Author's Note: BEFORE YOU READ: this probably won't be as funny unless you have seen the new movie, "V for Vendetta". I would suggest seeing it at once, if you like explosions and classical music.

One of many other PotO parodies with a new twist. I believe this might be the only VfV parody on the block at the moment. Don't a feel special. Please read. And review. Because the word review has a V in it.

Disclaimer: I do not own any masks, and I do not own any men, so therefore I cannot own any masked men, therefore I do not own V for Vendetta, Phantom of the Opera, or any other characters in here that I make fun of. I do not own a cat, and I do not own Andrew Lloyd Webber, so therefore I do not own lyrics or the actual production of CATS. I also do not own the Three Musketeers or Guy Fawkes. To anyone else, please don't sue me.

Erik looked vaguely on as he stood in the shadowy rafters of the Opera Populaire's majestic stage. It was opening night for the newest show, "Le Chat". It was indeed a tedious performance; Erik still hadn't the faintest idea why those two bumbling baboons otherwise known as Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin, the producers as it were, had chosen the show. "Le Chat" was a silly bit of nonsense written by some lunatic called Monsieur Andre Lloyd Webber- who Erik was positive wasn't nearly as great a composer as he. Erik had sat up nights trying to discover a shred of a plot to this show, but apparently they were sans plot: it was two hours about cats. Cats that sing and dance. Who on earth could possibly stand two hours of sitting around watching people jump around in furry ears and cloth-and-pipe-cleaner-made tails? The worst part was La Carlotta- that pompous rhinoceros of a diva- was playing Grizabella, the washed-up, has-been diva kitty; Erik had to admit the part was aptly cast.

Anyway, Carlotta had been droning through the second refrain of her big solo song, Memory, which was just as boring, slow, and sappy as the musical itself, and Erik was in the process of dragging a giant anchor up to the beams above the legs of the curtains to drop upon the diva's furry-ear-laden head.

"Memoryyyyyyyyy… alllll ahh-looooooone in ze moooooooon-huh-liiiiiiiiigh-tah!" Carlotta belted from below. Erik suffered an involuntary twitching attack which almost caused him to drop his anchor. Suddenly, a shadow flitting by caught his yellow eye. Who could that be? None of the crew members who operated the stage wandered up here in this area- they all knew it was "haunted" by the Opera Ghost, and whoever went up there had a very bad chance of ever coming down again, unless it was with a noose around their neck- a short drop and a sudden stop. Erik allowed himself a small chuckle at the thought of that pervert Joseph Buquet. But who was that there? Erik set aside his anchor to climb up a little higher and get a closer look at the figure standing over the stage. As he started he discovered it was a young woman, looking hurriedly around, almost as if she knew someone was watching her. Erik crept in closer to take a good look at her face: she was pretty enough, with wide doe eyes, a pleasant mouth, and a curly mop of hazelnut-colored hair. But she wasn't nearly as enticing as his dearest, most darling Christine. Ah, Christine, Christine! The sweet angel who, when she sang, could tame a herd of wild stallions. With her sunlight-kissed locks and her innocent sapphire eyes, she was his muse, his soul mate, his cherished one! When he though of her pouting, scrumptious lips- oh, how he longed to kiss them!- he felt as if he could fly. The feeling was so strong that he actually did fly, or rather, lost his balance and fell smack on his face… um… mask. The mysterious young woman gasped and took a couple of steps back as Erik cursed under his breath and picked himself up with a grand, melodramatic sweep of his long black cape. Running his skeletal fingers through the hair of the fashionable wig which sat now somewhat disheveled on his masked head, he assumed a threatening, prince-of-darkness position over the cowering girl.

"Goodness!" she cried, "I thought you were… somebody else."

"The streeeeeeet-luh-haaaamp dies, anoooother niiiight is oooover; anooooooother day eez daaaaaawniiiiiing…"

"What are you doing up here? Snooping around the Opera Ghost's layer, were we? What were we looking to find?" Erik hissed, once he had regained his composure. He took a few menacing steps towards the girl, fondling his Punjab lasso.

"P-please," she whimpered, "We don't have much time. Everyone in this building needs to be evacuated immediately."

"And what," Erik took a few steps closer, "would be so important that it has to interrupt a performance of Le Chat?"

"Well, for one thing, this lady's singing sucks," she gestured to Carlotta below, who was now belting the crescendo, ("Toooooouuuuuuch muh-heeeeeeeee! It's so eeeeeasy to luh-heeeeeeaaaave meeeeeeee! All aloooooooh-hone in ze memoryyyyyyy, of my dayyyys in ze suuuu-gasp-uuuuuuhhhn…") "And secondly, there's a man, a terrorist, in the opera house!" She looked nervously around, "He is going to blow up the Opera Populaire!"

Erik stared through the emotionless white mask upon his face at the frightened young woman. "No way."

"Way."

"No way!"

"Way."

"No freaking wa-"

"Would you mind?" the young woman said somewhat irritably, "There's a bunch of people's lives at risk, so I really need you to-" She stopped and gasped at something behind him. Erik turned to find another figure in the darkness. Erik could barely see him, for he was swathed in dark clothing as well. The figure was humming Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 to himself as he fiddled around with a wire that connected the chandelier to the stage, his back turned away.

"Pardon me!" Erik hissed as menacingly and politely as he could. The figure turned promptly around. Erik stood aghast; the stranger was exactly like him! Well, as exactly alike as two guys wearing masks could be, anyway. The man wore a pale mask upon his face- it had a comical, wide grin spread underneath a long, three-musketeers-esque moustache and goatee to go with it. The man wore a fedora almost identical to Erik's- indeed, he had seen it in Le Gap last time he was there- as well as a long black cape. In his gloved hands, the other masked man was holding a carton with "CAUTION: EXLOSIVES" painted in big red letters.

"Evey?" the man said to the young woman, "Why are you up here? I thought you were downstairs in Box 5, trying to seduce the Prime Minister of China until I come down there and give him a slow, painful death! Aren't you enjoying the music?"

"Thank the Lord above that woman's solo has finally ceased! No wait, she's trying to squeeze in one more repeat of the refrain, but… nope, the curtain is coming down on her, the conductor is signaling that guy with the hook, wait… she's fighting her way on stage! No, never mind, the chorus line has overtaken her!" Evey gave a blow-by-blow account. "Hey, what's that blonde kid doing over there upstage?"

Erik glanced down to just catch Christine come onstage to begin her solo. Sweet silvery music filled the opera house's great dome, seeping through the walls and rafters like melodic honey. "You will not destroy the Opera Populaire. Not before I destroy you first!" Erik hissed, producing his Punjab lasso and uncoiling it.

The masked man, had his face not been covered by that foppish parody mask of Guy Fawkes the rebel, glared at Evey. "Nice going, tattletale."

"I couldn't help it!"

"Who are you?"

The man sighed, counted several things on his fingers, and took a deep breath. "Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is it vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished, as the once vital voice of the verisimilitude now venerates what they once vilified. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose vis-à-vis an introduction, and so it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V."

Erik's mouth had been open for so long he had started to drool out of his mask. "Wow. Nice use of consonance."

"Why, thank you."

"You must have a lot of time on your hands."

"Well, it is one of several hobbies."

"One being terrorism?"

"Veraciously."

Evey had fallen asleep now, and was rail of the rafter. Eventually, she lost her balance and went tumbling over the edge. V made an attempt to grab at her, but missed. Luckily, however, she broke her fall on Monsieur Leandre Hugo, a rather obese man who played the once again aptly cast Bustopher Jones. The fallen young lady struggled for several minutes in Monsieur Hugo's rolls of fat, and then popped out presently with a rather dismayed "oh!"

The commotion caused the performers on the stage to break out into hysterics. (Erik found that they sort of reminded him of ants: hard workers when together, but if you spill even a single drop of water on their ant hill or break their line, they will suddenly scurry around in a mad frenzy, not having a single clue of what to do with themselves.) They all ran around screaming, stampeding, forming a religious cult, breaking up their religious cult, forming another cult, trampling young ballerinas, etc. Evee, in the midst of all the panic, ran to go hide in a corner, but saw a young girl with beautiful, long blonde curls standing still with a wide-eyed distant look on her face, almost as if she were in a trance.

"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" cried another random ballerina but with dark hair, her feet in a position of a penguin's at a 180-degree angle.

"Way to quote the obvious," Erik- who had come down from the rafters- commented, "I've been standing right in front of you in the spotlight for 6 minutes now!"

The ballerina (called Meg) uttered strange gasps and gurgles of terror, fainted, woke up, and meekly penguin-shuffled away.

V had hooked up all the wires to the bombs in the rafters, and was now preparing to fetch Evey in the corner. He cut a random cord, took a dive from the rafters Indiana-Jones-style, and swung gallantly down to center stage, his cape like black swan's wings beating poetically against the breeze.

Erik looked up in disbelief. "He can't do that! That's totally my move!"

The masked bomber landed gracefully and made a bow.

"There's not enough room in this fanfiction for two masked troublemakers with a fondness for classical music," Erik growled in a foreboding, contemptuously low voice.

"I suppose I'll just have to kill you then." V returned just as scathingly.

They froze. Suddenly, a giant back hole appeared- as they are wont to do in these stories- and sucked them all into a deep, dark unknown.

This could only be the work of a fanfiction author.