A/N: I wrote this some time ago, shortly after poor Otto's death. It's been on my blog since then (see my profile for the link), but I figured it was time to finally break down and share it with all of you as well (especially since it's been so long since my last update!). ;-)
For those of you who may not be aware, Otto was Lord Andrew Lloyd-Webber's kitty. You know, the guy who did the Phantom of the Opera musical, and the much less faithful 2004 movie. Well, he's writing a sequel based on the even crappier "Phantom of Manhattan" by Frederik Forsythe (in which the Phantom, Erik, suddenly abandons music for money(!), moves to New York(!), gets a job gutting fish(!), which somehow leads to a job designing fun houses for carnivals(!), and builds himself a new lair in a Hall of Mirrors(!), where he hangs out, interacting with people(!), dressed in a clown suit(!). This somehow leads to him becoming the preeminent architect in New York(!), building a small empire(!), and, of course, coming across Christine again as she tours the Americas. With her son(!). Who, of course, is really his(!)... eyeroll
Just to complete the Suethor wankiness, the recently announced title of the sequel will be "Phantom: Once Upon Another Time". Gah.
For those of you who aren't familiar with POTO, this is about as likely and as in character as a V who suddenly abandons his vendetta to move to Sussex and become Sutler's new Minister of Propaganda, where he discovers a sudden flair for patriotic porno flicks. Ie, not.
So anyway, Saint Otto, would-be Savior of the Phandom (and an extremely rare and expensive Turkish kitten), jumped up onto ALW's keyboard one day, and somehow managed to delete the entire score of PoM to date...Our hero!
Certain phans (who share my poor opinion of PoM) speculated that he might have been Erik, reincarnated.
But, woes!!1! Poor Otto recently was run over on the road outside ALW's house. This is even more tragic than senseless kitty-squashing usually is, because there goes our inside man.
Some of those phans suspect foul play; others fear suicide...
You may detect a note of grumpiness within this phic. ;-) This is at least partially because I paid full cover price for PoM back when it first came out. It's also because I am dreading the inevitable influx of new fans into the phandom, all squeeing about how OMGhawt!!1! the Phantom looks in his clown suit. Jeebus.
Otto's Perspective
By Kryss LaBryn
Who is really, really sorry about Otto's death, and for drawing inspiration from it. And who, thankfully, owns nothing.
Because, really, who the hell wants to be able to claim PoM?
I couldn't stand it.
It was bad enough the last time around; really, I didn't think a new life could possibly be any worse. But there you go; apparently, at some point in the karmic wheel, I was a really, really bad person.
Who, I can only infer, was unkind to kittens. How else to explain my current predicament?
Of all the pet stores in all the world, he had to come into mine…
I mean, it wasn't bad enough that he had to seriously revise my story. He had a time limit, I do realize, and certain constraints posed by the medium. But he had also read the original publication; inaccurate as it was, it was closer than many other versions I have since been exposed to. He should have known better.
But greed, I can only assume, got the better of him. Greed and, I suppose, ego…
After all, the stage musical netted him not only popular acclaim and a knighthood, it also got him a lordship. Bah. And made his fortune. But was he content to rest on his laurels? Perhaps move on to a different subject? No.
No, no; bloody hell, no.
No. First he commissions that ridiculous and improbable piece of claptrap from Forsythe, then he announces that he will make a movie based on the musical. And then, having said that, does he even have the decency to actually make a movie based on his own bloody musical? No.
Bah. Cute as I now was, it was still hard to not be grumpy. Especially being forced to listen to the genesis of his latest monstrosity. Batting a squeaky-mouse along the hall, I casually worked my way as close to his music room as I could.
I was in luck: the door was slightly ajar. He sat at his keyboard, ostensibly 'creating' his new score. A notebook covered with scribbled notes had slipped to the floor near his feet. The exposed page seemed to have various titles of what I could only fear were songs scratched across it: Humanity, How I Hate You; Can It Be Christine?; Gutting Mackerels; First, We Take Manhattan…
My eyes squeezed shut and my ears flattened in horror. My first instinctive impulse was to claw his ankles, but I fiercely suppressed it. As satisfying as it would momentarily feel, it would not help stop him in the long run.
"Hullo, Otto," he said cheerfully; "Come to have a listen, have you?" Drat! He had noticed me! Luck (I suppose I had to call it) was with me, however, for instead of firmly shutting me out as I had expected, he picked me up and placed me in his lap.
"Here, have a listen," he continued, and started to play and, for want of a better word, sing:
From Opera Ghost to carnie, it's not such a difficult leap!
My life hasn't changed all that much, from week to typical week…
I'm hiding in mirrors and spinning a web
Of deceit around e-ver-y cute little deb-
Utante and their boyfriends who all flock to see
My mirrors in my life-sized Dollhouse of Crazy!
And with my new mask, the children don't frown
(For what child was ever afraid of a clown?)
So I lurk, and I plot, and I feel quite sane,
For I'm totally over that—Whatsername!
And music? Pfft! Music! What's that to me?
It's all Mammon now, the God of Money!
I'll amass a large fortune, and build a magnificent keep—
No, from Opera Ghost to carnie, is not such a difficult leap!
Because, I thought in disgust, my time amongst the gypsies was so enjoyable that of course I'd leap at the chance to have anything to do with carnivals and circuses again…
"—What do you think, Otto? Eh? I'm writing the score more in Gerard's range, so he'll sound even better than before!"
I miaoed non-committally, and carefully scanned the keyboard. Feline eyes were not intended to read, but still…
Ah. Had it.
With a wave of my tail I leapt, carefully placing my feet for maximum impact. Ctrl… A… Delete. His shrieks of agony as I scampered for the door were truly music to my ears.
He was furious, of course, but between the children's affection (and protestations of my innocent intent) and the truly indecent amount of money he had paid to acquire me, he found himself unable to offer me any lasting injury beyond his irritation; and, really, what cat or Ghost has ever cared a whit for that? However, I was now irrevocably banned from that entire wing of the house.
Much to my disgust, he remembered rather more of the despicable work than I had hoped. Try as I might, I could neither find my way back in to wreak more havoc, nor trip him at the top of the rather lengthy flight of stairs, nor escape the sound of his compositions. My poor feline ears were too sensitive, even with the extra insulation around the music room.
I tried, I really did, but finally I could take no more abuse. My ears hurt, and the thought of an entire new generation of young women slavering over a handsome man in a clown suit, for God's sake, firmly under the impression that they were swooning over the dreaded fantóme de l'opéra—It was too much.
At my earliest opportunity, I escaped, in the only way I could.
I regretted the sadness I would cause the children, of course; they had never been anything but kind to me.
But I could never regret the blow to his pocketbook.