/Hi again. First off, I'd like to ask why I've had quite a few people reading this story, yet no one is reviewing (Favoriting aside, but I would appreciate it :D) Though I wrote this story a little ways back in time, I'd still like to know what you think of if and reviews really are very helpful. It would make me very happy~ *Give puppy dog eyes* So pretty please, with cherries and Micheal Crawford's hat on top?

Anyway, song goes to AC/DC, and not cats were drowned so as to make Chris's singing voice any more awful. PotO is owned by the by the public domain, but I'll still give a right tip of the hat to good old Leroux!/

"Living easy, living free,

Season ticket on a one-way ride

Asking nothing, leave me be

Taking everything in my stride-"

"~Don't need reason, don't need rhyme- ain't nothing I'd rather do!~"

Oh yeah. I AM that sad.

"Going down, party time

My friends are gonna be there too-"

"~Yeah,… I'M ON A HIIIIIIIIIIGHWAY TO HEEEELL! ON A HIIIIIIIIIIIGHWAY TO HEE- AHHH! SOAP BUBBLES IN MY EEEEEYES! CURSE YOU LOREAL!"

I guess right about now would be the perfect time to explain why the hell I was back at my hotel room, in the shower, singing along really out of tune to AC/DC music with Bon Scott on Pandora Radio.

It all started with the interwebs.

No, seriously, I'm not kidding. I had my Kindle with me in my satchel at the Opera House and somehow I was picking up the managers' wifi five stories underground. Anyway, flashback time!

/Erik's mouth quirked questioningly, his hand still raised with one finger pointing in the air from when he was still ready to continue with our argument. "…Leroux?" he questioned incredulously, "Do you mean that nosy, fat reporter from the 'Epoque' that began snooping around here after the chandelier… accident?" He spoke the word 'accident' almost smugly- enough so that I had a wish to punch the snob in the head.

"The same, maestro… you do know what year it is… right? I hope you realize that 1881 is a LONG way off from when we are now."

Of course I do!" he snapped angrily, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth with impatience. If I had known any better, I'd say O.G.'s face flushed with embarrassment beneath the mask. "…When are we… exactly?" The palm of my hand met my forehead with exasperation.

"It's 2012 smarty-pants." I waited with a hand on my hip for his response. He remain extremely calm at first, and then this happened-

"Ce que l'enfer sanglant?! Pour l'amour de tout ce qui est musique-"

"Okay maestro. Settle down before you have a stroke… and switch back to English, if you please." I reached out cautiously, so as not to have my arm removed from its joint and chucked across the room, and patted the Phantom on the shoulder. "Why don't you sit down while I go and try to figure out how to make tea? Do you have chamomile? I think we could both use it." Erik didn't protest as I led him to the settee and sat him down, fixing the ruffled black and crimson throw pillows while I was at it. God, that place was as messy a bachelor's lair as I'd ever seen… I think I actually saw something move under the couch! As I turned to go and find the kitchen, Erik barely brushed my sleeve in an attempt to stop me.

"No, wait! Mademoiselle… please explain this all to me." The word 'please' also seemed to stick in his mouth, only that time it seemed much more painful than smug. I grumbled under my breath, sitting in the armchair across from Erik.

"Where do I even start-"

"The beginning seems the most logical answer."

"That was a rhetorical question, smartass."

"That is very unladylike talk, Miss Markely."

"Why don't you shut the hell up before I give you a very unladylike hand sign." I had to bite my lip in an attempt to control my fury enough not slap that smug look off his face. He called me insufferable?

And so, once again the pot calls the kettle black.

I pulled my Kindle from my bag, removing it from its case while Erik gave it an inquisitive stare.

"What is-"

"Technology, dear maestro. Don't ask right now." I opened the internet browser, pulling up the Wikipedia page for Gaston Leroux's 'The Phantom of the Opera'. Turning the screen towards my masked companion, I motioned for him to read it while I flipped the pages for him. He said not a word nor gave away a hint of his emotions as I first had him read the summary of Leroux's book, and then pulled up the actual book and had him read the introduction Gaston Leroux himself had written, claiming the Opera Ghost existed.

Now came the REALLY fun part.

Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical!

My first thought was to show him the wiki page for it as well, but then decided against it for a more fun explanation.

The title song with Michael Crawford and Sara Brightman would do. As the first chords of the song began, maestro gave a baffled look, completely stunned and unsure of how all that music was coming out of my little Kindle. Before he could question this as well, I raised a hand for silence. "Shh," I whispered. "You're ruining your own song," I hummed in time with the music, only cringing when Sara Brightman tried to hit notes beyond her skill and swaying and smiling when Michael's angelic voice washed away the trauma of hearing Sara screech like a dying parrot.

When the song ended, I watched as Erik leaned forward with one elbow resting on his crossed legs and a fist to his mouth. His words shouldn't have surprised, but they did all the same.

"Mon dieu, that woman was worse than La Carlotta with a hangnail."

"The 1980's, my dear Phantom. Don't question it, only enjoy what you can of it."/

And so, thus the real Opera ghost learned of his copycats and many fangirls- including yours truly- and we all live happily ever after, the End.

Haha, that's a good one.

What really happened was a conversation like this after about three and a half hours of making him listen to ALW's music and explaining his little love triangles claim to fame.

/"Hey, maestro?"

"Yes, Miss Markely?"

"Can I go back to my hotel now?"

"I'm afraid that won't be quite possible, mademoiselle." I huffed angrily and crossed my arms.

"And why, pray tell, is it not?" Erik shrugged nonchalantly.

"It's very simple- you know where Erik lives. I can't allow you out of here now." I threw my arms into the air in total exasperation.

"OH, COME ON!" I ripped at my hair and glared at him, jumping to my feet. "Do you really think me, Miss Couldn't-Find-Her-Way-To-The-Louvre-When-She-Had-A -Map-In-Her-Face-And-Nearly-Got-Hit-By-A-Car-In-Th e-Process, would be able to find my way down here again, in the dark, and across the lake without toppling the boat and drowning myself? Let alone tell anyone else and be able to show them the way in the first place? And plus," I explained pointedly, "One, no one would believe me if I did say anything and I would most likely be locked in a loony bin if I tried, and two- why would I turn in my favorite literary masked musical genius of all time? I'm totally on your side dude- 'Death to Raoul' and all that crap. Rethink the situation quickly, Mr. Opera Ghost, because I have leftover mac and cheese just calling out to me in the refrigerator back at my hotel- and my stomach is eating itself as we speak."/

And so, I came to be in my current situation- screaming bloody murder in the bathroom as if I were about to be brutally murdered by Freddy Krueger all for the sake of a few soap suds in my corneas. "Owww… OWWWW… PAIN…" I finished rinsing the rest of the aforementioned demonic soap from my soaked brunette curls, then proceeding to jump out of the shower as fast as I could and over to the sink to wash out my eyes, slopping water everywhere in the process. "Ugg…" I rested my forearms on the sink, my sopping mass of hair flinging water across the mirror.

"And I'm going down, all the way down

I'm on a highway to HELL-"

The tube of toothpaste flew across the room with practiced aim and hit the mute key on my laptop. "That's enough now, Bon Scott. Chrissy's in pain and would like to wallow in it in silence." I rubbed my temples with pruned fingertips, wrapping my hair in a towel and piling it atop my head before drying off and throwing on a baggy tee shirt with a picture of my pet chicken ironed on it and sweatpants. Exiting the water soaked bathroom and still rubbing the sting out of my eyes, I was greeted with an even greater and more powerful headache.

One that came dressed in black evening wear and felt inclined to break into my hotel room uninvited.

"I say, Miss Markely- if you don't mind me commenting- your singing is very similar to the screeching of a drowning feline with a lung infection."

"Oh, maestro. Your flattery is so very endearing. Now get out of my TV chair, smartass."

/And just as a final note, sorry and hardcore Sarah Brightman lovers- I'm entitled to my opinion, and personally I think she sounds like a dying cat with a lung infection. Only that aforementioned feline would be screeching in permanent falsetto. Please, as Erik would say, for the love of all that is music, review?