Inspired by the legions of modern-day Moulin Rouge fics currently making the rounds (the best of which are written by Karadarlin and She's a Star, go check them out:), I decided to try my hand at a modern-day Mummy story.

This is not a reincarnation story or anything, it is simply transplanting the characters into a different time period, completely tearing apart the plot, and having a whole lot of fun in the mean time.

Note: I've tried to be historically accurate, blah, blah, blah, but hard as I try I'm bound to make mistakes. Accept them, embrace them, don't nitpick over them. Merci:)

Basic plot: In 1972, President Howard Carnahan was murdered by his mistress and his personal assistant...thirty years later, his children stumble upon a twisted plot of love, lust and mysticism that could cost them their lives...

1: Taking out the Dry Cleaning

1972 A.D.:

Ivan sighed as he knocked firmly on the door. Four short little knocks, then, a moment later, another. He tugged at the uncomfortable collar of his insanely striped shirt one last time, trying to block out the vivid yellow and green that, to him at least, screamed "fashion victim!" Unfortunately for Ivan, Anastasia believed to the core of her soul that the shirt made him look exceptionally handsome. Only for Annie, Ivan thought as he waited for the door to open.

Eventually it did, and Ivan suddenly thanked the fashion gods that bellbottoms were in style. They worked much better on her, especially paired with impossibly tall clogs and the glittery crushed velvet top that Ivan remembered had cost Carnahan a fortune. Ivan took care of the his credit card bills, so he should know.

"Ivan," Anastasia purred. "Do come in. Howard will be delighted you've come."

With a respectful nod of his head, Ivan followed her into the brightly lit room. Once the door was safely shut, Anastasia practically pounced on him, covering his bald head with kisses. "Oh, Ivan, you couldn't have come soon enough. I swear Howard is out to drive me crazy!"

"What has he done this week, dear Annie?"

"He wants me to move to Los Angeles!" cried Anastasia, collapsing in Ivan's arms as if the horrible weight of the president's decision was too much to bear. "He's decided not to run again, and wants us to move to Los Angeles. He says he'll marry me as soon as the press calms down about Lana's death."

"You can't marry him."

Anastasia looked up at him with mournful eyes. "What else can I do? You know what he could do to us."

"We'll run."

"You know we can't." Anastasia drew out of his embrace and crossed her arms. "Don't be silly. He'd find us."

"Not if he doesn't want the press to catch wind of you."

Anastasia's eyes widened. "You'd...you'd blackmail him?"

"Why not?"

"You can't just blackmail the president of the United States!"

"Annie, look. I know more about him than he knows about himself. We could ruin him. He would give us whatever we wanted. We could start a family, and travel, you said you always wanted to go to Egypt."

Anastasia drug a hand through her stylishly crimped tresses, spoiling the perfect image she strove so hard to keep up though the press was so far unaware of her existence. "I'm scared, Ivan."

"Come here," he gestured, drawing her closer. "We'll figure something out. I'll figure something out."

"I know," she whispered. As Ivan kissed her, slowly pulling the crushed velvet over her head, he wondered for the millionth time what he had done to deserve someone so beautiful, so kind, so wonderful...and what they had done to deserve the cruel reign of President Howard Carnahan.

Suddenly they heard the telltale click of the lock and leapt away from each other, but it was too late. Carnahan entered, and confusion, then suspicion, clouded his features. "Anastasia," he said, "what are you two doing here?"

"Ivan was just dropping off the paperwork for the luncheon," Anastasia said casually.

"I see," said Carnahan. "And that would be why he is holding your shirt?"

Ivan's eyes widened as he realized that their facade had a fatal flaw...it was probably something to do with the fact that Anastasia was standing there, careless as could be, in nothing but bellbottoms and bra.

"Sending this to cleaners," Ivan choked out, attempting to repair the damage. "Is there anything else that needs to go out?"

"You fool!" Carnahan roared, rushing at Ivan and taking him by the throat. "I trusted you with her, I trusted you--"

A piercing crack split the air, and the crushed velvet shirt Ivan still held really was in dire need of a trip to the dry cleaners.

Ivan looked down in shock at the president, writhing on the floor before him. A line of blood gurgled unpleasantly out the side of his mouth. He raised his head and pointed a shaky finger at Ivan. "Bastard," he gurgled. "I trusted you."

Without thinking, Ivan snatched the gun out of Anastasia's shaking fingers and held it to Carnahan's head. He pulled the trigger, the gunshot echoing throughout the apartment as Ivan threw the shirt over Carnahan's corpse. Ivan dared to look at Anastasia, who had sunk to the floor. "I killed the president," she whispered, voice muffled by the blood-spattered hand she held over her mouth. "I killed the president, I killed the president...

"It's all right, dear Anastasia," Ivan said, surprisingly calm. He wiped the gun clear of fingerprints with the edge of his horrid shirt, then pulled Anastasia to her feet. "Now we run."

"Free," she replied, a smile quivering at the edges of her mouth. "Together."

Ivan had no time to respond, for they were no longer alone. A stream of Secret Servicemen poured into the front room, surrounding the corpse. No one made a move toward Ivan and Anastasia, they were simply too shocked to take in more than the fact that the president had just been murdered right under their noses. The lovers' path to the door, however, was blocked. Ivan felt Anastasia slip something into the back pocket of his bellbottoms. She whispered, "You will save me, my Ivan."

Then she spoke to the men, louder. "I did it," she said. "I killed him."

Anastasia raised the barrel of the gun to her temple and squeezed the trigger. Luckily, Ivan averted his eyes just in time.

The first few hours after Carnahan's murder, Ivan lived in a state of numb shock. No one could share in his grief. His lover was dead by her own hand, but nobody was interested in that first part. They cared only about the fact that the president of their country had been assassinated by his mistress in a senseless tragedy.

Ivan was the only one who realized that, while certainly tragic, it was not entirely without sense.

The police let him go after a few hours of intense questioning, conceding that Anastasia's confession made Ivan nothing more than a person of interest. He had only just remembered to retrieve the object from his pocket before they confiscated his now bloody bellbottoms for evidence. After carefully examining it, he discovered that it appeared to be a safety-deposit key from the local bank. He was there before it opened the next morning, impatiently pounding on the doors to be let in when his watch showed precisely eight o'clock and they hadn't yet opened. He sweet-talked his way past a shy secretary in order to get to the box, making up a story about poor Anastasia Madrun, his little niece, who desperately needed the paperwork in the box in order to obtain a life-saving kidney transplant.

She finally left him alone in a private viewing room, after making it clear that no item from the box could be physically removed from the bank. He opened the large box tentatively, lifting the lid to lay eyes upon a simple linen cloth. Ivan let out a breath, willing himself to calm down. He carefully stripped off the linen and what he saw took his breath away once more.

The ornately carved tome looked to be made out of a heavy material, strong enough to last many lifetimes. It was still polished and shiny, though Ivan judged it to be thousands of years old. His eyes swept over the hieroglyphics, suddenly very thankful that his mother had insisted he learn multiple languages, even the dead ones. He lifted the book reverently out of the box, delicately caressing the words that would make his life whole again. Digging further, Ivan discovered the key, even more intricately carved than the book itself, nestled in a velvet box. He slipped the key into the pocket of his plaid jacket (another Anastasia purchase) and maneuvered the bulky book into his backpack.

Perfectly naturally, he waltzed out of the room and straight into the secretary. "I need to check the box," she said, as though she'd realized the error of her ways.

"I'm sorry," Ivan said, putting on his most charming grin. "But has anyone ever told you that you look like Princess Anne?"

Ten minutes later, after assuring the secretary that he would pick her up that night at seven, Ivan fled the bank in Anastasia's VW Bug. He pulled to a stop a few blocks from the bank after carefully losing the Secret Service vehicle that had taken to trailing him. With shaky hands, he unlocked the key and opened the book, just staring for a moment in awe, before he started to scan the pages. It took him a little over a half hour, but he finally found the passage. Only for Annie, he thought as he started up the engine and peeled out in the street.

Anastasia would live. Whether the same would be true for Ivan remained to be seen.

For some reason, Ivan felt worse about knocking out the medical assistant than he had about killing the president. In the morning, however, all the man was likely to feel was a splitting headache and confusion over where one of the corpses had gone to.

Ivan steeled himself for the worst before wrenching open the door that held his late lover. He slowly drew the table out from the cold, relieved beyond belief when her beautiful head rolled out of the drawer. The bullet had gone in and out with little damage. Ivan tenderly drew a hand over Anastasia's eyes, imagining her alive, breathing, kissing him. She would live.

He began the incantation, trying to keep his voice from breaking and ruining the rhythm of the spell. The unfamiliar words came easier to his tongue as he continued, the hieroglyphics bleeding together as the language flooded his brain. A howling blackish shape, thrashing and struggling in the cold air, appeared seemingly out of nowhere and settled itself into Anastasia's body. Ivan stifled a yelp when Anastasia's eyes suddenly opened wide, her hands shaking uncontrollably in the air, pleading to Ivan for help.

He raised the knife he had taken out of one of the cabinets, prepared to complete the ritual, when suddenly he felt hands grab him from behind, prying the knife from his fingers. Anastasia gave one last shudder and the tortured shadow of her very soul was ripped from her body once again, hovering over them for but a moment before escaping out the doorway and into the hall. Ivan heard the panicked scream of another intern in the hall as a dozen Secret Servicemen tackled him to the floor, pinning his arms behind his back. Closing his eyes, he willed death to take him so he could be with his love.

Unfortunately for Ivan, death was not all of the bargain that he was offered that night. He drifted in and out of terrified unconsciousness as the men chanted all around him. He did not know who they were, but there seemed to be hundreds, as their faces blended together behind the grotesque masks that covered their faces. When they cut out his tongue, he was barely aware of the sensation, only discerning of the fact that his screams became more strangled in his empty mouth.

They wrapped his body in linen bandages, reminding Ivan's deranged mind of those old mummy movies he and Annie had rented so long ago. She had shrieked in horrified delight the entire time, clutching at Ivan's sleeve as the mummy followed the heroes slowly across the screen. Movies like that had never scared Ivan.

Living through the experience, Ivan was thinking, was proving no different than watching old horror movies on a tiny television. They were lowering him into a coffin now, pressing his head down as he struggled. He felt he ought to be struggling, to put on a show, though he felt nothing.

Not even the strange little bugs, pouring over his body and eating quickly through the linen wrapping, affected his senses much. Through his covered eyes Ivan perceived the total blackness as they sealed him inside with his death. He waited for the blackness to take him completely, waited for death...

It never came. Not completely.

~*~*~*~

Well, tell me if that sucked completely or if I should continue. Updates will be farther between (Cost of a Glance is still my priority, don't worry:), but chapters will probably be fairly long. This is a bit of an experiment, as I'm not going to have any idea where I'm going after I've posted each chapter. Sounds like fun, non?;) Yes, I'm nuts:)