A Story without a Point
Disclaimer: The people, places, and things in this pointless story are not of my own making, creativity, or standard. Such claims have been made and been refuted with fire of Spanish Inquisitor's mark. Brilliantly, and such, plagiarized copies have shown with such votes of public goddesses and fairie ladies, yet remained unlawful in their content of certain inalienable rights. So, with fast and purple words of aspire and cod-liver oil, I find that such is not my place in society. In laymen's tongue, this is not my work, so I shall not place it in a box and eat it. Thank you.
Christine stared at the man who was now dressed in Piangi's costume. It was impossible for her not to recognize his tortured eyes and majestic aura. That is, she was certain it could be no one else but Erik who entered the stage. They sang together the aria and up they climbed to the bridge in the center of the stage. 'Don Juan' approached her, singing wildly. Below the shadow-dancers were becoming terribly distracting and Christine barely noticed when Erik placed his arms about her. It was not until he had released her that she could actually focus on the song. However, she managed to play her part.
Erik took a few steps from her, a note still ringing in his mouth, when there was a shot. The police had entered the scene and had opened fire. Christine screamed, though whether it was in terror or sorrow, she was not sure. She rushed to the phantom's side, hoping that just perhaps the bullet was not fatal.
Gently, ever so gently, she removed his mask, hoping that she would see if he were breathing, for she was too frightened to touch him if he was not. She lifted the black mask and gaped.
"Oh! Sirs! You've made a horrible mistake!" Christine cried.
"What?" a police inspector asked, "A mistake? What are you talking about?"
"It's just, well, this isn't Erik!" Christine replied, trembling.
"What?" This time it was Raoul who cried out.
"It isn't!" Christine repeated.
"Who is Erik?" the inspector asked.
"The Phantom! The one you meant to shoot!" Christine exclaimed.
"What!"
"It's true!" Christine proclaimed, "It's true as true! This man has no birth defects to speak of! He even has a tattoo of a bunny on his face! This is certainly not Erik!"
"But, I don't understand!" Raoul protested, "Who is he? Who else but Erik would do this?"
"Someone get a doctor!" Madame Giry yelled.
"I don't know who he is," Christine admitted, "But we really must get a doctor!"
"No! No we must not!" Carlotta's voice filled the theater. She sounded as if she had been crying. "Piangi! He, he's been, m... murdered!"
"Murdered!" The word filtered through the crowd.
"Oh!" Carlotta fell to the ground in a swoon.
"Who killed him?" the inspector asked, "The man we shot?"
"No, it was the phantom!" someone yelled.
"You mean we didn't shoot the phantom?" someone else asked.
"No, that man is the phantom!"
"No, the phantom's a real ghost!"
As everyone in the theater puzzled over the strange, new event, the doctor and the press arrived. The doctor had the mysterious stranger carried to Christine's dressing room where he could take care of him. The press began photographing everything and asking hundreds of questions.
"What happened?"
"Who was responsible?"
"Did anyone know of this?"
"What's a lime-light?"
"Where's the watercloset?"
"Is Miss Daae single?"
Christine sat down on the bridge to sort out her thoughts. She wondered who the man was, and who murdered Piangi, and where Erik might be, and what she should make for breakfast the next morning. As she pondered these thoughts the theater slowly emptied, leaving her along in the eerie gas light.
Suddenly, someone tapped her shoulder. Christine whirled around, terrified. Although she had seen, met, and had tea with the phantom of the opera, Erik, she could not help but wonder if there was a real ghost that even Erik did not know about. Much to her horror, the person she saw standing behind her was Piangi.
"E-e-e-e!" Christine screamed, "Ghost!"
"Ghost?" Piangi asked in slurred speech, "I don't see no ghosts. I was h... hit on the head. I n... need some brandy."
Christine stared at the large, round tenor and sighed. What was going on?
"Brandy..." Piangi moaned, staggering off.
Christine sat alone on the stage.
"Psst, Christine?" someone said from behind her.
"Wha... Erik?" Christine found herself staring at a very tired, very bedraggled, very wet Erik.
"Hello," he said.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I missed the performance, didn't I?" he said glumly, "I was busy. My cat had puppies."
"Puppies?"
"Yes, it was very odd. They're all over the place now, barking and mewing. Goodness, what a day!" Erik sighed and sat down next to Christine, "Nice hair," he commented.
"Why are you all wet?" Christine asked.
"Oh, that," Erik laughed, "Plumbing problem. Fixed it, though. However, I wouldn't drink the lake water if I were you."
"Eww," Christine said, grimacing.
"Doing anything tonight?" Erik asked.
"Not really," Christine admitted.
"Oh! Then, would you liked to go somewhere... with me?"
"If you change out of those wet clothes and clean up," Christine replied, "Where's your wig?"
"A dog-cat ate it," Erik said, "See you in the foyer."
"Right," Christine agreed, "Oh, and you're hair's really not that bad."
"Thank you," Erik answered, "Even the braid?"
"What braid?"
"My Jedi braid," Erik replied.
"Jedi? What in the world is that?"
"Oh, nothing..."
"Get rid of the braid."
"Right."
Christine wandered off to her dressing room to change out of her costume. She chose a bright red dress with bells on the sleeves. She also wore her favorite boots, a black pair with high heels, and her green cloak.
"Yay! It's Mrs. Santa!" Screamed some children.
"Oh, dear!" Christine rushed back inside her dressing room and put on a gray dress with a purple cloak and her pixie antennae.
After dressing, Christine walked to the foyer. Erik was sliding down the banister.
"Erik! Stop that! A grown man, too!" she snapped.
"Um... I wasn't doing that," Erik mumbled.
The two walked out and entered the dark streets. Outside they could hear the haunting cries of the dog-cats: "Meeee-ruff! Howl! Bark-owl! Mee-bar-ow!"
"Hey! What the... You two! Back on the set!"
Erik and Christine looked up into the face of the director.
"Everyone thought it would be a good idea to ruin dress rehearsals, eh?" the director snapped.
"Oh, this was dress rehearsals?" Erik asked meekly.
"You suck!" the director said.
"Yet, we suck so well!"
This, a piece of second rate writing, has been completed in such ways that calls for, shall we say demands, reviews of star quality. With greenish marbleized headlights, we salute thee, for thine divine egg-salad sandwiches. Bringing forth the fast slowness of the nations yet to be dead, we cry, review! And again, review! With the backwardness of the French and the ACLU, we say: Weiver! Or, in laymen's tongue, please review or I'll explode. Thank you.