A/N: For those of you who took the last chapter a bit too seriously as far as discrepancies and a slight bit of OOCness, and sent me disgruntled PMs and reviews and whatnot, be reminded that any and all of that sort of thing is usually on purpose to make you laugh. A lot of the time, too, I'm just parodying an idea that someone else has had. For example, the idea that Leroux!Erik is not a virgin is an idea that's been kicked around by a lot of the more intellectual Leroux theorists, and the fact that I included it doesn't mean that I personally hold that view (I've always been of the mind that he is quite sexually inexperienced, in fact, but the idea that he isn't makes for some good parodying). And the Christine discrepancy that Jungle Julia and a few others mentioned…that was on purpose, believe it or not. (i.e., the idea is that Erik is either lying about his prowess with prostitutes or he is lying about only casting his eyes on Christine—as to which one it actually is, I don't have a preference. It was simply meant to be humorous, although upon reflection I understand completely how you mightn't have realized that and simply taken it for a mistake in continuity. I probably would have done the same as a reader.)

With that out of the way, on with the long-overdue Kay!Erik installment (which should hopefully please both lovers and dislikers/downright haters of that particular version).

Also, because of the largely prequel-like nature of the novel (the Opera Garnier years and the Christine incident only take up a relatively small portion at the very end), time may seem to jump around a bit as certain characters from Kay!Erik's past write him humorous letters. Take it with a grain of salt; this is a parody, after all, and I've already taken parodic liberties with the whole characters-being-aware-of-other-versions-of-themselves thing, so it shouldn't really surprise you.


Kay

Dear Erik,

My son, I miss you terribly, far greater than you can know. I cannot apologize enough for the horrible way in which I treated you in your childhood. But now I have repented, and I wish you to come home. Please say you will forgive me. I very much wish to see you again.

Sincerely,

Your Mother, Madeleine

Boscherville, France

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To Whom It May Concern:

Right.

Who is this really?

Not Sure How You Knew My Name or My Past,

Erik

P.S. This had better not be Mademoiselle Perrault.


Dear O.G.,

I seem to have an odd lookalike roaming about the Opera, a man who calls himself by the rather unimaginative name of "Nadir Khan" (it seems painfully obvious that he simply chose two Muslim names at random and stuck them haphazardly together to fashion what he supposed to be a "typical" Persian moniker, only adding to my outrage, but I suppose that is beside the point). At any rate, why do you suppose that this imposter is pretending to be myself, and what on earth am I to do about this dreadful situation? (Somehow I doubt that the gendarmes would be sympathetic.)

At Wit's End,

He Who Shall Remain Nameless

Opera Garnier, Paris, France

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My dear daroga,

The solution is simple. To him you are the imposter (although I know of a good deal of frightful young women—and probably men, for that matter—who would probably mistake that well-intentioned remark for arrogance and, doubtless, wish to slit my throat for blasphemy).

I'll put it bluntly. You're in the wrong dimension. Go home.

Not In The Mood For Dealing With Confused Canon Characters,

The Other O.G.

P.S. Give my regards to that other Erik, would you, my good man? And if you have a problem with poor Nadir's name (which I completely understand, as from a purely theoretical standpoint I am sure I wouldn't exactly relish the idea of someone prancing about as me and calling themselves something inane like "Winslow"), I suggest you take it up with Susan Kay.


Dear O.G.,

Ha-ha.

Demonically Plotting Swan's Demise,

The Phantom of the Paradise (aka Winslow)

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Dear Personage Whose Name I Refuse To Utter,

Have you traveled to the third cellar of the Opera Garnier lately? Lovely spot for hangi—er, picnics.

Cordially,

The Phantom of the One-Step-Away-From-Wringing-Your-Neck


Dear Angel of Death,

I seem to be experiencing a midlife crisis. No man has ever denied my seductive charms until now. However, the man whom I currently desire seems to have no inclination whatsoever of my intentions; either that, or he is simply trying to spite me. I find him utterly irresistible, for he is the ugliest creature I have ever seen, and his hideousness arouses me most perversely. What do you suggest I do to bring him to my bed?

Sincerely,

Mother of the Glorious Shah

Mazenderan, Persia

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My dear Khanum,

Perhaps if you were not so inclined to torture innocent harem girls for sport and keep men's genitals on a shelf, the dubious object of your desire might be more inclined to accept your advances. And if it's really ugliness you're after, why don't you take up with a cave troll?

Nice Try,

Erik


Meow Meowik,

Meow meow meow meow prrrow purr meow meow. Meow mew mee murrr purrr prrowow meow meow rrrow.

Mew?

Meowy meow,

Meowsha

---

My darling Ayesha,

Don't try to write letters, my sweet. Your penmanship is atrocious. Though I suppose if I were writing with claws instead of digits, my scrawl might be just as illegible. (It already is quite bad, so don't expect me to give you any lessons, because I sorely doubt you would improve.)

There are some sardines for you in the kitchen. And remember, you will always be my little lady, no matter what the presence of Christine may make you think.

Fondly,

Erik


Dear Erik,

You can kiss me any time you want to, hotcakes. Bow-Chicka-Wow-Wow!

Eating Chocolate-Covered Cherries As We Speak,

Your Phuture Luver

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Dear Whoever-You-Are,

You'd be surprised how many of these I get a month. I keep them all in a drawer, because they make me laugh. I have a whole dresserful, can you believe that?

At any rate, I would take a random guess that you are small, petite, probably fourteen years of age, with a large bust and pouty lips. Or at least that's what your Mary-Sue will look like when she comes to plague me. My guess is that you yourself are so gawky that you have the breadth of a pancake, with buck teeth and a benignly cancerous acne on your charming little face. Oh, and you're fourteen years of age, of course. Perhaps fifteen or even thirteen.

Do you know what I'm going to do with your Mary-Sue, my little duckie? Do you? I'm going to ship her back to you in a box containing large amounts of nitroglycerine. Because you were actually foolish enough to provide me with your address.

Tired of Being A Gentleman To Those Who Don't Deserve It,

O.G.


Dear Erik,

I seem to have an odd lookalike roaming about the Opera of late. He claims to be "the real daroga", though he refuses to give up any clue as to his identity (i.e. his name), and I am getting quite tired of his denouncing me as an "imposter." Is this some sort of practical joke?

Not Amused,

The Man With The Unimaginative Name

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My dear Nadir,

Don't be alarmed. I took care of it. Hopefully.

But if you see any oddly-dressed young women or men in the halls giving you murderous looks and holding something behind their backs, don't say I didn't warn you.

Sincerely,

Erik