Mop The Fop
by Random-Battlecry
There was an announcer. I find there usually is, on occasions such as these. This one was a truly irksome example of the species— he wore a loud checked suit, violently-colored, complete with completely clashing tie, and an enormous shiny grin, like it was new-bought.
I stared at him and wondered how I'd gotten sucked into this.
Any minute now he was going to start— announcing things. I shivered. Bellowing things, more like, in one of those obnoxious, incredibly loud voices that carry, apparently, to the ends of the earth.
He leaned back and took in a deep breath. I winced anticipatorily. Here it came—
"Laaaa-dies and geeeen-tlemen! Welcome, welcome, welcome!"
I should have known he would say "Welcome" three times.
"Welcome—"
Oops. Four.
"To the game show of the century— Mop the Fop!"
There was a large, hugely appreciative crowd, and at this point, they cheered, as large, hugely appreciative crowds are so often wont to do. I winced again.
Some of them were chanting the name of the game—
"Mop! The! Fop! Mop! The! Fop! Mop! The! Fop!" Some of them got a bit confused and chanted it the wrong way round.
"Fop! The! Mop! Fop! The! Mop!"
Which, in my opinion, sounded rather rude.
But the announcer was going on—
"The game in which a specially chosen fop is given a make-over— and not just one make-over, but many! Can we turn this year's model into a handy dandy?" The crowd cheered. " Or is he doomed to fopdom forever?" The crowd booed. Capricious crowd.
I could just picture Erik in amongst them, sniggering. Sniggering away like mad. I don't know if I will ever get over my suspicion of Christine— though she chose me over him, two years ago, ever since then she has done some thoroughly— Erik-like things.
Like smushing the wedding-cake into my face at our reception—
And making faces in our wedding photos.
And threatening to Punjab me if I didn't do the dishes.
And saying she wished we could find some more attractive real estate, say, with a lake, under an opera house somewhere.
And strangling the neighbors.
This Mop-The-Fop thing was just the latest— and, unfortunately, it would probably not be the last.
The announcer had taken the floor again.
"Time to meet our contestant. Lad-eeeees and gentlemen, please welcome, Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny— foppishly known as— RAOUL!"
There was some applause as I walked onstage— at least I have that small comfort.
There were also some rotten cabbages thrown at me, which leads me to suspect even stronger the presence of Erik in the audience.
I was led, by an alarmingly-perky young woman, to a chair in the centre of the stage. I sat on it.
I have been going deaf ever since the adventure in Erik's lair, and I didn't hear the noise that made the entire audience burst into laughter. But I felt it. Gingerly I reached underneath me and fished out the whoopie cushion.
Ah, the famous French sense of humour.
To my distraction, I could see Christine in the wings, laughing so hard her face was turning purple. Obviously I would get no comfort from those corners.
No, instead I must turn for help to the—
Oh no.
To the woman who was approaching me, hair-styling gel and scissors in hand—
She looked terribly, terribly familiar. And I do mean terribly.
"Nice to see you again, Raoul," she whispered conspiratorially. She snapped the scissors shut menacingly, two inches away from my ear.
"Aaaaand now," boomed the never-ending announcer, "hold on to your ponytails, folks— it's time to play— Mop the Fop!"
I sat there in the chair, clutching the edges of it till my knuckles turned white, wondering how they'd found my ex-girlfriend to come and wield scissors dangerously close to my jugular—
A/N: Hi everybody! This story inspired by my little sister, who when I wrote the word "Fop" on her notebook, instantly lost it and started guffawing, and wrote "mop the fop" on my notebook. She still, as far as I know, has no idea what a fop is. Anyway.
