A/N: The first outtakes chapter! Yay! (crickets) Or... whatever. Hope you guys enjoy them, but, you know, if you don't... then oh well. :)

A Deformity Beyond Their Imagination (Chapter One)

"The Phantom of the Opera has no nose?" said Crawford Phantom, disbelievingly. "Excuse me, but how can you sing attractively if you don't have a nose? It seems quite impossible."

Gerry Phantom sniggered as a thought struck him. "The Phantom of the Opera has no nose. That's funny—"

"I mean," said Crawford Phantom, going on, "how does he smell?"

"Awful," said Gerry Phantom immediately, and gave a wild cackle. This prompted Kay Erik to whip off his mask, and the cackle turned into hysterical screaming, followed by a thud as Gerry Phantom's fainting form hit the floor.

Phantom Phashion Show:(Chapter 2)

AKA The Trousers, The Ruffles, The Buttons, The Fedora

"Nice shirt," said Kay Erik.

"Thank you," said Gerry Phantom, looking down at himself. "I had it specially made by this tailor in Panama."

"I was being extremely sarcastic. Sarcasm was literally dripping from my voice. It was noticeable for a five-mile radius to anyone with a pulse."

"Really? I didn't catch it."

"Why are there ruffles on your shirt?"

"Decoration."

"And why is it open to the navel? Did your Panamaian tailor run out of buttons?"

"No," said Gerry Phantom defensively, "he said it would be sexy this way."

"And what about those trousers? Could they possibly get any tighter?"

"I don't know," said Gerry Phantom. "Would you like me try and find out?"

There was, at this interesting juncture, a sudden shriek from Crawford Phantom, and it was quickly discovered that Stalker Erik had stolen his fedora.

"Its mine!" howled Crawford Phantom, utterly undone by the lack of hat on his head.

"Its mine now," said Stalker Erik dismissively, and much to the sorrow of everyone who was expecting to see the stalker get amusingly punjabbed and the fedora taken back, he was right. The other phantoms didn't much care, and Crawford Phantom was too genteel to do anything at the moment.

And so Stalker Erik got himself a new fedora.

Well, not really new—

And, eventually, he discovered the phantomy sweat stains around the inside rim and abandoned the thing in disgust.It was rescued by le chat and later sold on E-bay for twenty dollars.

The real reason behind Emmy Christine's Look (Chapter 2)

"Two words," said Gerry Phantom conspiratorially. "Lobotomy patient."

Two Muffins (Chapter 3)

"It fit!" yelled Gerry Phantom, in a fit of glee, and did a silly little dance for no reason other than that I want him to do a silly little dance, and since I'm writing this POC I get to say what happens, and I say that Gerry Phantom did a silly little dance.

"I'll bet you could fit two," said Kay Erik, in a voice like a devil.

Gerry Phantom ceased his silly little dance and looked thoughtful. "Do you think I could?"

"I know it," purred Kay Erik.

"I'll try it," said Gerry Phantom, took another muffin from the plate, and inched it towards Emmy Christine's mouth. She made indistinct noises and widened her eyes and tried to shake her head, but all this was ignored in the spirit of experimentation.

"It's not fitting!"

"Make it fit, man!" said Kay Erik. "Cram that muffin!"

"Cram! Cram!" said Leroux Erik, caught up in the moment.

Gerry Phantom crammed.

Unfortunately the muffin was really too much for Emmy Christine to take, although her mouth did have truly stellar capacity, and she choked to death on the muffin, leaving the Eriks staring down at her.

"Oops," said Gerry Phantom.

"One muffin too many," said Kay Erik, with what seemed to be a sigh of regret.

The Chaos Machine (Chapter 3)

Chaos ensued.

No it didn't.

Nothing ensued.

In the confusion that followed the lack of any chaos ensuing, the Eriks glanced around the lair as though they missed it, and Random strode onto the set with a bullhorn, yelling insults behind her at the local high school football team, who were catcalling her choice of pants.

"Stick a muffin in it!"

She walked up to Kay Erik. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Those," said Kay Erik, looking down, "are extremely short shorts."

"Hand-me-downs," said Random dismissively. "I'm going swimming. Is there some sort of rule that says I can't wear short shorts when I'm going swimming?"

"Are you going swimming— near here?" asked Gerry Phantom hopefully.

"Is there a problem?"

"It's the chaos machine," said an elderly technician who came trundling up to them in a wheelchair. Electricity sparked in his hair. "Its broken down again."

"Again? Man, I hate it when that happens! I mean, they give me a five-year warrantee, and it breaks down once a week. This means I have to call the repair guys again— and that fat one always hits on me— I'm young enough to be his daughter, for Pete's sake— or he's old enough to be my father— whichever comes first— anyone got a cell phone?"

Stalker Erik handed her his, studiously avoiding looking at her shorts. "Do you get a signal down there— here, I mean?"

"Don't know. Guess I'll find out, won't I?" She took it from him and walked off, out of the lair, up the stairs. They heard her as she left the building, possibly never to return—

"Can you hear me now? Good."

ElfLover With A Lavender Silk Punjab (Chapter 4)

"I made it myself," said ElfLover proudly.

Kay Erik looked at her warily. "Well, you'd have to, wouldn't you?"

"Its silk!" said ElfLover enthusiastically.

"Its lavender," pointed out Kay Erik, unexpectedly kind.

"I know. Spring colors, you see. Its going to be all the rage in a few months—"

"Ah, I was going to say, this being the middle of winter—"

The Fop Brigade (Chapter 4)

"Send in the Raouls!"

The cry echoed around the Administrative Office, and then the Raouls were irrevocably sent in. For some reason Random decided to do things in an orderly manner and so, unusually, they marched in, in formation, in uniform, and singing.

"The fops go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah, the fops go marching one by one, hurrah! Hurrah! The fops go marching one by one, the little one stops to have some fun, and they all go marching down, underground, to get out, of the world, boom boom boom boom, boom boom boom—"

Mathematics (Chapter 4)

"To continue— if she had meant that there were two children, with three eyes each, there would only be a total of six eyes, unless she were referring to the entire family, which would be six for the children, and four for you and Emmy Christine— that is, two for each of you, that is, two for you, and two for her. However, were you to take it that these children truly were frighteningly misshapen, you could divide the total number of eyes up between them in any way you liked— say, for instance, Gerry Junior had one eye, and Emmy Junior, although I suppose it wouldn't be Junior for a girl, I suppose it would be Emmette, or something like that, or Emmetta, or Emmina, or Emily— no, that makes no sense— I wonder— look, it doesn't matter. Don't try to sidetrack me. Suppose the boy baby had one eye and the girl baby had five. This would still come to a total of six eyes, but also allow for the deformities that they may have. Now, if she had meant that there were three children, this would open up a whole new world of numerical possibilities. Take this one, for example—" Crawford Phantom took one of the babies from Emmy Christine, under the guise of being helpful. Unfortunately the removal of one of the triplets caused the delicate balance to be lost, and the other two fell from Emmy Christine's arms and went for a little impromptu swim in the lake. Crawford Phantom looked down at them. "Oops," he said.

Yeah, Well, Samson Was A Fop, Too (Chapter Six)

"Oh no!" shrieked sparklyscorpion. "You cut off their ponytails?"

"Why yes, I did," said Stalker Erik. "Otherwise— what would these long, unwashed tufts of hair be that I hold in my hand?" He returned them to his pocket.

"But their ponytails are the source of their magic! Without the ponytails, they're nothing!"

This, in fact, proved to be entirely correct. The now ponytail-denuded fops were moaning and crying and trembling. They did this a lot, actually, but the real difference was that the Christines were staring at them with nothing but disgust.

Real Christine stepped forward. "You have no power over me!" she said to Leroux Raoul, who gaped at her and dribbled snot down his face. "Ew."

In the Administrative Office, Random was uncompromisingly jumped for quoting "Labyrinth" for the second time in one phic. In short order she was on the floor and being sat on by her minions and pretend-husband. She folded her arms and rested her chin on them.

"Its at times like these when I really wish I'd installed carpet in here."

"Quit ripping off Labyrinth," said Adison deliberately. "Its bad enough when you do it to Hitch Hiker's."

"You know what's funny? Your real alter egos all seem to like that I put Labyrinth in."

"That's not funny! That's sacrilege!"

"Uh-huh," said Random. "Ow!" She tried to look over her shoulder. "Which one of you is sitting on my back? Erik. I should have known. Stop that, please."

Masque de Nuit pulled her hair.

Random groped for her notebook, which had fallen to the floor along with her when she got dogpiled. Holding the pen threateningly over the paper, she said, "You do that again and it'll be the morning after for you and a certain someone."

There was an anticipatory squeal of delight from the certain someone, far beneath them. Masque let go of Random's hair.

"You wouldn't."

"I would, though."

"You like me too much."

"I like my hair better."

With a conciliatory grunt, Masque got up from his sitting position, an action echoed by the minions. Random pushed herself up off the floor and resumed her seat at the desk, rubbing her wrist around the chain.

"No more quoting Labyrinth," said Adison. "I mean it."

"I can't help it! It fit!"

"And why did you cut off their ponytails anyway? It was stupid."

"Yes, well, the stupidity went totally unnoticed, so what does that tell you?"

"Look, just don't do it."

"Fine, whatever."

"Why does the lack of ponytails mean that they lost their magic?" inquired YoukoElfMaiden.

"Because it does," said Random grumpily. "Can I get back to writing the phic now?"

There was silence. She took that as a yes.

The Healing Power of Laughter (Chapter 6)

Meanwhile, this is what was going on with Random's readers.

One of them sat up and grabbed at her head and said, "Oh my gosh! My headache— its completely gone! You cured it! Thank you Random!"

Another one said, "Well— its still there— but its more bearable now—"

Another one said, "I suffer from deep depression. You keep me from suicide. Thank you."

Another one said, "If you don't update tonight, I'm going to commit suicide."

Another one said, "Random, you make me smile! You make my day! I live for this phic! I am a very sad and lonely person!"

And yet another one laughed so hard she had a heart attack and keeled over.

Bugger the power of fiction; behold the power of laughter.

Saving the Raouls (Chapter 6)

Sparklyscorpion rushed after the fops as they ran for the barricade, bearing the muffins. She scooted in just behind them, and found herself surrounded by suspicious fops on all sides.

"It's alright," she panted. "I've come to help you."

"Help us what?" demanded a fop. She couldn't be sure which one. They all looked exactly alike.

"Help you— um—" She hadn't thought that far ahead. "Escape, I guess."

"Why would a Phantom phan-girl try to help the fops escape?" asked a fop— for the sake of avoiding confusion, we will call him Fop 1.

"I don't know," said one which we will randomly decide to call Fop 2, along with Fops 3 through 48, because fops are fond of giving non-information if they can. Fop 56, however, raised his hand.

"Is it a trap?" he asked, timidly.

The other fops looked at him. Then they looked at sparklyscorpion.

"One young woman against five hundred Raouls," murmured Fop 35. There was a pause. "It is a trap!"

The other fops quickly took up the cry.

"It is a trap! It is a trap!"

Sparklyscorpion tried to calm them down, but didn't do it very well. "Its not a trap!" she said. "I want to help you escape from the Eriks, because I don't think you deserve to die—"

"She thinks we deserve to die!" shouted Fop 23. There was instant panic. Sparklyscorpion sighed testily.

"Honestly, all it takes is one fop with bad hearing—"

"She thinks we have sad herrings!"

"Okay, several fops with bad hearing, or their hair over their ears, or something—"

"She thinks we have hairy ears!"

This was the point where, had any of the Eriks been present, they would have calmly said, "This, my dear, is why fops are not known for intelligence," and then set about killing them off. Sparklyscorpion pushed a Raoul down and stood on his back, in the absence of a box.

"Gentlemen!" she said loudly. "Gentlemen! I have come to help you! I want to get you out of here safely, and not be killed by the Eriks! If you want my help, you're going to have to listen to me and not keep talking over me like I don't exist!" She yelled the last bit, but still got ignored. Most of the fops were still repeating the phrase "hairy ears" though in some cases the words had been corrupted into "Harry Shears" and "harlem tears" and, inexplicably, "Erik is kind of sexy, isn't he?" Sparklyscorpion decided to give up. She stepped off the Raoul who lay on his stomach on the stone floor, and helped him up.

"Did you want something?" asked the Raoul, dazed.

"I was trying to help you."

"Oh yes? How?"

"Well— I thought maybe I could kind of transport you all to a different fandom. Send you somewhere you'll be appreciated. Like— well, I can't think of one at the moment, but I'm sure there must be one somewhere."

"Alright," said the fop, still dazed. "What do we have to do?"

"Stay right here. I'll go see if I can enlist some of the other Writers to help." Sparklyscorpion ran off back to the main part of the lair, but immediately on setting foot into the large room, an arm caught her around the waist and a hand covered her mouth.

"Well, well," said the voice of Englund Erik, or Erik Destler, behind her. "I don't suppose you would happen to know where the fops are— would you?"

"I would," said sparklyscorpion, her heart beating wildly, "but I wouldn't tell you."

"Wouldn't you?" he asked, tracing his fingers down her arm.

"Not unless you asked."

Erik Destler chuckled a bit. "Would you show me, my dear?"

"Absolutely," said sparklyscorpion rapidly, turned around, and marched with him down the corridor.

He was an Erik, anyway. What are five hundred fops when compared to an Erik?

Lack of Muffins (Chapter Six)

If Pink Haze Phantom hadn't shown up

"They took the muffins!" shouted Gerry Phantom. "Those fops took our muffins! We can't let them get away with this felonious action! We must do something about it! We must— attack! And get the muffins back! Are you with me, men? Ready! Chaaaaarge!"

Kay Erik and Crawford Phantom watched as he ran towards the barricade.

"Man wants his muffins," observed Crawford Phantom.

"So I see," said Kay Erik.

"Myself I can do without them."

"Agreed."

They glanced over to the corner where Leroux Erik was rolling on the ground, tearing at what little hair he had left, moaning. Real Christine stood over him, looking worried.

"Has she turned him down again?"

"No— I expect the lack of muffins has gotten to him too."

"Yes, I suppose that would make more sense than what I said."

"Naturally."

"Not that the muffin situation means anything to me."

"No, no, of course not."

"Heart of stone, this," said Crawford Phantom, thumping his chest.

"I don't even have one," said Kay Erik. "That I'm aware of. And if I did— it certainly wouldn't be affected by the muffins."

"No, no. Not at all. No muffin plights for me."

"No," Kay Erik agreed.

They faced forward, and a few very small, muffin-induced tears seeped out of the corners of their eyes.

The Alternate Words to MotN (Chapter 7)

"Gather round," said Gerry Phantom, needlessly, because his phans already had gathered round, and were waiting with expectant and dazed expressions for him to sing to them. "Now— ahem—" He coughed, a little self-conscious. "Music of the Night— music by Andrew Lloyd Webber— words by Gerry Phantom. Ahem. Ahem, ahem. I'm going to sing it now. Ahem. The next thing I do will be singing. Ahem." He coughed slightly, and then coughed some more. "Ahem! Frog in my throat, I do apologize. Ahem! Alright, I'm ready now. Deep breath— that's right—" The deep breath caused him to cough some more. "Ahem! I really am sorry, chickens, its just— ahem! Cough cough! Cough! Ahem! Alright. I'm fine now. I'm going to sing. Ahem." He paused, and looked at them. "Ready?"

They indicated that yes, they were.

"Alright." He took another deep breath. "Ahem! Cough-cough! Cagrk! Alright. I am now fully recovered, and ready to sing. If you're ready, that is. Are you? Very well. Ahem. I am about to sing. Cough! Here I go. Cough hack! Ahem." He inhaled a little and then began to sing in a thin and scratchy falsetto that took his phans by complete surprise. "I am sexy— notice how I pout, now— I will kiss you— from three feet away— "

He sang on, and the phans stared at him.

"This," said Melissa Brandybuck quietly, "is very, very wrong."

"Yeah," agreed Mademoiselle Phantom. "So, is it bad that I still want to snog him within an inch of his life?"

"If that is bad," said Killthefop, "then we are all sinners."

And the beat went on.

Stalker's Harem (Chapter 7)

"My, you do go to bed early, don't you?" said Adison.

"Well," said Stalker Erik, modestly, "I like to avoid the rush."

If Gerry Phantom Won The Singing Duel (Chapter 7)

It was difficult to tell, the circumstances being what they were, but when Crawford Phantom's voice cracked in the middle of the note, there was a kind of shocked silence.

Except for Gerry Phantom.

He leapt about the room, cackling wildly, pointing at Crawford Phantom. "You messed up! You hit a faulty note! You didn't sing perfectly! Therefore I am the best singer out of the two of us! Ha ha! I rule! You drool! Ha yeah! I am so good! I am the best! I won the contest! That rhymed! Boo yeah!"

He carried on in this vein, ably assisted by his phans, until Crawford Phantom got fed up with it all and punjabbed him.

Prophetic Nightmare of DOOM! (Chapter 7)

A few of the Christines whimpered in their sleep. A few of the Writers sat and discussed this.

"They're having nightmares," said Scarlett Red Rose knowledgeably. "Everyone knows that Christines have prophetic nightmares almost continuously."

"I just had a nightmare," said Stalker Erik, shivering and glaring suspiciously at The Maiden Amorisa. "It was terrible, and I hope to God it wasn't prophetic."

"Prophetic nightmares? Like what?" asked A-Lonely-Dreamer-56.

"Oh, you know, like their kid's going to die, or Erik is dead, or Raoul is going to die, or they're going to die—"

"Are all prophetic nightmares about death?"

"Pretty much." Scarlett Red Rose shrugged.

"So its like— the prophetic nightmare of Doom?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Wait—" put in DarkPriestessofAssimbya, "if it's a prophetic nightmare to begin with, isn't the 'of DOOM' part kind of redundant?"

They thought about this for a while.

"Who cares?" said thusser-scout. " I like to say 'of DOOM.'"

"Yeah, me too," added, Sydney the Poet. "Punjab— of DOOM."

"Fop— of DOOM."

"Stalker— of DOOM."

"I'll thank you to leave me out of this ridiculous conversation," complained Stalker Erik. He was irritated that no one had asked him about his nightmare. Standing, he moved off away from the writers and leaned against a wall, muttering to himself.

"Fop-killer— of DOOM. Musique et Amour— of DOOM. Harem master— of DOOM." With no one around, the most he succeeded in was making himself smile, but since that's what he was going for in the first place, he was happy with the result.

The Lesser Reviews (Chapter 8)

Apologies in advance to Stalker Erik. Just remember it could have been worse.

Comfortably ensconced in her air-conditioned Administrative Office, and enjoying an ice-cold hot chocolate, Random had just put her feet up when Hoshi bounded into the room and dumped an armful of papers onto the desk.

"Boss, here's the reviews. Boss? Boss, why do you have your feet in Masque's lap?"

"Couldn't find another chair, and he wouldn't get out of his," muttered Random dreamily, half-asleep. Masque de Nuit was asleep, head lolling back on his chair, otherwise he never would have tolerated her dark red kicker boots on his knees.

"Ah. Huh. Reviews, boss."

Random languidly reached out a hand for the reviews. Her arms were too short to reach the desk from where she sat, but that was what she had minions for. Hoshi alertly put the pages into her grasp.

And Random read them.

She sat up suddenly with a gasp, accidentally kicking Masque on the kneecap and causing him to awake with a grunt of pain.

"What is it, you set your tongue on fire again?"

"No, no, something far more drastic." Random stared with disbelieving eyes at the printed pages. "Just got the results back from the last chapter—"

"And?"

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with horror. "The review quality is going down," she whispered.

Masque thought about this, then shrugged. "So?"

"So? So? What kind of attitude is that to have about your pretend-wife's reviewers?"

He shrugged again. "I have a lot of pretend-wives. I can't afford to worry about the quality of all their reviews."

Random stood and pointed a shaking finger at the door. "Out."

"What?"

"Out now. Go see one of your precious other wives. Go. Now, Erik."

Masque shrugged slightly, once more, and ambled out. Random kicked the door shut behind him, turned the key in the lock, and cackled for a split second.

"Wonder how long it'll take him to figure out that's the closet?"

Not very long, it turned out. Almost immediately, there was a banging on the other side of the door. "Hey!"

"Look at this, Hoshi."

"That's right," said Hoshi. "Why ask a pretend-husband to do a minion's job? Look at what, boss?"

"Someone actually wrote — still funny." Random slowly collapsed back onto her seat. "Good heavens, its worse than I thought! Still funny? What kind of thing is that to say? This was a review on chapter four!"

"So?"

"So? So, chapter four! And they think I'm going downhill already! Still funny, as though they expected it to be something else— still funny is such a, a consolation-prize thing to say! Its what loyal readers say to the writers who aren't really any good anymore but the readers feel they have to encourage the poor things!"

"Boss, its just a review—"

Bang, bang! "Hey, I said. Is anyone listening to me?"

"I just can't believe this is happening to me," moaned Random, slumping over the desk. "I'm still young, I didn't think my career would be over this soon—"

"Well, you've got your health—"

Bang! "Let me out now!"

"Why doesn't someone just put me out of my misery?"

"I would be glad to," said the icy voice of Masque de Nuit from behind the door, "if you would let me out of the closet."

"Hey, hey boss," said Hoshi, who had taken the crumpled piece of paper from Random's twitching hand and read it for herself. "Hey, look at the next one, look at the next one."

"No."

"Come on."

"I don't want to."

With some difficulty, Hoshi managed to persuade her to look at the next review, which read, in part "OMG SO BLEEDIN HILARIOUS THIS IS THE AWESOMEST THING I EVER READ OMG YOU ARE SOOO GREAT I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU!"

Random stared at it for a moment, and then a smile broke over her features. She laid the paper down carefully, straightened her shoulders, and stood up.

Bang! Bang!

She unlocked the door, which swung open to reveal a disheveled and irritated Masque de Nuit.

"What is it with you and—"

She wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a passionate kiss on his mouth.

Surprised, shell-shocked, and in need of immediate counseling, Masque said, "What was that for?"

"My reviewers love me," said Random smilingly, let go of him, pushed him back into the closet, and closed the door on him again, turning the key with jaunty fingers.

The "What the Heck Were They Thinking" School of Culinary Arts (Chapter 8)

Pink Haze Phantom had his hands full. Of muffin dough, to be exact, but also he was having a bit of trouble with the Christines, most of whom seemed disposed to be helpful, but somehow just couldn't quite manage it.

"Christine, would you please put the knife down? You're making me worried. Christine— no, Christine, stop bashing Christine over the head with the frying pan. It might hurt her. Unlikely, I know, but— Christine, would you please keep Christine from licking the floor, who knows where her tongue's been. Christine, did I not instruct you to put down the knife? Put down the spoon, too, that is equally worrisome. No, Christine, I don't want you to— Christine, leave my pants alone, please. Christine! No! That is not acceptable! Christine , I mean it, no silverware of any sort—"

And then he saw something that made him really mad.

"Put— the blender— DOWN!"