Author's note: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! I hope you enjoy this
new chapter. And no, Erik is not immortal in Leroux's novel, but there will
be an explanation as to why my Erik is in the next chapter, I promise.
Disclaimer: I do not own 'The Phantom of the Opera,' 'Frankenstein,' or 'Dracula.'
On with the madness!
'The Price of Fame.'
Chapter Four: Erik Meets His Match
Nadir once described Erik as 'the most terrible adversary that you can imagine.'
Unfortunately, he was exaggerating.
Erik was an expert at wielding the Punjab Lasso, but when it came to fighting with his fists he was simply mediocre. He stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by an ever-growing crowd of disbelieving onlookers, trying desperately to dodge Dracula's attacks. The vampire moved so quickly that it was almost impossible for Erik to get a blow in, and inflicting any serious damage was out of the question.
'Come on Erik! Is that the best you can do?' cried a disillusioned Phan in the crowd. 'Punjab him!'
Erik wished that he could Punjab him, but he had not carried a lasso for many years. He considered himself a reformed Phantom, who at least pretended to deplore violence of any kind.
'Don't worry, old chap,' said Dracula, in an infuriatingly sympathetic voice. 'I've got some work-out videos at home. We'll soon get you back in shape.'
Erik lunged at Dracula, who neatly stuck out a foot and tripped him up. He lay on the floor, panting for breath. Dracula towered over him, grinning evilly from ear to ear.
'I recommend that you cut down on the chocolate,' he continued. 'And run two laps round the Opera House each morning.'
Erik let his face drop to the ground, utterly humiliated. He had lost. The Phantom of the Opera had lost the fight.
Everything Dracula said was true.
'Boo!' jeered the Phan. 'I don't believe in anything anymore! I'm converting to 'Les Miserables'!'
Erik struggled to his feet and slowly walked away, the sneers and catcalls ringing in his ears.
And then he saw it.
It was round and rusty, and the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
An idea struck him. He struggled with his conscience for half a second.
'Well, Erik...if you can't fight well, fight dirty...'
He picked up the dustbin lid, and crept up behind Dracula.
Within the next split-second, the following things happened simultaneously. The dustbin lid made contact with the back of Dracula's skull...Christine screamed...the onlookers gasped...and there was a flash, accompanied by a self-satisfied 'click.' Erik looked around stupidly, dustbin lid still in hand, momentarily blinded by the flash. He heard Dracula fall to the ground with a 'thud,' but the sound barely registered.
'Click, click, click.'
Erik stared at the crowd of journalists in disbelief. They had apparently appeared out of nowhere. Their cameras flashed at him horribly.
One of them produced a tape-recorder, and thrust it towards Erik's mouth.
'Er...Mr Phantom...Sir...you have just knocked Count Dracula unconscious. How do you feel?'
Erik stared at him in amazement. 'What the hell is going on?'
'So, why exactly did you want to inflict grievous bodily harm on Dracula?' continued the journalist, pleasantly.
'I'll tell you why!' said a voice from behind them.
Erik turned around to see Christine standing by Dracula's unconscious body.
'He did it because he's violent, unstable, and unbelievably stupid! This is the real Phantom of the Opera! A stalker who won't let me live my life in peace! A second-rate thug!'
'Christine...' Erik whimpered. 'You don't mean that...' He paused, and thought for a moment.
Something was very wrong here. Something didn't quite make sense...
'How did the press know that I was here?'
Christine laughed. 'How do you think? I tipped them off!'
Erik gazed at her in disbelief. 'You set me up? Why?'
'Because I wanted to expose you, to show you as the fraud you really are! All these years, ever since that wretched book was published, everyone has felt sorry for the Phantom...the poor little rejected Phantom! No one ever gives a thought to Christine...no, no, it's just 'Erik this' and 'Erik that.' 'Poor, unhappy Erik!''
'It's not true...' Erik gasped.
Christine ignored him, and continued to rant and rave at the journalists.
'Everywhere I go, I have to wear a veil or a pair of sunglasses, because if I don't his wretched Phans jeer and throw things at me!' She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose loudly. 'I just want to settle down with Drac and have lots of little vampire children. But now that wretched movie's being made, I'm never going to have a moment's respite. The Phantom of the Opera will always be there...inside my mind...and on TV screens...' Christine burst into loud, theatrical tears.
'Awwwww,' said Frank, who was having trouble following the whole thing.
'Awwwww,' agreed the journalists.
'Why didn't I see it before?' cried the angry Phan. 'The Phantom is the evil one!'
'Yes!' screamed someone else. 'Let's get him!'
'Run,' thought Erik, and he set off down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.
'Oh, you can run!' screamed Christine. 'But you can't hide! Christine will not be silenced! Christine will shout the truth from the rooftops! Christine will have her revenge!'
Erik didn't doubt her for a second. He knew that anyone who referred to themselves in the third person three times in the same speech was capable of anything.
He rounded a corner at speed, and ran head long into someone's body.
'Oh, excuse me...I...'
He raised his eyes, and saw that he was addressing the empty air.
He looked around. No one.
Puzzled and slightly unnerved, Erik shrugged his shoulders and set off again.
'Good evening, Monsieur Erik. Where are you going so fast?'
Erik froze. The voice was warm, melodious, and strangely familiar.
He slowly turned around, and once again saw no one.
'Who...who's there?'
The voice laughed. 'Oh! Forgive me...I must make myself visible.'
The shadows which surrounded Erik seemed to shimmer, to move and grow, until suddenly he was not looking at shadows at all but the figure of a man.
Erik gasped. The man was clad from head to foot in a long black cloak, his face concealed by a cowl.
Erik took a step backwards, shivering with cold and fear.
'Do not be afraid, Erik; you are in no danger,' said the man, kindly.
'Who are you?'
The man stepped towards him and, without warning, threw back his cowl. A pair of golden eyes, set in an all too familiar face, blazed intensely at Erik.
'Do you recognise me now?' asked the voice, gently. 'I'm the Phantom of the Opera.'
Erik's mouth twitched a few times. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted.
Disclaimer: I do not own 'The Phantom of the Opera,' 'Frankenstein,' or 'Dracula.'
On with the madness!
'The Price of Fame.'
Chapter Four: Erik Meets His Match
Nadir once described Erik as 'the most terrible adversary that you can imagine.'
Unfortunately, he was exaggerating.
Erik was an expert at wielding the Punjab Lasso, but when it came to fighting with his fists he was simply mediocre. He stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by an ever-growing crowd of disbelieving onlookers, trying desperately to dodge Dracula's attacks. The vampire moved so quickly that it was almost impossible for Erik to get a blow in, and inflicting any serious damage was out of the question.
'Come on Erik! Is that the best you can do?' cried a disillusioned Phan in the crowd. 'Punjab him!'
Erik wished that he could Punjab him, but he had not carried a lasso for many years. He considered himself a reformed Phantom, who at least pretended to deplore violence of any kind.
'Don't worry, old chap,' said Dracula, in an infuriatingly sympathetic voice. 'I've got some work-out videos at home. We'll soon get you back in shape.'
Erik lunged at Dracula, who neatly stuck out a foot and tripped him up. He lay on the floor, panting for breath. Dracula towered over him, grinning evilly from ear to ear.
'I recommend that you cut down on the chocolate,' he continued. 'And run two laps round the Opera House each morning.'
Erik let his face drop to the ground, utterly humiliated. He had lost. The Phantom of the Opera had lost the fight.
Everything Dracula said was true.
'Boo!' jeered the Phan. 'I don't believe in anything anymore! I'm converting to 'Les Miserables'!'
Erik struggled to his feet and slowly walked away, the sneers and catcalls ringing in his ears.
And then he saw it.
It was round and rusty, and the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
An idea struck him. He struggled with his conscience for half a second.
'Well, Erik...if you can't fight well, fight dirty...'
He picked up the dustbin lid, and crept up behind Dracula.
Within the next split-second, the following things happened simultaneously. The dustbin lid made contact with the back of Dracula's skull...Christine screamed...the onlookers gasped...and there was a flash, accompanied by a self-satisfied 'click.' Erik looked around stupidly, dustbin lid still in hand, momentarily blinded by the flash. He heard Dracula fall to the ground with a 'thud,' but the sound barely registered.
'Click, click, click.'
Erik stared at the crowd of journalists in disbelief. They had apparently appeared out of nowhere. Their cameras flashed at him horribly.
One of them produced a tape-recorder, and thrust it towards Erik's mouth.
'Er...Mr Phantom...Sir...you have just knocked Count Dracula unconscious. How do you feel?'
Erik stared at him in amazement. 'What the hell is going on?'
'So, why exactly did you want to inflict grievous bodily harm on Dracula?' continued the journalist, pleasantly.
'I'll tell you why!' said a voice from behind them.
Erik turned around to see Christine standing by Dracula's unconscious body.
'He did it because he's violent, unstable, and unbelievably stupid! This is the real Phantom of the Opera! A stalker who won't let me live my life in peace! A second-rate thug!'
'Christine...' Erik whimpered. 'You don't mean that...' He paused, and thought for a moment.
Something was very wrong here. Something didn't quite make sense...
'How did the press know that I was here?'
Christine laughed. 'How do you think? I tipped them off!'
Erik gazed at her in disbelief. 'You set me up? Why?'
'Because I wanted to expose you, to show you as the fraud you really are! All these years, ever since that wretched book was published, everyone has felt sorry for the Phantom...the poor little rejected Phantom! No one ever gives a thought to Christine...no, no, it's just 'Erik this' and 'Erik that.' 'Poor, unhappy Erik!''
'It's not true...' Erik gasped.
Christine ignored him, and continued to rant and rave at the journalists.
'Everywhere I go, I have to wear a veil or a pair of sunglasses, because if I don't his wretched Phans jeer and throw things at me!' She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose loudly. 'I just want to settle down with Drac and have lots of little vampire children. But now that wretched movie's being made, I'm never going to have a moment's respite. The Phantom of the Opera will always be there...inside my mind...and on TV screens...' Christine burst into loud, theatrical tears.
'Awwwww,' said Frank, who was having trouble following the whole thing.
'Awwwww,' agreed the journalists.
'Why didn't I see it before?' cried the angry Phan. 'The Phantom is the evil one!'
'Yes!' screamed someone else. 'Let's get him!'
'Run,' thought Erik, and he set off down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.
'Oh, you can run!' screamed Christine. 'But you can't hide! Christine will not be silenced! Christine will shout the truth from the rooftops! Christine will have her revenge!'
Erik didn't doubt her for a second. He knew that anyone who referred to themselves in the third person three times in the same speech was capable of anything.
He rounded a corner at speed, and ran head long into someone's body.
'Oh, excuse me...I...'
He raised his eyes, and saw that he was addressing the empty air.
He looked around. No one.
Puzzled and slightly unnerved, Erik shrugged his shoulders and set off again.
'Good evening, Monsieur Erik. Where are you going so fast?'
Erik froze. The voice was warm, melodious, and strangely familiar.
He slowly turned around, and once again saw no one.
'Who...who's there?'
The voice laughed. 'Oh! Forgive me...I must make myself visible.'
The shadows which surrounded Erik seemed to shimmer, to move and grow, until suddenly he was not looking at shadows at all but the figure of a man.
Erik gasped. The man was clad from head to foot in a long black cloak, his face concealed by a cowl.
Erik took a step backwards, shivering with cold and fear.
'Do not be afraid, Erik; you are in no danger,' said the man, kindly.
'Who are you?'
The man stepped towards him and, without warning, threw back his cowl. A pair of golden eyes, set in an all too familiar face, blazed intensely at Erik.
'Do you recognise me now?' asked the voice, gently. 'I'm the Phantom of the Opera.'
Erik's mouth twitched a few times. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted.