I was sitting on my bed, just after dinner. Now, laugh if you will, but I
still play with my toys. Not unusual, you say? That's why they are there,
you say? Well, I just so happen to own Phantom Ken and Christine Barbie
Dolls, from FAO Swartz, if you must know.
Christine is the living...well, Barbie image of Sarah Brightman with long chestnut curls, snapping green eyes, and an intricate wedding dress on her perfect plastic figure.
And Erik! To die for, as handsome as Kens get in an operatic suit with his lush cape draping elegantly over his shoulders. A black hard fedora, and to complete the outfit, a small white mask covers the deformity of his face. I peeked underneath it the first day I got it, they really made his face deformed. Bravo!
But on with my story.
You think any true phantom phan could own the complete cds of the musical, plus the actual two main characters in smaller form, and restrain the temptation to act it out with them?
Of course not.
My younger sister had Barbies galore; it was no trouble to find a Ken and a few other dolls, dressed in various costumes. I secured seats, a stage, and even some towel curtains for the opera house. An actual small bathroom mirror for the dressing room, and a Jet Ski boat for the lair. I even had a makeshift chandelier.
The music turned on, I disappeared into my world of miniature phantom where Punjab Lassos were made out of mint rope dental floss.
Several hours later, I laid all games aside and fell asleep on my bed. That's when the trouble began. All throughout my sleep, tiny whispers materialized inside my head. Upon awaking, I found a scene of horror. You think Toy Story was complicated, you just wait.
Barbie dolls rushed around my room, screaming as the young males I had used for the managers were flying about in the boat, chasing after them. Skipper, whom I had been using for Meg, was actually on my dresser in front of my mirror, dancing on the smooth surface to music unmistakably from Masquerade.
But the best was yet to come.
Erik was standing on my book shelf, near the top, and his gaze was on the long rope of floss. At the other end, the more unfortunate end, I should say, hung the handsome Ken I was using for Raoul. Struggling, his face turned a strange color of orange. Christine, at the bottom, was shrieking and half-begging, half-threatening Erik.
It was at this time of pandemonium I decided to wake. Of course.
Now, when one wakes up to find an attack of Phantom Barbie Dolls occupying one's room, one's first urge is to throw oneself out the window in order to wake up. It is not, however, the most rational solution, though a situation such as mine was hardly deemed rational at all.
Instead, I carefully lifted the floss lasso out of Erik's reach and placed the squirming Raoul on the floor. Christine ran to him and dragged him several inches before letting him take the confining noose off.
Erik turned on me, and for the first time in my life, I felt afraid of a doll.
"You!" He hissed in a very Michael Crawfordish voice.
Suddenly I looked around and screamed. Dolls did not move!
"SILENCE!" For a foot long doll, he made a lot of noise. I stumbled back onto my bed, pulled my blanket over my head, and shut my eyes, willing myself to wake up. Wrong move.
"GET HER!" All the dolls suddenly leaped upon me with wires of dental floss and proceeded to tie me up. At least, they attempted to. The next five minutes consisted of my throwing dolls off my arms, head, and neck, and being ordered about by something over four feet shorter and a great deal thinner.
Had I not been so rattled, it would have been laughable.
Erik finally leaped off the book shelf, grabbed my metal nail file, and held it to my throat. I stopped moving. I wasn't sure what metal nail files could do in the hands of a mad Barbie, and I wasn't about to find out. Not if I could help it, anyways.
Christine is the living...well, Barbie image of Sarah Brightman with long chestnut curls, snapping green eyes, and an intricate wedding dress on her perfect plastic figure.
And Erik! To die for, as handsome as Kens get in an operatic suit with his lush cape draping elegantly over his shoulders. A black hard fedora, and to complete the outfit, a small white mask covers the deformity of his face. I peeked underneath it the first day I got it, they really made his face deformed. Bravo!
But on with my story.
You think any true phantom phan could own the complete cds of the musical, plus the actual two main characters in smaller form, and restrain the temptation to act it out with them?
Of course not.
My younger sister had Barbies galore; it was no trouble to find a Ken and a few other dolls, dressed in various costumes. I secured seats, a stage, and even some towel curtains for the opera house. An actual small bathroom mirror for the dressing room, and a Jet Ski boat for the lair. I even had a makeshift chandelier.
The music turned on, I disappeared into my world of miniature phantom where Punjab Lassos were made out of mint rope dental floss.
Several hours later, I laid all games aside and fell asleep on my bed. That's when the trouble began. All throughout my sleep, tiny whispers materialized inside my head. Upon awaking, I found a scene of horror. You think Toy Story was complicated, you just wait.
Barbie dolls rushed around my room, screaming as the young males I had used for the managers were flying about in the boat, chasing after them. Skipper, whom I had been using for Meg, was actually on my dresser in front of my mirror, dancing on the smooth surface to music unmistakably from Masquerade.
But the best was yet to come.
Erik was standing on my book shelf, near the top, and his gaze was on the long rope of floss. At the other end, the more unfortunate end, I should say, hung the handsome Ken I was using for Raoul. Struggling, his face turned a strange color of orange. Christine, at the bottom, was shrieking and half-begging, half-threatening Erik.
It was at this time of pandemonium I decided to wake. Of course.
Now, when one wakes up to find an attack of Phantom Barbie Dolls occupying one's room, one's first urge is to throw oneself out the window in order to wake up. It is not, however, the most rational solution, though a situation such as mine was hardly deemed rational at all.
Instead, I carefully lifted the floss lasso out of Erik's reach and placed the squirming Raoul on the floor. Christine ran to him and dragged him several inches before letting him take the confining noose off.
Erik turned on me, and for the first time in my life, I felt afraid of a doll.
"You!" He hissed in a very Michael Crawfordish voice.
Suddenly I looked around and screamed. Dolls did not move!
"SILENCE!" For a foot long doll, he made a lot of noise. I stumbled back onto my bed, pulled my blanket over my head, and shut my eyes, willing myself to wake up. Wrong move.
"GET HER!" All the dolls suddenly leaped upon me with wires of dental floss and proceeded to tie me up. At least, they attempted to. The next five minutes consisted of my throwing dolls off my arms, head, and neck, and being ordered about by something over four feet shorter and a great deal thinner.
Had I not been so rattled, it would have been laughable.
Erik finally leaped off the book shelf, grabbed my metal nail file, and held it to my throat. I stopped moving. I wasn't sure what metal nail files could do in the hands of a mad Barbie, and I wasn't about to find out. Not if I could help it, anyways.