here it is, my lovelies, first part of the christmas party chappie

Christmas Party, Part I

Note: Madame Butterfly: Hey there! I hear you, dear. I was actually thinking of making that a separate phic…I will probably have them watch the movie and make snide comments! It's a good idea! Except one problem: I've seen the movie only once and am at the mercy of my parents, and besides, I've sort of forgotten it…heh…but I promise I will try to make a phic like that. Thanks for your idea!

Thanks to all my reviewers! This chapter is divided into two parts. Here is the first part.

In a week's time, Christine and Raoul received a letter.

Christine slit it open to find pictures, and was gloried by the sight of Erik and Nadir in matching leis, grinning hugely in the warm Caribbean sun. Erik was balancing a pair of big blue sunglasses against his mask and giving a thumbs-up to the cameraman, while Nadir was easily sipping a pina colada. Christine chuckled and showed Raoul, who shook his head and laughed.

"Completely nuts," he muttered, flipping to the next picture of Erik and Nadir doing the Macarena with a series of voluptuous local girls. "Is there a letter with this?"

"Oh yes," said Christine, "I didn't notice! Here we are," she flicked open a sheet covered in Erik's craggy red hand. It said:

"To my dearest Christine and to her husband with a somewhat reasonably friendly salutation for the latter—

We have been having a lovely time in the Caribbean, thanks to your generous vacation voucher. The cruise ship was quite large, and Nadir and I had an excellent time running the length of it and yelling like Tarzan. We did have plenty of excitement: I got my very first tan, (which incidentally only made me look worse), and we also got abandoned on a strange little island for some reason, after we divulged to the cruise operators that I was the Phantom of the Opera and Nadir was my minion. I suppose two of the three had seen the film (and both were women), immediately began interrogating me about my underwear sizes, while the other (a man) remained slightly skeptical and asked to see a resume. Now I must remind you my resume has an awful lot of sentences including the word "death," which, quite unfortunately, did not go too well with the ship operator. So they left us on an island to rot. Funny little thing, the island, looked rather burnt out and the whole place reeked of singed rum. Well, Nadir and I wondered if we should call for help, try to forge the ashes into a living habitat, or a rather peculiar combination of both. But luckily, we didn't have long to wait because another cruise ship came barreling along and picked us up. We showed them our passports and such, and were soon admitted on board. And actually, this ship was even better than the last, because their all-eat buffet included curried prawns. It turned out beautifully.

I think I have gained several pounds on this little excursion…I am not looking forward to weighing myself upon my return. But until then, au revoir, my dearest and my dearest's husband!

Your obedient and very tan servant,

O.G.

P.S. See you at the Christmas party!

21 January

"Andre! ANDRE! Get your blasted you-know-what over here—"

"Firmin, I can't hold this all by myself, you know!!"

Firmin turned to see his business partner struggling under an enormous pile of mistletoe.

"A little help?" growled Andre as Firmin rushed to his aid. "Which idiot ordered mistletoe?" Andre demanded as the pair tottered about, and eventually began pinning the sprigs onto the walls.

"Sorelli," muttered Firmin.
"Alright," he said, "If she wants it so much, why isn't she here helping us put up the decorations? Lazy bitc—"
"Manners, Andre, manners," said Firmin kindly. "It's the holidays, after all—"
"Yeah, then? The holidays, huh? Well, the job description for opera managing never said decorating this gnome-cave from head to toe singlehandedly!"

"It isn't singlehandedly," said Firmin, the hopeful one. "I'm helping you!"

But Andre was enveloped in his previous rant.

"—and the description never said we had to deal with that musical lunatic! In fact, I never wanted to invite him to this! It was—"
"—Madame de Chagny's idea," finished Firmin, "And we must respect the dear lady's wishes. She said that the rehabilitation has worked wonders for the…er…fellow who lives beneath the Opera House."

"Masked hooligan," insisted Andre stoutly.

"Don't call him that when he comes here," advised Firmin, "I've been told he's bringing some lovely appetizers and that he has an uncanny aim."

"Well, he'd better keep his paws off the new chandelier—YAAH!!" Andre shrieked with pain as a pointy bunch of mistletoe came out of its fastenings, and landed smartly on his head.

"Kiss?" offered Firmin with a grin as Andre gave him a foul look.

AFTER A FEW HOURS OF SUCH BANTERING….

The Opera House had undergone an extreme makeover. Despite Andre's ill temper, the entrance hall was spectacularly clad in glossy scarlet ribbons, soft glowing lights, and imitation snow that Firmin had purchased at a last-minute. The mistletoe had been strategically strung around the more intimate areas of the entrance (under the stairs, for example) for the bashful lovers to have privacy. Firmin made Andre feel better by fastening a piece to the prominent jewel of the chandelier in the center of the hall; poor, unsuspecting couples would be forced into possible incest, and the managers did not want to miss a moment of it. There was an immense table in the center, covered with tablecloths that bore repeating patterns of Rudolph chasing the wintry night with his bulbous conk, and pretty little snowflakes. Upon it, groaning tureens of delectable holiday fare gave off maddeningly delicious scents. There was an immense glass bowl of violently pink punch, and a threatening-looking guard seated beside it to ensure no one spiked it. Andre had finally gotten over his ill feeling when Firmin allowed him a sneak-peek at the raspberry tarts, and the two managers stood together in their fine apparel to greet their guests.

The clock struck eight, and suddenly the hall was filled with people; the managers, suddenly shy of their endeavor, decided to stay close to each other through the bustle. Always highly unsocial, the two were content to sit behind the refreshment table and make acid comments about the various guests. There was much clapping and cheering when Christine de Chagny and her husband arrived; the young woman looked utterly exquisite in a mint-green taffeta gown, and she wore white roses in her hair.

Andre was discussing the rather heavy bosom of the woman in Clique Three clad in Blue Silk, when the managers first heard the nearly imperceptible swish of a cloak. Turning around slowly, the managers were suddenly face-to-face with the horror of their very dreams; out of the shadows of a small forgotten hallway, stood the very vision of dark sexuality and carelessly elegant abandon; he wore a dark evening suit with a top hat, and his face was partly concealed by a glowing fragment of porcelain.

He was also carrying a fruitcake.

He inched delicately towards the two trembling men, and waved the fruitcake in their faces.

"Am I late?" he demanded in a voice worthy of an angelic choir.

"N-no—" Andre could feel his blood turning to ice. Beside him, Firmin was mouthing, "Call him a masked hooligan to his face, I dare you," and Andre stomped on his foot.

Erik spied the refreshment table.

"How terrible," he whispered, "This cake is quite inadequate. Look at the size of those chocolate scones!"

And in a passionate rage, he swished around the two struck managers and disappeared into the crowd.

"Well," said Andre after he had sufficiently thawed, "he didn't bring appetizers."

dun dun dun!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and then........?