot do it.
Paisley: You CAN, and you WILL.
Erik: (suddenly standing on his chair, as if poofed up there by magic. He beings to sing involuntarily, and, despite pained facial expressions, cannot seem to stop himself.) We were both young when I first saw you, I closed my eyes and the flashback starts…
Everyone else in the room, including Paisley and her cat, start laughing uproariously, Sherlock the loudest of all. By the end of the terrible rendition of Love Story, The Phantom looks like he's about to cry and his audience is rolling on the floor, already crying.
Erik: …'cause we were both young when I first saaaaaaaw you!
Paisley: So, now I hope that you've learned *snicker* your lesson and, in the future, will restrain yourself from *giggle* trying to strangle the competition. Capice?
Erik: *moody, glowering silence*
Paisley: All righty then. Sherlock, it's your turn.
Sherlock: Greetings, fellow heroes. While I'm sure that all of you and our audience, wherever it may be, would love to hear about me, I would prefer to start off by demonstrating my intellect… by telling everyone a little something about you! To begin with… you, sir. (He points at Alexander). Before you appeared in this… whatever it is, you were negotiating military techniques with Persian envoys in your tent. You were drinking wine and signing rolls of papyrus with ink. I also deduce that this was soon after you cut the Gordian knot.
Alexander: Impossible! How could you ever tell all those things about me from a single glance?
Sherlock: Because I'm Sherlock Holmes.
Alexander: Surely, you…
Sherlock: DON'T CALL ME SHIRLEY!!!!!!
Alexander: Excuse me…?
Paisley: Okay, time's up for today's episode, chums. (all contestants look disappointed, since there would probably have been another fight.) You will be sent to your hotel rooms, and report back here at the same time tomorrow. Audience, stay tuned for the next thrilling chapter of Fictitious Hero Idol- and feel free to Private Message me with any comments or fanmail you like for me to read during the next show! Next time, we'll be addressing the merits and issues of each contestant. There will be more Tension! More fights! More 'Don't call me Shirley' jokes! This is Paisley, signing off!