lossefalme2995: Glad you like it, and welcome to the Random Reading Cadre! Just to let you know, if you give me an idea in the review (like you did) and I use it, you get a chapter dedication. I like to keep my reader's minds working for me.
Tziporah: No you're definitely not the only one to notice the single expression Emmy Rossum has in her repertoire. Everybody noticed. And I make fun of it. So. (shrug) Another Raoul fan, eh? Sorry, but Raoul has to die.
VegaOfTheLyre: Wow, I'm someone's favourite! Awesome! As for how I managed to make you all funny, well— (modestly) I had some major characters to work with :) And I don't know for sure what my standing with Masque is. I could be his wife, could be his mistress, could even be his daughter... difficult to say. You'll have to ask him. And I love that anyone who doesn't go to PFN will now be looking at this reply and going, "What the—!"
Mandy the O: Go ahead, Kay Erik is very glompable.
EriksAngel1870: Thanks. I kinda liked that sentence. And the question is on my mind a lot, needless to say.
EmailyGirl: Patrick Raoul is still alive... be patient, I have plans for him. Not good ones, but plans nonetheless.
Mary Su: I'll think about it. I mean, the Phic Christines and Christine-equivalents (OWs and Mary Sues) are already in there but I may be able to cause some additional mayhem— if I think about it— wow, thinking about mayhem is fun!
Killthefop: Of course, there's plenty of Raouls for everybody. :)
phantomzgerl: why, thank you. (bows)
bellasera: You're welcome.
ElfLover: Leroux Erik rocks, doesn't he? (hugs him) My most favourite Erik ever— and you too may have a fop, thank you for asking. Though I doubt a true punjab would be lilac— but you never know.
Willow Rose: Just wait till you see this chapter... (evil chuckle)
The Maiden Amorisa: You said you wanted to get with Masque. (shrug) Don't blame me for the consequences. And thanks for the fifty dollars. Wish everyone were as generous as you.
Songwind: Your idea gave me the main theme of the second half of this chapter, which means you get a CHAPTER DEDICATION! Isn't that neat how it works?
Mrs. Tom Riddle: Glad you liked it!
ChristineX: Pool party coming up... kind of...
Invader Vega: You're only not in here because you didn't ask to be in here... I can still put you in if you want. You and the other Vega can have identity confusion.
Maggie: Movie Raoul will show eventually. You know how he tends to be late—
Librarian of the Deep: I'll put you in! Its never too late.
sparklyscorpion: As official Raoul-Protector, your job starts now. :)
Cold Fate: No shot guns... just punjabs...
Banana71588: Everybody wants to kill the fop! There should be a video game made out of this.
CelticHeart: Sorry, I got mixed up as to people who wanted to be in. You're in now. And you can't get out. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-hic. Bloody hiccups.
thomgondola: It was my favourite chapter too... not too many incomprehensible in-jokes then? Ah good.
Musique et Amour: I told you I had plans for you. (fiendish chuckle) Glad you liked chapter five, though, and decided not to sue me, and didn't get mad at me, and yes, now you will be Stalker Erik. I tried calling you "Stalker" for short but you know what? It didn't work. It needs the Erik to make it complete. (shrug) So there.
A/N: Seeing as how most of this was written at one in the morning, with the assistance of carrot cake (yes, Adison, carrot cake!) and Oasis, I think I can be forgiven. Please keep reading and reviewing, no matter how crappy the chapter is. Oh, and you will need to have read "A Pink Haze of Confusion" in order to truly make sense of most of this chapter. Sorry, but that's the way it is. You can find it on my author's bio page. Listed as "A Pink Haze of Confusion." Convenient, isn't it?
Chapter Six
Bodies, bodies everywhere.
It wasn't just the work of the Eriks (including Stalker Erik, as he now decided he wanted to be called, in order to forestall more quotation marks around his name) that made things this way. Raouls are, by nature, stupid creatures, being only slightly above guinea pigs on the intelligence meter— and dumb guinea pigs at that— many of them blundered into the lake and, once having fallen face-first into the water, forgot how to breathe and drowned. Which is, really, quite sad, considering there was only a few feet of water in the lake in the first place.
The Christines took this whole-sale death of Raouls rather better than one might have thought. Yes, several of them did take hysterics and try to throw themselves after their drowning darlings; but by and large they were too busy staring at their respective Eriks to really notice.
Finally Leroux Erik, Kay Erik, and Stalker Erik who had decided to do his best to be one of the boys, came back to the rest of their group, spent with their effort but, on the whole, pleased.
Stalker Erik presented his fellow Writers with a huge grin.
The Writers looked at him sideways.
"I have killed a fop!" he announced. "Four, in fact. Its amazing— very liberating— I never knew a mere physical experience could be quite this exciting!"
There were several murmurs of, "I'll bet," and some side-step shuffling from the members of the Writing Cadre— Mandy the O, who did not particularly like Stalker Erik and made no secret of it, frowned at him.
"So what if you have," she said. "There's always more."
"You're just jealous," said Stalker Erik, and what made things worse was that he was right. Every single one of the Writers wanted their own fop to torture— except for one, sparklyscorpion, who stepped forward and gave Stalker Erik a shove.
"Why would you join in like that? It isn't as if they did anything to you!"
"What? Fops give manhood a bad name! The species must be eradicated."
Sparklyscorpion growled. "And I suppose you took scalps to prove your— your— shoot, what's the word I want? — butchness."
"Scalps?" repeated Stalker Erik in barely-disguised disgust. "Of course not. That would be barbaric." He whipped a bunch of hair out of his trouser pocket and held it up. "I cut off their ponytails," he said proudly.
There would have been an uproar at this, except that Leroux Erik and Kay Erik had apparently done the same thing, and were even now displaying their trophies to an appreciative audience of Gerry Phantom, Crawford Phantom, and their Christines. The Writer's attention was quickly diverted from the flushed and shining Stalker Erik to the Real (albeit fictional) Eriks. One might almost think that all this talk of Eriks was getting confusing to anyone who read it. One would know better, because if confusion were a deterrent, this story wouldn't have gotten past the second paragraph, which, as we all know, listed Leroux Erik's many pseudonyms, and then went on to muse on the general ickiness of life.
"Ponytail?" said Kay Erik genteely, offering one to Crawford Erik, who curled his lip and folded his arms. He walked off in a huff, and came back in a snit, and said,
"I suppose you think you're clever, don't you?"
"I know it," said Kay Erik coldly.
"Ha!" said Crawford Erik. "Well! Huh!" But unfortunately he hadn't thought any further than that and was unable to come up with something truly original, and so he threw his arms in the air and went to Brightman Christine for comfort.
"WheeeeeeEeEeEeErrrrrRRRRRRe haAaAaVE allLLllLlLlLlL the fFoOOoOoOoPSssssss goOoOnne?" she caroled at him.
"Some of them have died, my lovely, but never fear— it was not by my hand. I have changed my ways."
"YoOoOu didNNnNnN't kIiIiIilL OnEeE?"
"No, my dear, I did not. My hand remain free of bloodshed and reproach."
"WwhYyY nNnot?" demanded Brightman Christine, looking peeved. She then went on to sing something long-winded about the triumphant warriors coming home, bringing trophies to their waiting wives— it was convoluted, hard to understand, and rhymed, but just barely, and so it was an easy guess that it had been written by Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Crawford Phantom stared at her.
"You want me to kill the fops?"
In order to facilitate the understanding of the reader, and in order to not irritate myself anymore by staggering capitals, I will translate Brightman Christine's remarks into easily-understood, non-vibrato, charmingly-italicized English.
"Of course I want you to kill the fops— that is all I ever wanted— that was all I ever asked of you, my angel!"
"That?" said Crawford Phantom, still staring at her blankly. "That was what you kept asking me during the musical?"
She nodded.
"Oh." A pause. "Well, I'm sorry, my dear, but I didn't understand."
Kay Erik came and stood by her, nodding slowly at Crawford Phantom. "She wanted you to kill the fop, didn't she?"
Crawford Phantom could only look at him, dumbfounded.
Brightman Christine sang something very hard and very loud. Kay Erik wiggled a finger in his ear and said, wearily, "Perhaps you could be just a bit louder next time, my dear— I'm a trifle deaf."
She unfortunately took him literally and a window five stories above them was, as a result, shattered. As they stood blinking and, in some cases, crying in the aftermath, Kay Erik said, "I was only joking. It was sarcasm, my dear, sarcasm."
"Wasted on my Christine," offered Crawford Phantom. "She doesn't have much of a sense of humour." He circled her with his arms and together they looked at some point of invisible air a few feet in front of their faces as though staring at an interesting bug that had unexpectedly started doing the hula.
"That's kind of funny, what I noticed before," said Hoshi thoughtfully. The rest of the Writers looked at her. Hoshi often came out with something completely unexpected. "But out of the whole opera, the only person with a sense of humour was the lunatic."
They all nodded slowly in tacit agreement.
Then Stalker Erik said, "So you think the whole thing was one big practical joke, then?"
"What? I didn't say that."
"No, I know, but— think about it— he's a guy who lives under the opera house and— pretends to be insane. What if he was just pretending? As just a— practical joke? A josh? A jest? A gag? A jape? A prank? A trick? A caper? Although if you think about it, he definitely was a caper—" Stalker Erik chuckled fiendishly at his own pun before realizing that the rest of them were staring at him in barely-hidden irritation.
Except for The Maiden Amorisa, who abruptly and against all reason decided she was in love with him.
"This," said Hoshi quietly, "must be why you write poetry, and not stories."
"You know, for someone who claims to be named Erik, you certainly betray a lack of wit," commented bundles 'o joy acidly. Stalker Erik shrugged.
"Aww," said the Maiden Amorisa, pouting, "what a thing to say to a poor defenseless stalker."
"Its alright, I'm used to it," said Stalker Erik shortly, but the Maiden Amorisa had advanced on him and caught him by the arm.
"Tell me your life story," she said.
He looked at her quizzically.
"My life story?"
"Tell me how old you are."
"How old I am?"
"Tell me why you keep repeating everything I say."
"Everything you say?" She giggled diabolically and he went pale, turning towards the other Writers. "Hey, guys, a little help here—"
But they had become once again engrossed in the spectacle of four Phantoms bickering with each other, and ignored his pleas for help, for assistance, and then for mercy.
The four main Phantoms had split camps again, arguing over what was best to be done about the remainder of the Raouls, who had fled into the labyrinth, taking the last of the muffins with them. Kay and Leroux Erik were all for going after them— Gerry and Crawford Phantom wanted to stay where they were and make new muffins.
They were having an enjoyable shout about this when there came a deep, melting voice from the sidelines.
"Could not I be of assistance?"
They turned.
The sight that met their eyes was a sight indeed.
He looked exactly like Gerry Phantom, but for the small differences of the pink pin-striped suit, and the handlebar mustache which he was preening with his fingers. As they watched he slipped a monocle onto one eye and issued a short bow.
"Pink Haze Phantom at your service," he said.
The four Phantoms stared at him. There was clearly only one thing to say, and they said it, all at the same time.
"What?"
"A Phic Phantom," supplied CelticHeart, from behind them. "From 'A Pink Haze of Confusion.' Occasionally known as the Gay Phantom—"
"Though I'm not, I assure you," said PH Phantom, assuring them. The four Phantoms, however, did not look all that assured.
"And what is it that you think you would be able to help us with?" inquired Kay Erik, his voice dangerously soft.
"Er, the muffin issue, my good chap. Yes, yes, I hear you are running a bit short on muffins— and I determined to toddle over here and see what I could do about the situation."
"The muffins?" said Gerry Phantom alertly, just as Kay Erik repeated, "Toddle?" in tones of disbelief.
"Er, indeed," said PH Phantom.
"Good God," said Kay Erik, turning to Crawford Phantom. "He's like you, only a thousand bloody times worse."
"I have never been that bad," murmured Crawford Phantom, unable to take his eyes off the debacle, the fury, the fiasco, the disaster of epic proportions that was the pink suit. It was quite a piece of work. Elton John would have felt comfortable in it.
"I know, that's why I said he's worse," hissed Kay Erik. Crawford Phantom's ears were going numb from just being in the presence of such a color, though, and he couldn't hear it. He even missed most of what Brightman Christine when she sang something, and, much to everyone's regret, asked her to say it again.
She did. The floors rattled.
"Oh. He's a Phic phantom— a phictionalized version of myself. Well, not really myself, you understand. Just a different version of your typical angel of music, phantomy-figure, et cetera—"
She sang something else.
"Muffins, my dear."
"OoOh!"
"Yes," said Crawford Phantom with a wince.
Emmy Christine chose this moment to advance on the Pink Haze Phantom, arms spread wide.
"Will you be my Valentine?" she asked plaintively. "Gerry Phantom went off with Willow Rose and EmailyGirl, to give them piggy back rides. I'm a little worried because somehow he managed to be kissing both of them as they left— I suppose it helps that his lips are so big— true talent should not be denied— but I'm not really worried because he loves me, he will come back for me—"
Eyes shifted to one corner, where Gerry Phantom was flirting with his two love-struck phans, and getting along famously.
"So I'm not really disfigured?" he was saying.
"Of course not," said Willow Rose fondly.
"It looks like a sunburn," put in EmailyGirl. "There have been all sorts of parodies on that theme."
"Really."
"Yes. You're famous, you know."
"Really—"
"He loves me," said Emmy Christine, mouth open. "He'll come back for me."
"But of course," said PH Phantom, bowing smoothly at her. Out of the side of his mouth he muttered, "Somebody get this girl a muffin."
"I had his children," Emmy Christine went on dreamily. "They're so beautiful— they're so lovely— they look exactly like him— and me, of course— even though we never actually— I told him to wait till I was legal— and then we had the triplets all of a sudden— I wonder where they are?"
Almost seeming to wake up, she frowned (still with her mouth open, an amazing feat which deserves applause) and began to look around for her abandoned children. It was not long before she discovered that they had been taken by some Phic Writers from the group of Movie Phantoms, who were desperate for a plot bunny. The three children were carted off, made to grow up instantly, and then stuck in a phic wherein they somehow made their way back to the Phantom, often after killing Raoul, or at least spitting in his face.
"Returning to the issue at hand," said PH Phantom, forcing everyone to drag their eyes away from the three in the corner and refocus on him. "Have you a kitchen?" he inquired of Leroux Erik.
"A kitchen—" breathed Leroux Erik, with random italics. "I do not eat— for days, some times— I live for my music— my music is my breath, my meat, my wine, my sleep, my—"
"Yes, yes, yes," interrupted PH Phantom unwisely, causing Leroux Erik to finger his punjab with anger in his eyes. "But do you have a kitchen, old boy, a kitchen. Preferably one done in white, though I am not adverse to working in yellow or colours of a generally lighter nature—"
There was an uncomfortable pause while everyone looked around them at the lair. It did not look likely to have a cheery kitchen.
"But perhaps I could adapt myself to, well, almost anything," said PH Phantom, with a wary smile.
Kay Erik nudged Leroux Erik. "Kitchen," he prompted.
Leroux Erik, breathing hard, his eyes glinting yellow in the sickly light, extended a shaky arm to point at one of the doors.
"Righto!" said PH Phantom, and headed towards it, rubbing his hands together. He'd not gotten ten steps when the punjab settled around his neck and then Leroux Erik was on his back, snarling in his ear, a madman consumed by rage— and all would have been over for PH Phantom, except that Kay Erik seized Leroux Erik by the shoulders and yanked him off, yelling, "No, man, we need the muffins! Think of the muffins, Erik— the muffins!"
Leroux Erik shook him off and stood, his narrow chest heaving, staring balefully at PH Phantom in a look that was universally recognized to mean Your butt is mine, chucklehead. If this had been a movie Leroux Erik would have started saying, "You wanna piece of me? You wanna piece of me?"
But it wasn't, so he didn't, only stared after PH Phantom as the man in the pink suit finished his shaky way to the kitchens. He went in, the door closed behind him— there was a brief pause, and then a scream of terror.
"Black kitchen," whispered Crawford Erik, and Kay Erik nodded sagely.
"Noooo blenderrrrrr!" came the howl from the kitchens.
Kay Erik looked at Crawford Erik, who shrugged.
"That would have been my next guess."
And so, with the possibility of muffins, and the absolute determination not to let any Raouls escape alive, our intrepid heroes settled in for a long siege, surrounded by Christines and Writers and a general air of expectation.
