A/N: Each chapter/installment will be written from the pen of a different Erik, beginning with Leroux. Hopefully in the future I'll be able to see and read some other famous film or book versions of POTO and be able to write installments accordingly, but until then, you'll just have to be content with the few that I have already come up with. Those should be written and posted within the next few days.
Oh, and I really don't want to get any flak about someone being slightly out-of-character, or the occasional use of an anachronism (reference to something too modern for the historical setting). If this occurs, it is for purely humorous purposes. It's not as though any of this is meant to be serious. It's all just for fun...and I hope you enjoy it.
Leroux
Dear O.G.,
I have a singularly distressing problem. There is an unfathomably hideous, insane male personage (whom I believe may have bipolar disorder) who alternately worships at my feet and makes frightening threats, and insists upon marrying me. I do not return his affections, and my love is bestowed upon another man. However, I pity him deeply, and besides that, am afraid that if I leave as planned with my lover, he will go mad and cause untold chaos and destruction. But I cannot love him, no matter how I attempt to look past his dreadful ugliness and odd little quirks! He repulses me beyond all reason! What am I to do?
Soprano Scared Stiff, Paris, France
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My dear Christine,
How nice to hear from you.
Now, about this man, whose genius is unmatched in matters of musical and architectural prowess, and could probably strangle the life out of your little lover in less time than it would take him to count his feet.
He is obviously infatuated with you, and, to his gross error, trusted that your affections were true instead of false. You dare to spurn his desperate love for that of a puling sailor lad and, not only that, insult your generous benefactor in broad daylight and confess to your simpering little lover that you have been putting on an elegant farce of feigned love when you (cough) thought said benefactor was not watching or listening? Oh, very well-played, Mademoiselle He-Is-Working-On-His-Don-Juan-And-Not-Thinking-Of-Us.
HA!
Go back to him at once and demand his pardon. Perhaps he will spare your lover's life, though he may still torture him within an inch of it, and perhaps he will grant you the option of celibacy after you consent to marry him—and you will consent to marry him, or you are quite right, the consequences would be disastrous.
You are due for a singing lesson, by-the-by. And don't think for a moment that I don't know that you lost my plain gold ring and are planning to abandon me after your performance for Monsieur Is-My-Cravat-In-The-Right-Place.
Fondly yours,
Erik
Dear O.G.,
I can't get one solitary lay in this godforsaken opera-house, and on top of that, I've been seeing this awful apparition about, the ugliest thing anyone's ever set eyes on. People say it's the devil, but I say it's you.
Any truth to the rumors? And how can I get me some ripe female companionship?
Frustrated Fix-It Man, Palais Garnier, Paris, France
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My dear Buquet,
Of course it is me. You'll pay dearly for that little remark. As to where you may come across the willing embrace of a nubile young lady, did you know that there is a secret harem of drunken women in the third cellar of the Opera that you may copulate with for free? Simply roll back the stone behind the set piece of the Roi de Lahore and drop right in!
Be sure to tell them I sent you.
Your Obdt. Servant, O.G.
Dear O.G.,
I cannot seem to get that infernal fiend, Erik, out of my mind! He kidnaps my Christine nearly every fortnight and forces her to look upon his hideous visage whilst proclaiming his awful declarations of love—as if he is actually capable of love! What a monster that man is—as if he is actually a man!
If I ever manage to get my hands on him, I shall break every bone in his skeletal body!
What say you to all this?
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Dear simpering little sailor lad of the house de Chagny,
I hate you.
Also, thank you for sending me such an amusing little note. My favorite part was your supremely empty threat. What an absolutely delightful imagination you have, my boy!
Firstly, I would have a Punjab noose around your lily-white little neck before you could utter one single high-pitched, effeminate, testosterone-deprived scream; Secondly, you would never see it coming. Ever.
Thirdly, I am going to marry Christine whether you like it or not. But do go ahead and try to prevent it! Such a delightful display would provide me no end of amusement, especially were I to lead you on a merry chase around the catacombs and "accidentally" get you locked in a Communard dungeon, where no one ever comes, and no one ever hears you, and your pitiful, testosterone-deprived screams would be as pointedly useless as an armored fly.
Evilly awaiting your response,
Erik
Deaer Erick,
Onse and 4 all, waht on earth is you're lastt namme?
Pleas ansewr!
Phrustrated Phan, Pottsville, Pennsylvania
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My not-so-dear Phuturistic Phanbrat,
You can rest assured that (at least in MY little corner of canon) it is certainly not "Destler," "Noir," "Claudin," "Bonsoir," "Noir," "Daae," "Giry," "Noir," and above all, NOT—I repeat, NOT—"Gerard" or "Rossum."
Painphully phed up with your stupid phanmail,
Erik No-Last-Name
P.S. By the way, did you know that Gerard Butler!Erik secretly lives in a cave on the third cellar? Just move the stone behind that set-piece and drop right in!
Esteemed Noseless Monsieur,
Look, I know we've had some disagreements, but I'm willing to put those to rest. You, however, seem intent upon making my life a living hell.
Why on EARTH did you tell that phanbrat that I was living in the third cellar?
Not Amused,
Your Handsomer Spin-Off, Palais Garnier, Cellar 3, In the Spider-Covered Corner
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Ah, my good friend Gerik--that is your name, isn't it?
I hate you. You don't really believe that you're my good friend at all, do you? Because you aren't, and don't dare delude yourself for a split second otherwise.
Also, I didn't believe for a moment that she would actually find you, though I suppose I should have guessed (but in that case, I would have sent her there anyway). You seem to have an insatiably disgusting desire for young ladies sixteen and under, which I assume led you to actually reveal yourself and attempt to make her acquaintance before you discovered to your detriment that she was one of what we like to call those "other types".
At least I always set my sights on twenty and up. And Christine, no less. Only Christine. You seem to instantly adore anything bipedal with shapely breasts. Better be careful in the bars, monsieur. God knows you might accidentally find yourself saddled with, shall we say, a stemmed apple rather than a juicy peach. And it will probably turn out to be Raoul. Fanfiction writers will do anything these days.
At any rate, that little brat was supposed to have dropped into the torture-chamber. If you had any sense, you would have thrown her in yourself.
But no, Monsieur I'm-So-Ugly-While-Being-Disgustingly-Handsome, Monsieur I-Have-The-Base-Nerve-To-Call-Myself-An-Erik, Monsieur Obvious-Scottish-Accent-Which-I-Tried-To-Flatten-Unsuccessfully! You continue to be a raving idiot. If it weren't for the fact that you are possessed with astonishing powers of reflex, I would have killed you by now. God knows I've tried.
By the way, you belong in 1870. In a made-up Opera House. I suggest you go there instead of skulking about here, where someone is liable to mistake you for a grotty dandy.
Cordially,
The Real O.G.
My dear Sir,
You may or may not know me as The Other Living Corpse.
Despite your apparently being the original, I am very seriously of the educated opinion that I may, in fact, be a bit uglier than you, monsieur. Enclosed is a colored-ink self-portrait upon which I spent a good half-hour or so last night, and which you may use to judge for yourself.
Do come and see me if you have any doubts. Perhaps we might have a drink and compare our woeful experiences with the human race.
Respectfully,
Your Fellow Noseless O.G., In Another Dimension of Paris, France
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My dear Kerik (or Kay!Erik, if you prefer, or simply Erik, for that matter, but we must differentiate, now mustn't we),
How splendid to hear from you, my good man! I wondered when you might get around to sending me some sort of correspondence.
I must admit you raised my hackles slightly at your claim, but after careful consideration, I concede the point. If that self-portrait is correct, I grudgingly admit that you are, indeed, a bit uglier than I, though I would like to see you in person to be quite assured.
I have done some research on you, monsieur. Besides your wonderfully hideous visage, you have a tragic history, quite heart-ripping, to say the least. And you are still a virgin, a shocking revelation. I am sorry for you.
Now, don't tell anyone, least of all my dear Christine, but I am not, in fact, without the occasional romp in a bed of ill-repute. The secret is to not let them remove your mask. Pretend it is for the purpose of withholding identification. Most ladies of the evening are prudent enough to accept this without question. As for the fear of disease or the fathering of a child, well, that's what a rubber is for, old boy. Damned uncomfortable little things, but ever so convenient.
At any rate, at least you have sufficient entitlement to the name and identity of Erik, unlike that simpering little half-masked twit with the Apollo tan and the voice of a rusty saw. I suggest we band together and kill him. Two of us could no doubt overwhelm those astoundingly quick reflexes of his.
All in all, the prospect of a Fellow Noseless O.G. is far too delightful to ignore. Drop by this dimension sometime. We'll have tea. Do you prefer cream or lemon?
Sincerely,
Your New Ami