Just a few replies as this is an exceptionally long chapter:
DarkPriestessofAssimbya: Well, Masque de Nuit answered you in his review, if you care to read it—
Aelfwyn: I promise to start concentrating on other stories! Well, I'll have to. This one's nearly over.
EriksAngel1870: A good reputation, right?
Phantom's Fallen Angel: I expected an outcry over the Cuddles outtake. But I put it on there anyway. Because I couldn't have managed everyone getting to snog their favourite Erik individually— although if you're really desperate you can e-mail me and I'll see what I can run up. I've done that for a few people. One in particular (sparklyscorpion) said she printed hers up and put it on her wall. (shakes her head) Some people— cuz its not like I have my Erik kisses printed up. Nope. Not at all.
Larea: If you're looking to nit-pick, no matter what story you go through, all you're going to end up with is a handful of nits. Please take this advice in the spirit in which it was given—
Mademoiselle Phantom: No spanking. Sorry. But— no.
Lazy.kender: Thanks. I think. Hmm... must put that in my bio.
letthedreamdescend: Okay, ff dot net ate all of your review but the first two words and I'm incredibly curious as to what exactly you were going to say.
Musique et Amour: Thank you for coming back and reviewing. I crave attention. I especially crave male attention. I especially especially crave manly-squees.And the final outtake is my particular present to you, for letting me make fun of you all these chapters—
A/N: This is the random outtakes chapter— outtakes that could fit in practically anywhere. Or, to put it another way, outtakes that I was too lazy to figure out where they went. Enjoy. Review.
What the Muffins Really Mean
"I'm curious, honestly," admitted Hoshi candidly. "What do the muffins mean?"
Random eyed her. "Look, if you really want me to answer that, you're going to have to be prepared for a long-winded speech on the subject."
"Oh," said Hoshi, in an I-changed-my-mind tone. "Well, I wouldn't want you to trouble yourself."
"Oh, its no trouble. I have one prepared."
Without further ado, Random stood up and launched into the following bit of interestingness.
"Someone asks me about the significance of the muffins, and I feel compelled to answer them in the most truthful manner possible, considering that I am not a truthful person, at least, not when it comes to muffins— however, truthfully, the muffins are often used as a metaphor for life, with the lemon poppyseed-ness of them a counterpoint to the ickiness that Leroux Erik was musing on in the first chapter of my phic, perhaps you've heard of it, its called "Whose Lair Is It Anyway" and it stars all the Eriks you've ever heard of. Returning to the subject at hand, ie, muffins, the fact that they are lemon poppyseed also points to my general dissatisfaction with and disappointment in life, because really I much prefer blueberry. However, this is not the single and only cosmic significance of the muffins. They are also manifestations of the spirits of stage-Phantoms that have passed beyond— as well as a metaphor for sex. I'm not quite sure why, except that an awful lot of things are a metaphor for sex, and I suppose I like to jump on the bandwagon as much as everyone else, which I guess is why we have that saying in the first place, and seeing as I don't have a boyfriend, sometimes muffins are the only option. I mean, I could try chocolate, but I like muffins better. This may render me unusual, but a lot of things do, and so it wouldn't be unusual if it made you think I was unusual, and anyway I happen to like the word unusual, and I don't see what's wrong with using it a few times in a sentence, though of course I'd throw a fit if anyone else did it. Other than that, the muffins are made by my mother, and she burnt them when I was a child, leaving me forever scarred and muffin-phobic, or muffin-aholic, whichever is funnier. And, because everything has a prosaic meaning, the muffins are breakfast. And, occasionally, lunch. Please don't worry about the muffins— my insanity only affects myself."
She finally stopped talking and looked around the now-empty room.
"Guys?"
Return of the Blender
There was a knock on the door of LuvinLivnReadn.
"Yes?"
A shame-faced Pink Haze Phantom stood there.
"Is this your blender?"
"Why, yes, it is, thank you."
"No, no, thank you. Thank you, my dear. I cannot tell you how much it meant to me, but I must attempt to try regardless. It was the apple of my eye, my light in a dark place, the clouds in my coffee, my—" PH Phantom took a deep and emotional breath. "Basically, my dear— it was my blender."
"Yes, well, its mine now," said LuvinLivnReadn, and shut the door in his face.
Stuck
There was silence in the Administrative Office, and had been for some time. Random had tried to scratch her ear and ended up giving herself a black eye with the chain around her wrist, and apart from storming in a circle around the desk and screaming "Sausages! SAUSAGES!" had taken the pain remarkably well, but then, she was a mountain girl. Like Heidi, only without the pigtails and the goats. Now, she began banging her head softly against the desk.
The minions were engrossed in their cutthroat Monopoly game, and Masque de Nuit was throwing sharpened pencils at the ceiling. Adison had gone out to get some Chinese food, which Random planned on refusing to eat, but now thought it would at least relieve the boredom.
Quietly she began to sing.
"I feel random— oh so random— I feel random, in tandem, not rhyme—"
This earned her a startled look from Masque and a few muttered Shhhh!s from the minions. Random shrugged helplessly. "I'm stuck," she said. "I hate writing. I don't know why I do it."
"To please your enormous ego with six hundred reviews?" suggested Masque mildly.
"Look, before you start off on ego enormity— hey. Why are you so mean to me anyway?"
"Its not me, its you. I'm a fictionalized version of a real person, remember? You're the one writing abuse." Masque snorted quietly. "And you say I'm a masochist."
"You take all the fun out of feeling sorry for myself," sniffed Random.
"That's what I'm here for."
"You could at least join me in my randomness."
"Never in a million years could I be as random as you are," said Masque definitely, and then immediately betrayed his claim by saying,
"Bert was a young man from Morail,
"His blond wife turned suddenly pale.
"When asked, "Are you hurt?"
"She replied to him, "Bert!
"I'm afraid I've just broken a nail!"
Random sniggered. Masque frowned.
"You made me do that."
Random threw her pen at him. He caught it and threw it back. A mildly diverting game of catch was developing when Random suddenly started singing again, which startled Masque so badly that he missed and the pen hit him above the eye.
"Ow."
"I feel random— oh so random—"
There was nothing for it. It was either cry like a baby over being hit with a ballpoint, or join in the singing. Masque was a trooper. He sniffed mightily and hit a pleasant harmony which Random immediately betrayed by laughing at him.
"I feel random— oh so random— I feel random in tandem, not rhyme—"
"I wish I knew the rest of the words to this song," said Random, still giggling slightly.
"You aren't singing the words anyway."
"Yes, but I can't properly parody a song if I don't even know the words to it. Maybe some people can, but not me. I guess we'll just have to sing the same thing over and over and over—"
They did, and it wasn't long before, caught up in the spirit of things, waltzing was begun as well. The minions abandoned the Monopoly game before someone got hurt, and started a chorus line, complete with high kicks.
The room reverberated with noise.
"La-la— la la la la laaa laaa— la la la la laaa laaaa—"
"I feel random, oh so random!" shouted Random and Masque, going around in a circle and trying not to trip over the chain, or each other's feet, or their own feet, or the chair legs, or each other's legs, or Random's hair.
It was at this point that Adison got back.
She stared at the amusing chaos in the room, which suddenly ground to a halt. Adison's mouth hung open.
"I got stuck," said Random meekly, with a shrug.
Homicidal Tendencies Make Me Hot
"Its really rather ridiculous," Random began, "that we all love Erik so much. Stop beaming, Stalker Erik, you know perfectly well I wasn't referring to you. When you think about it— why do we love an insane madman lunatic who lives underneath an Opera House and kills people? Why?"
They thought about this.
"Never mind," said Random.
"It is kind of— odd," said Renee17. "But, I mean, I guess its just an indication of the basic mentality of our generation." She shrugged. Random stared at her.
"I wish I'd kept that line for myself. That sounded really good."
"Well, I don't see why you need to put all those big words to it," said Adison. "It's a simple enough concept. Homicidal tendencies make us hot."
"And I really wish I'd kept that line. I love that line."
"Erik isn't really a killer. He's just misunderstood," said A-Lonely-Dreamer-56.
"That line, on the other hand, I am glad I gave away."
"Random, stop being all writerly and join us in being a phangirl, why don't you?"
"Oh, right." With a few scratches of the pen she had summoned up exact replicas of Leroux Erik, Kay Erik, Crawford Phantom, and Gerry Phantom for all the girls in the Admin Office to drool over, whilst Masque de Nuit took himself off down the hall to find some tea, grumbling to himself annoyedly— "My harem, dangit, mine!"
"Isn't it kind of strange, though," put in YoukoElfMaiden, "the fact that the Eriks are up here to be drooled over and also, simultaneously, down there in the lair to be drooled over?"
"Well, why not?" said Random reasonably. "After all, clones are people, two."
The looks on the faces of her minions made one thing clear.
"I should have given that one away too, huh?"
"Preferably a long, long ways away, yes."
They settled down to some serious phangirling, until Masque came back in and started looking sulky and kicking the desk. Random calmed him down a bit with a forehead kiss, he rewarded her with a manly squee, and all was peace and harmony in the pretend-marriage, until she patted him dismissively on the shoulder and went back to trying to convince Leroux Erik to hold her on his lap.
It worked, eventually, because she was the Writer. And Writers get to make things like that happen.
Its fun.
I suggest you try it for yourself.
Fopman
now showing in a theatre near you!
The minions were milling. They were quite good at that, now that there were so many of them. Milling seemed to come naturally.
"Where's Patrick Raoul?" asked darksidetwin2 curiously. "Why didn't he show up with the rest of them?"
"I planned a special entrance for him," said Random, with a wicked smile.
Masque scrutinized her. "That's a wicked smile," he observed.
"You bet your boots," said Random abstractedly. She was drawing a punjab in the margin of her notebook, a punjab with a fop in it. "You just bet your thigh-highs, Erik."
"Thigh-highs?" said Masque.
Random looked up, her eyes lighting. "There's an idea— Erik in thigh-highs."
"I object," said Masque immediately.
Random waved at him. "No, no, not you. Look, never mind. My mind isn't working properly at the moment. What was I talking about?"
"An entrance for the fop," Renee17 reminded her.
"Ah yes," said Random, and started writing again.
Down in the lair, confusion was reigning as usual, and then there was a yell from a long ways away. The Eriks looked up. The Writers looked apprehensive. The Christines just kept doing what they were doing because they didn't notice.
Patrick Raoul suddenly swung into the lair on a rope, wielding a sword and yelling, "Ha ha!" his ponytail flashing gallantly.
"Well," said MindGame, "the swash would appear to be buckled."
"That should satisfy the Patrick Raoul lovers," said Random, and wrote something else.
The rope broke abruptly and Patrick Raoul landed on his butt, skidding to a stop on his backside. He lay there for a moment moaning in pain and then began to cry.
"And that should please the rest of us," said Random with a delighted chuckle.
Kay Erik came and stood over Patrick Raoul, a disdainful expression on his face.
"Who do you think you are?" he requested. "Fopman or something?"
"Ow—"
"Did you think you could fly?"
"I had a cape," said Patrick Raoul from the ground, as though this explained everything.
"Let me at him," said Masque de Nuit, his eyes beginning to glow with a frightful light. "Let me at him!"
"Calm down, Erik, we can't kill him just yet."
"Come on, Random, let me get him! I wanna— I wanna get him, Random—"
Random gave him a worried stare. "Erik, are you feeling alright?"
"I wanna—"
"Your eyes are turning red."
"I wanna—"
"And there's smoke coming out your ears."
"I need to—"
"That's it!" said Random, grabbing his arm as he rushed for the door. He pulled but she hung on with all her strength and started getting dragged towards the door. "Guys, a little help here—"
In short order Masque was tied to a chair. He wouldn't shut up so someone stuck a sock in his mouth. He glared at Random and Adison and the minions as they took their seats and tried to pick up where they had left off.
Random picked up her pen and held it poised over the paper before seeking help.
"Fopman," prompted Hoshi.
"Ah yes," said Random, and wrote on.
Sleep-Deprived Random
Interestingly enough, written at three-thirty in the afternoon, with certain assistance from my niece, Sydney the Poet
Nudge, nudge.
"Wake up."
"Mmph."
"Random. Wake up."
"Erik."
"Random."
"ERIK ERIK ERIK ERIK ERIK ERIK ERIK ERIK!"
The loudness of her yelling caused Masque de Nuit to stumble backwards and sit down rather hard, where the rest of the minions laughed at him. "You didn't think she was screaming your name, did you?"
"She was!"
"Yeah, but not your your name."
"Gerry's, probably."
"No, Leroux's."
"No, Kay's."
"Whatever, its still scary," said Stalker Erik faintly.
Random sat up, blinking, rubbing her eyes. "Why did you guys wake me up? I'm— tired!" She flopped her head back on the desk with a thump. "Ow— "
"You're supposed to be writing."
"I haven't slept in two days."
"You're supposed to be writing anyways."
Random yawned. "You guys are— annoying, you know that?"
MindGame poked her. "Up, up, up."
Random growled. "I hate you all so much. I'd kill you if I had the strength."
"Okay, so she's not a morning person," said Hoshi cheerfully. "You wouldn't kill me, boss, right?"
"Maybe."
"She wouldn't kill me," volunteered Masque. Random raised her head and glared at him.
"You— first to die." She made a throat-slitting gesture at him and said, "Kkkkrrrk."
Adison handed the sleepy writer some coffee. "Perk up, Random. We need the next chapter. We're dying for it."
"You're about to," muttered Random before she buried her face in the coffee cup and inhaled the steam greedily. "No sugar in this, I hope."
"Why, don't you like sugar?"
"Not in my coffee. AAARGH! YOU PUT SUGAR IN MY COFFEE!"
"Random— I'll make you some more."
"AAAARGH!"
"Random, how about I make you some more, would you like that?" offered MindGame.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"
A-Lonely-Dreamer-56 started laughing. "This isn't really that funny, I don't know why it makes me—"
"AAAARGH!"
Adison calmly poured the cup of coffee down Random's throat. There was a tense moment while everyone waited for the effect that this would have on her.
It was a good one. She blinked sleepily, swallowed a few times, and said, indistinctly, "I burnt my tongue."
"Sorry," said Adison, and patted her on the head. "Will you write now?"
"Its not going to be all that coherent."
"Not a problem."
"It may not be coherent at all."
"That's okay. We just need the next chapter. Now."
Random squinched up her face and stared at the blank paper for a moment. "Fine." She scribbled a small stick-figure in the margin. "Did you know that Douglas Adams said 'Writing comes easy. All you have to do is stare at a blank piece of paper until your forehead bleeds."
"Random, darlin', if you don't give me the next chapter right now, your forehead soon will begin to bleed."
"And that'll be a nice splotch of color," said Random dreamily. Masque hit her on the head lightly, with the palm of his hand. "Ow."
"Write."
"Yes sir. Aye-aye, captain. Hey, does anyone know what the French for 'immortal' is?"
Masque sighed deeply. "Immortel."
"Ha. It would be something simple like that. Are the italics vital to its other-language-ness? Never mind, I'm not going to use it after all. Erik, teach me French. I feel the need to pontificate in a tongue other than my own."
"Hah!" said Celtic Heart, snorting.
They all looked at her.
"Hah, what?"
"Well— you mentioned French and tongue in almost the same sentence. I thought it was a joke."
Random nodded slowly. "Ah, so this is why you don't write humor."
"I thought it was a joke! Like— I dunno— how do you French braid hair? With your tongue."
There was a general groaning amidst the group and Random begged for some more coffee. The coffee being duly provided she started to drift off into nowhere-land again, a place she was well known, but suddenly sat up straight and looked at Masque. "Don't hit me."
"I wasn't going to."
"You did before."
"Can I kick you?"
"Please don't."
"Perform some other act of violence?"
"Um."
"May I have permission to dissect your eyebrow?"
"Look, this is strange, I mean, usually its just me who says weird things like that— what's going on?"
"You're sleep-deprived," said Adison knowledgeably, fighting off the small pink elephants that threatened to swarm her.
"Am I? I feel fine."
"Its just the coffee. You're really half-asleep."
"Is that why you have dollar signs in your eyes?"
"No, I have dollar signs in my eyes because I anticipate you making us all very, very rich."
"Really." Random blinked. "How's that exactly?"
"By climbing Mount Everest with the 51st Hairdressers Squadron."
"Ah. That."
"We've been talking about it for weeks. The monkey people are anticipating your arrival any moment now."
Masque held his guitar out to her. "Care to play for me?"
"I don't play the guitar, I play the piano and the violin and the clarinet, badly."
"Hold it for me, anyway, I have to go put on my shining armor."
Random took the guitar and stared at it blankly. "Shining armor?" she said, but when she looked up he was gone, and in his place stood David Wenham. "Ooh! Good trade-off."
"I resent that," said David Wenham, with Masque's voice, which fully creeped Random out.
She blinked at him. "Whoa. Did somebody put something odd in that coffee?"
"Sugar," said Adison, flying away.
"And carrot juice," put in Hoshi, who was now hanging by her tail from a bar that was surgically implanted in the ceiling.
"Hmm."
Celtic Heart was skipping rope with the munchkins. "One of these days we're going to be in color, right?" one of them asked.
"When we get to Oz," Celtic Heart assured her.
"Oh good. There's no place like him."
"What?"
"I said, there's no place like him."
"What?" Celtic Heart laughed. "Do you mean 'home'?"
"Yes, of course, sorry, I talk funny."
"Not a problem," said Celtic Heart, tripping over the jump-rope. Renee17 helped her up.
"Did you know," she said conversationally, "that there are seventeen suns in Uranus?"
Celtic Heart blinked at her. "No, I can't say I did."
"Oh. I guess I made it up, then."
YoukoElfMaiden sat on Masque's desk. "Hey, hey, Random. Look at this."
"What?"
She pointed at a vague area of her face. Random squinted. "What is that?"
"Its my Magic Pimple! Worthy of the capital letters, I assure you!"
"Uh-huh," said Random. "And, er, does it have a purpose?"
"It sings and dances!"
"Marvelous. I wish we could train Erik to do that."
"Hey, I dance," said David Wenham defensively. "I mean, I did when I was me. I don't now, 'cuz this bod ain't got no rhythm, but— I learned how to disco in Mexico."
Random squinted at him. "Stalker Erik, is that really you in there?"
"Course its me," said David Wenham, snorting.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"May I dissect your eyebrow?"
"You'd ruin my suit."
At that interesting juncture, the door banged open and Masque de Nuit entered, wearing shining armor. He stopped dead at the sight of Random with her arms around David Wenham's neck.
"Hey!" he said in a marginally jealous tone. It was an "incredibly jealous" tone when I first wrote this, but then I got an attack of realism. Random looked at him.
"Um— who are you?"
Masque clanked over to them. "Who do I look like?"
"But—" Random looked at David Wenham, then looked back at Masque. "Wait a second, there's a zipper on your neck!"
"Is there?" said Masque, twisting.
"I meant him."
"Is there?" said David Wenham, twisting.
"And how do we know that you're really you, and that David Wenham here isn't the real Masque de Nuit?" Random demanded. The Masque in the armor stared at her.
"Did you not just mention the zipper in his neck?"
"Yes, but— you have your tongue pierced, I thought maybe it was just body personalization."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Actually," said Random thoughtfully, "it makes a lot more sense than anything else that's happened in this particular outtake. So how do I know that its really you?"
Masque thought about this, then lifted the visor of his helmet to display his forehead, on which was written, "RANDOM WAS HERE."
"Oh, Erik, it really is you!" cried Random, and began to sob for no reason. Masque took her into his arms to comfort her.
"Manly squee," he whispered in her ear, patting her back. "Manly squee." But she only cried harder. "What's wrong?"
"Your armor is pinching me!"
"Oh. Sorry."
David Wenham stood there and looked rather forlorn. "What about me?" he said. Random sighed deeply and gave him a long and heartfelt kiss.
"I'm afraid I have to banish you back into pretend-dom now," she said regretfully. "But you can come and visit anytime you like."
"Fine," said David Wenham, sniveling, and disappeared.
Gradually, things began to go back to normal, as much as they ever had been normal, which wasn't an awful lot. Random woke up more and started writing something that made sense, as much as anything had ever made sense, which, also, wasn't an awful lot. The pink elephants disappeared, along with Hoshi's tail and the munchkins.
Masque de Nuit stuck to his suit of armor, though.
He said it made him feel— dramatic.
Or pathetic.
Or bombastic.
I regret to admit that I wasn't really paying attention.
Character Inundation
So many people suggested that I put in the characters of Nadir, Madame Girys, the Mary-Sues, et cetera, that I decided to do an outtake to show what it would have been like if I had.
The fops were there— the Writers were there— the Christines were there— the chaos had ensued, once the repair man kicked the machine and got it going again—
And in the spirit of boredom, Random sent in all the characters she could think of.
The Madame Girys came shrieking in, staring evil-eyed at people and whacking away at the Christines with their canes.
The Managers came in couples, holding hands and talking loudly about their girlfriends.
The Persians came in, both the Leroux Daroga model and the Kay Nadir model, along with all the phic-Persians.
The Mary-Sues came in and were promptly torn apart by the Phic-Christines.
The Megs came in. Half of them got frightened and tried to hide behind the fops, and the other half, the phictionalized-half, found themselves unexpectedly and unrealistically attracted to the Eriks.
Then the plot-holes joined the crowd. Suddenly characters found themselves on the other side of the lair for no reason, or ceased the activity they were doing and started a new one instantaneously, or turned into someone else. Eye colors flickered rapidly, along with name-spellings and personalities. A particularly large hole opened up and swallowed the entire lair, dumping everyone in it in an endless sea of confusion from which there was no escaping, no matter what your skills as a writer are, which is why I didn't write it that way in the first place.
Now that we've got that over with—
Carrot Cake: The Pity Pastry
"I object to all this talk about carrot cake," said Adison, knocking Random's Gerry-flavored carrot cake out of her hand just as she was taking a bite. "Its just wrong. Morally, ethically, and spiritually wrong."
Random turned her best baleful glare on her PR Agent. "What, carrot cake? Carrot cake is morally, ethically, and spiritually wrong?"
"Yes."
Random shook her head. "Not unless its killed someone, Adison. Will someone get me some more please?"
"Sorry, they're all out of the Gerry-flavored stuff," said Hoshi. Random turned a look of utter disbelief on her. "I know, I'm complaining too."
"As I was saying," said Adison, knocking Random's pens and notebooks off the desk and sitting on it. "Carrot cake is what is known as the pity pastry— it was created in order to appease the vegetables, who were fed up with their lack of representation in the dessert industry and were going on strike if someone didn't do something about it. And thus was carrot cake born."
"Have a muffin," said Masque de Nuit, shoving one in Adison's mouth to stop her from talking. It didn't work. Adison merely chewed for a few moments and then went on.
"In 1945, the carrot cake was formally introduced to the public in its Coming Out Party, which, back then, didn't mean that it was gay, only meant that it was old enough to date. At first all was sunshine and roses, as the carrot cake attended social functions, smiled for photographs, and even met the President, who at the time was, as we all know, President— well, I've forgotten. But there was one. President Somebody. I think. But then, the carrot cake got in with a bad crowd. It started drinking, got tattoos of mermaids, piercings in some unmentionable places— and then, at a party one night, someone hooked it up with some bad raisins, and it was all over. The carrot cake went nuts." Adison stopped her history lecture to giggle. "Get it? The carrot cake went nuts?"
"I don't like nuts in my carrot cake," said Random, shrugging.
"Have a muffin," said Masque de Nuit, shoving one partially up her nose.
"Go easy on the muffins, will you?"
"Sorry, I just never realized how liberating it was to shove muffins into people."
"Anyway!" said Adison.
"Yes, Adison, go on, we're listening. Well, not really listening. But we're in the same room as you are, and we aren't sleeping, which is almost the same thing."
Masque beamed at her. "Why, Random, that was almost a guy comment to make!"
"I suppose you must be rubbing off on me, then."
"For a time, the carrot cake was able to keep its dirty secret just that—a dirty secret. But then—"
"Here, boss," said Hoshi, returning from the bakery down the hall. "Regular carrot cake."
"Thank you, Hoshi."
"But then," said Adison, glaring at them, "then a reporter who was trolling the streets one night happened to look in a window and see the popular crowd doing what they do—"
"What is it that the popular crowd do?" asked Masque de Nuit, tipping his head to one side.
"I wouldn't know," said Random, drawing lines in the frosting with her fork.
"Drugs!" said Adison. "They were doing drugs! And the reporter looked in and saw the carrot cake— with a pipe!"
"My grandfather used to smoke a pipe," offered Random.
"He stopped?" asked Masque.
"He died."
"Ah."
"Not that kind of pipe!" said Adison. "A— different kind of pipe! Gah, am I surrounded by naive idiots?"
"What a silly question," said Random easily. "Its okay, really it is, Adison. I only like it for the cream-cheese frosting. Really." She licked off the frosting and threw the rest of the cake to her minions, who squatted in the corner, and proceeded to fight over it.
Random's Favourite Reviews
In a childish attempt to create some competition—
"What are you giggling at?"
"The top four."
"The fop tour?"
"No, the top four."
"The top four what?"
"The top four reviews."
"Quit trying to prolong this stupid outtake and tell me already."
"Fine," said Random, haughtily, and proceeded to read them out loud.
4: BWHAHAHAHA Foonly I replied! I loveith your story! Its made me laugh so hard I had to stop and stare at the floor for a while. Thank you for writing all the goodness in the world! (Miss.Understood.3)
3: Once again you've given me perfection, my dear author. Keep making Stalker Erik like me and well.. you're frightening me. You're the one stalking me, aren't you:Squints at her: Manly-squee! I have a stalker! (Musique et Amour)
2: Picking the tray up gently, Adison resisted the childish urge to wrinkle her nose in distaste and pushed the door open with her hip. Random sat on Masque's desk, absently picking at the chain she had attached to herself. The minions were glancing nervously at one another; Hoshi's rendition of "Unbreak My Heart" had calmed the writer's roaring sobs to a low, pitiful moans and hiccups, but all other attempts to cheer her up had been met with biting sarcasm. Or just biting.
Carefully, Adison brushed past Masque, who was in full lotus position on the floor, pretending to be centered, and placed the tray on the desk.
"What's this?" Random sniffed, rubbing her tears with the chain she was holding and promptly giving herself a black eye.
"Against my better judgement, I made you something." Adison sighed to herself, placed a hand on the cover of the tray, and yanked it off.
"Carrot cake!" (Adison)
1: My god, you're silly. (KeeperOFBoxFive)
The Rest of Random's Song
Eriks and Christines and horses and fops
chaos and punjabs and Raouls that go pop
muffins and stalkers and carrot cake
all this is there in the lair beyond the lake
Fopcorn and breadsticks and writers insane
The writing is crappy, the jokes are inane
Older men, poets, pastries to bake
All wait for you in the lair beyond the lake
When the phans howl
When the phics blow
And you've shaved your hair
Just buckle up and give Random a call
And she'll post another— Whose Lair!
Five hundred reviews are truly enlightening
Though if you look for a plot its quite frightening
I don't know how I did this, I'll admit
I just keep on writing and hope it's a hit
I'm not really as good as you might possibly think
And even worse in real life than with paper and ink
Someday my cringe-worthy words will be caught
But up until then, I still think Erik's hot!
When PFN's bad,
When there's no one there
Just descend to the madness that lies in my mind
And I swear to updaaaaaate— Whose Lair!
The Stalker and Random Show
As usual, Random's mind was wandering. It drifted amidst flowered fields and maroon balloons and then, with only token brevity, came back to earth when Hoshi hit her on the head with a rock-hard muffin.
"Ow," said Random, and was knocked out.
She had some interesting and highly worrying dreams. Most of them were about sharing a variety show with Masque de Nuit, ha, I typed Masque de Nut first time, I'm funny.
There was applause, at least, which helped. Applause always helps.
"Say, I say, I say, Random!" said Masque.
"Yes, Stalker Erik."
"I'm the victim of an ugly rumour at work." He pouted for the audience. About half of it cheered.
"Do you mean, do you mean," said Random, holding one finger up and blinking a lot, "that the rumor itself is ugly— or that the rumor is that you are ugly."
The pout remained.
"The rumor itself is ugly."
Random let the silence build for a moment. Then she said, "Well, then, I'm afraid I've got some more bad news for you."
Someone in the tiny orchestra hit a drum with a sound like, "Ba-dum-bum-CHHSH!"
The noise woke Random up and she blinked at all the faces peering down at her.
"Are you alright?" asked Misty Breyer.
"I'm sorry," wailed Hoshi, "I didn't know it was a stale muffin!"
"I just had a terrible dream," said Random.
"Was it a nightmare?" asked Celtic Heart interestedly.
"Definitely. The jokes were crap." Hands were offered to pull her up and she accepted the help of most of them. Once back on her feet and tottering, she was shoved gently into her chair, and sat there rubbing her head for a few moments before she looked up.
"Erik."
"Hmm?" said Masque de Nuit, who was trying to play an un-stringed instrument and failing miserably.
"You're not ugly."
He glanced up at her, shock and surprise clambering across his face.
"I'm not?"
"No."
"Really?"
"No."
"Well— neither are you."
"Really?"
"Really."
Smiles broke over both their faces and they looked like they'd had heavy loads lifted from their shoulders. It appeared to be only a matter of time before they started dancing and singing about daffodils and sunshine and then Masque said, "You are short though."
Abruptly, Random scowled. "So? You're— tall."
"You have an upturned nose."
"You have funky eyebrows."
"You have crooked teeth."
"Your hairline is receding."
"It is not!" roared Masque. "And anyway yours is too long!"
"Only because I don't cut it!"
"Flower child!"
"Eurotrash!"
There was a slight pause, and then they both shouted, "And you have full, pouty lips!" and then lapsed into an angry silence that was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone else, as this was the first time that that particular phrase has been used as an insult. Chaos ensued amidst the hilarity, which is good, because it meant that everything was back to normal.
Initiation Ceremony
As the Eriks attempted in vain to get Leroux Erik to sing for the Writers, Patrick Raoul strutted up to them, flipping his ponytail around and, accidentally, smacking Gerry Phantom in the face with it.
"Come, come, the Writers ask for one thing— and you can't even give it to them? OW!"
Gerry Phantom put the knife back in his pocket and brandished the ponytail. Patrick Raoul looked shocked.
"I've been dying to do that for a very very long time," said Gerry Phantom. Patrick Raoul stared at him in utter and absolute outrage for two seconds, and then began to sob.
"Waaaaaaa—"
The Eriks just looked at him in disgust, but this didn't deter him from going on to falling to the ground and rolling around on his back, pounding the flagstones with his fists.
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—"
"Good lord," said Kay Erik, looking down at him. He glanced up at Gerry Phantom. "Did you know that would happen?"
"No," said Gerry Phantom, who looked like he was in shock. "All I did was cut his ponytail off."
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—"
Kay Erik sighed testily. "You might have let me do it, at least. I could have made it so he didn't notice for a while. Now you've made him cry. And," he added, "he doesn't appear to be stopping anytime soon. Now look here, young man—" He loomed over Patrick Raoul and blazed his eyes at him. "Look here. If you don't stop this ridiculous whinging right this instant, I'm going to lock you into the bedroom with The Maiden Amorisa again."
The Maiden Amorisa popped her head out of the huddle of Writers and sang, "He knows my name!"
Patrick Raoul stared at Kay Erik for a second, and then went, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—" with renewed vigor.
"That's it," said Kay Erik. "I haven't the patience for this. Someone bundle this mewling child up and bung him into a cupboard somewhere."
"Why not just kill him," suggested letthedreamdescend.
There was a pause.
"I suppose we might as well—" said Kay Erik doubtfully.
Gerry Phantom shrugged a little. "Well—"
"Well," echoed Crawford Phantom, thoughtfully. "But— this one is the last Raoul. And— he's so harmless. It just doesn't seem— sporting somehow."
"We could turn him loose in a jungle and issue you four with guns," suggested the Singing Fox Demon.
"No, that's not what I meant."
"Besides," said Gerry Phantom, "I need him to take care of Emmy Christine's babies. Because— they're certainly not mine. No, sir. Its not like I've got money to pay for three college tuitions."
There were half-hearted murmurs of agreement from the others. Celtic Heart stood up.
"I think what you all are really trying to say," she said, "is that, though of course you want to kill Raoul, because he is your mortal enemy and stands for everything you loathe, is that there is no good story without conflict. And if you kill him off, then— there won't be any conflict, for you. You'll have no one to fight for or against. You'll have no light to your darkness. There won't be anyone for people to write slash epics about. Basically, you have a hangup over killing this final fop, and things would be much easier and happier if someone would just take care of it for you."
"Done," called Stalker Erik, nudging Patrick Raoul's body into the lake with his foot and a quiet splash.
The Eriks turned to face him, relief visible in their eyes. Stalker Erik braced himself, stood tall and impatiently flicked dark hair out of his eyes, blinking a lot and not looking particularly brave or accomplished.
Leroux Erik spoke first. "The final fop," he said, quietly, intensely, swoon-inducingly. "The final fop— is dead."
"Yes, well," said Stalker Erik, coughed slightly, and then switched to French and repeated Leroux Erik's words in his own best quiet, intense, swoon-inducing voice, which he did surprisingly well.
The emotion in Leroux Erik's eyes was enormous, a torrent of feeling. "It is as it should be— as it should have been." Striding forward, he touched his fingers to Stalker Erik's forehead in a gesture of acceptance, and then swept him a bow. Stalker Erik, stunned, unsure, and thinking vaguely what a lot of action his forehead had been getting lately, bowed back, shakily.
"Well," said Kay Erik quietly, "it would appear that we have to show you the Initiation Ritual after all."
It took place in the bedroom. Most things of note do.
Stalker Erik seated himself on the bed and bounced a little, looking nervously from one Erik to another. They stood silent, their arms folded, their faces, what he could see of them, forbidding.
"What must I do?" asked Stalker Erik, and then cursed himself for sounding like Frodo Baggins.
"You must learn—" said Kay Erik.
"Yes?" said Stalker Erik apprehensively.
Kay Erik unfolded his arms and stuck a hand out at him. "The well kept secret of generations," he intoned.
Stalker Erik blinked.
"Y—es?"
"Take my hand."
He did so.
Some rather odd, college-fraternity-like things happened next, Stalker Erik had the strange sensation that he had a hand coming out of his left ear, and then they were back to their first positions. Stalker Erik had the horrifying feeling that, whatever they asked him to do, he was going to fail, and fail miserably.
"Now do that," said Kay Erik, "to Crawford Phantom."
Stalker Erik pushed himself off the bed and stood tall. Be a man. Be an Erik. Be— the hand.
With only a little fumbling, he executed the triple turns, the flogging-motion, the slow-mo applause, the snapping of the fingers, the macarena, the sticking the fingers up the nose, the sliding the whole arm through one ear and out the other, and the slapping Crawford Phantom's face, and was back where he had started, panting and immensely surprised at himself.
There was a long pause.
"It is good," said Leroux Erik. "You have learned the secret handshake well."
"Have I?" said Stalker Erik. "Oh good."
"You are now— an Erik."
He resisted the impulse to tell them that, as far as he knew, he had always been one, and accepted the pristine white half-mask that they presented him with.
Upon opening the door, he received a wave of applause like none he'd ever gotten before. The Writers stood and greeted the arrival of a new Erik with all the excitement, appreciation, and half-hidden lust that they had for the old ones. Stalker Erik smiled and ducked his head, and traced his fingers around the edges of the mask.
He put it to his face.
He frowned.
He said, "Hey, how do you get this thing to stay on?"
And as we allow our viewpoints to drift lazily above the not-so-crowded lair, leaving a frustrated New Erik trying to figure out how to hide his face, we see the minions looking down and giggling, the PR Agent on the phone with a publisher, the pretend-husband grinning at his phictional alter ego finally being accepted, and a writer throwing her pencil out the window, putting her feet on the table, and begging for a back massage.
Because now at last we have reached the final ending of the story.
And now all that's left is the After Party.
A/N: Well, and two or three other chapters, but its considerably less dramatic when you say that, don't you think?
