A/N: Earning me the title of Queen of Disturbing One-Shots, and by far the worst one-shot I've ever written. I feel dirty just for thinking it. And I don't mean dirty in a good way. Credit must be given to my nephew for coming up with what "F.O.P." means. Insanity is clearly running its course through my family, although I suppose you can blame it on me for having corrupted him since he was born. I'm sorry— its my brain, we do things differently in there. And thanks to that bilingual wonder of a pretend-husband, Musique "Stalker Erik" et Amour, for helping me butcher the Italian language more adeptly.
The Matter At Hand
Buying an opera house is hideously difficult. There's papers to be gone through, the matter of a loan, the performers to be placated, the stagehands to fire, the cleaning to tend to, and of course going through the ashtrays for loose change.
Oddly enough, Monsieur Lefevre was astoundingly accommodating, even going so far as to offer to pay Messrs. Andre and Firmin to take the Opera Populaire off his hands. Andre and Firmin jumped at the chance. They weren't fools.
Or, perhaps, they were—
The trouble started, as trouble is wont to do, at nine forty five the first morning, when La Carlotta di Pissi, the diva in residence, started dropping backdrops on people. At least, everyone blamed it on her, and since she couldn't speak English, she had no way of rebutting these accusations or, indeed, even understanding what it was that she was accused of. The stagehands loved this. Innocent victims were their favorites. It wasn't long before they were mooning her and making "Free Carlotta" t-shirts.
This, however, was not the extent of the trouble. There was much more to come.
It was after Carlotta had been hauled away protesting that they got the first of the notes.
For some reason, it said,
Dear-a Signors:
I theenk-a by now you have-a chance to-a reflect on your almost positive-a confusion. It-a would appear to-a be wise-a on you-a part to comply weeth my-a suggestions.
Ciao,
O.G.
The new managers stared at it for a moment, and then Firmin said, "Theenk?"
"Weeth?" said Andre.
"Do we like people who speak with blatant double e's?"
"No, we do not."
"I did not think so."
"And so, what do we do?"
Firmin frowned for a moment. "We do this," he said. "We ask someone else to give us advice."
"Said Firmin firmly," provided Andre, earning a glare from his partner (business partner, what do you think? and get your minds out of the gutter) "What? Alliteration is funny."
"No it is not."
"You just have no sense of humor."
"Exactly."
And so they turned to the stagehands and performers. "Who is it that would send polyglot notes to two Frenchman who unaccountably speak with English accents?"
"We don't know," said the stagehands, "we're new here."
"Eet ees the Ghost," provided a random performer (we'll call her da Shea, because Madame Giry isn't in this one).
"Why," called the sharp and rather peeved voice of Madame Giry, "am I not in this one?"
"Because I am," said Mademoiselle da Shea, "now shut up. As I was saying— eet ees the Ghost."
The managers stared at her.
"Why is it that you only have an accent part of the time?"
"Because I am a performer," she explained.
"Oh yes?"
"And not a very good one."
"Ah."
"A ghost, you say?"
"A ghost, oui," she agreed. "A large man is seen, dressed all in pink, moving with the grace often found in large people— and ghosts. At night the entire opera house is awash with the scent of garlic—"
"A ghost— with an Italian accent? In writing?"
She shrugged. "You said it, not me."
The managers looked at each other. "What manner of devilry is this?"
As if in answer, another note floated down. Andre bent over to pick it up, and his back seized up; so Firmin bent over to pick it up, and lost his balance. He read the note aloud from his place on the floor.
Dear-a Signors,
It would-a please me greatly if-a you would leave a plate of spaghetti and two loaves of-a garlic bread on the stairs-a leading to the Dark and Creepy Part of-a the Cellars.
Thank-a you.
Ciao,
O.G.
The managers exchanged glances.
"This," said Andre, "is too much."
"I agree," Firmin agreed. "We must call in a specialist."
"What kind of a specialist?"
"Well, I was thinking someone who knew something about acupuncture—"
"No. A specialist that knows how to get rid of ghosts."
"Who you gonna call?" wondered Mademoiselle da Shea. Someone in the orchestra started playing the Ghostbusters theme song, but luckily she shot him before he got too far.
"I don't know," said Firmin. "Look in the Yellow Pages."
Which is how, an hour later, a carriage showed up, driven by a man with a ponytail, who was shouting at the top of his voice.
"How do you stop this thing?"
He managed, eventually, to bring the carriage to a halt by simple expedient of running it into the stable house. He crawled, dusty and coughing, from the wreckage, reattached his ponytail which had come loose, and presented his card to the skeptical managers.
"Raoulph de Chagny— special services, F.O.P."
Andre was inclined to take this on faith, but Firmin was a bit firmer. He squinted at the card, squinted at Raoulph, squinted at Andre, then put his glasses back on and stopped squinting.
"What, pray tell, does F.O.P. stand for?"
"I'd rather not say."
"Say anyway."
"Do you always speak in rhyme?"
"Not unless I feel threatened."
"Very well then. It stands for—"
"And stop pausing dramatically."
"Very well. Farts On Phantom," admitted Raoulph with a very slight hiccup.
Firmin stared him down and Andre giggled like a child.
"In which case," said Andre, "may we welcome you, welcome you, welcome you to the Opera Poopulaire—"
"Andre!" snapped Firmin, glaring at him ferociously, "how many times must I tell you, that is not funny!"
"Raoulph seemed to like it, "said Andre, gesturing at Raoulph, who was indeed sniggering to himself.
"Not funny," said Firmin sourly, "at all."
"What seems to be the problem?" asked Raoulph, sobering slightly.
"We have a ghost," said Firmin, glaring. "And we would like you to get rid of it."
"Righto," said Raoulph cheerfully, and was walking towards the Opera House proper, rubbing his hands together in gleeful and childlike excitement, when someone arrived with a steamroller and ran him over.
Firmin and Andre stared at the wreckage. Raoulph's ponytail stuck out from underneath the roller rather forlornly. Their gazes were drawn upwards to where the driver of the steamroller was descending in a flourish of a black cape.
He came down the five-step ladder and stood on the ground in front of them, a tall and skeletally-thin figure dressed all in black, with a white mask, his hair slicked back in a style that wouldn't be popular for several more months yet at least. He had a lasso coiled over one arm and a peeved expression.
"And you are, monsieur?" ventured Andre.
"My name," said the man with a deep bow, " is Bob. But you can call me— The Persian."
"The Persian?"
"The Persian?"
"The Persian."
"The Persian?"
"Yes."
"Like— a type of cat?"
"No."
"But— you don't look Persian."
"And this is relevant how?" snapped The Persian.
"W- why do you wear a mask?" inquired Andre.
"I'm starting a trend, what's it to you?"
Firmin smacked Andre. "Cannot you concentrate on the matter at hand?"
"I'm sorry, I was just curious—"
"Well, control yourself!"
" Look," said The Persian, " you have a ghost situation, yes?"
"Er, yes," said Firmin, sparing a glance for the steamrollered Raoulph, "er, and we called that man— the one down here who is flat as a pancake— we called him to come and sort things out. But, er— you appear to have— run him over. A bit. Not that that's a bad thing," he added as The Persian glared at him. "Quite the opposite. Clearly the man has had it coming for years."
The Persian nodded and hitched the lasso higher on his arm. "Lead on."
"But, er—"
"Lead on, I say."
The hapless managers led on, forced to ignore the fact that the steamroller was parked on their front steps. They took him around to the side door.
Once inside, The Persian sniffed the air keenly.
"Someone," he said in his deep, growling, and incredibly attractive voice, "is smoking something. I want some. Hold on a tick."
He disappeared down the hallway and came back half an hour later in a pleasant glow.
"Right! Now I am in the correct frame of mood! To do a spot of ghost hunting!"
"Er," ventured Andre, "we think he's down in the cellars—"
"Of course he is! Of course he is! What ghost in their right mind wouldn't want to be down in the cellars! Of course he could also be in the attic!"
"Er— we haven't got an attic," said Firmin.
The Persian stared at him wild-eyed.
"Not got an attic?" he roared. "Whadderyer mean you've not got an attic? You must have an attic, man, it is absolutely essential that you develop an attic right away!"
"Er— we're going to leave now," said Andre.
"Right!" said The Persian. "Right! Right!" and snorted violently several times. The managers hurried away for a vacation in Barbados, hoping that everything would be alright by the time they got back, leaving The Persian to do as he wished.
Which he did.
But after he'd done that for a while, he did something else.
And, having done that, he saw no reason to do other things as well, and when at length he emerged from the dressing room of Mademoiselle da Shea, he decided to do what he'd come for.
On the way down the stairs he came upon a plate of spaghetti carbonara, and ate it, spitting out the pieces of bacon. Clearly, he thought to himself fuzzily, the ghost would be down here with the rats. They went together, ghosts and rats. And badgers, though he had his own doubts on the subject.
Some ways further he began to find evidence cookery. The first clue he had was the abandoned garlic press, and a few steps past that was the turkey baster. He picked these up and it wasn't long, in fact, before he had so many utensils that he could have started a restaurant, which he wasn't in the least inclined to do because A: he'd have to spend time around people, B: he wasn't a very good cook, and C: finding ghosts was a lot more fun.
If only he could find this ghost—
The ghost eluded him for some time, until he heard the faint strains of some strenuous Italianate singing from down one corridor. Trusting his instincts, he followed the corridor, until it turned to the left, and then he followed it to the left; then it turned to the right, and he followed it to the right; and then it seemed to him that he wasn't so much trusting his instincts as trusting that if he walked into a wall, it would hurt.
This was alright, though. It didn't matter.
The singing was getting closer, and as he walked on, his yellowish eyes glinting feverishly in the dark, the lasso clenched tightly in his hands, it turned suddenly to weeping, and he heard the voice say,
"Mi bella— miscelatore carissima—"
Clearly the ghost was insane. Not only did he write with an accent, he was currently in mourning over kitchen appliances.
The Persian crept closer, the punjab at the ready, and ventured a look around the corner.
Well.
There was cooking going on, apparently—
Ten or so pots were on the large stove, most of them bubbling madly. A heap of tomatoes stood ready next to a knife. There was cheese, and spinach, and a pasta machine, and a plate the size of a platter, and over everything the smell of garlic. The Persian wrinkled his nose.
There was, also, a man. He was decidedly on the large side, of the type that would be played with gusto by Dom DeLuise, tears ran down his face, and he wore a football jersey that had his number on the front and said "PIANGI" on the back. He was, indeed, crying over his blender, which had apparently shorted out in distress at all the vegetables he'd put in it to try and make gazpacho.
Something about the scene was peculiarly touching, the kind of circumstance that would tug at a person's heartstrings. Fortunately, The Persian not being in possession of a heart, he didn't have any strings to be tugged, and instantly he sallied forth to confront the Italian ghost, who was not a ghost, but was a man.
It would seem.
There followed a knockdown drag-out fight of the sort where the attacker runs at the victim and then brains himself on a frying pan that is unexpectedly hanging from the ceiling. The Ghost (lets call him Piangi, now) peered down at The Persian.
"Would-a you like," he said, sniffling, "some ravioli?"
The Persian glared up at him.
"Why," he spat, "are you offering me musical notations?"
Piangi blinked. This not producing any effect, he blinked again.
"Musical-a notation?"
"Ravioli," said The Persian. "Ravioli, rigatoni, paparazzi— I don't need instruction on how to sing, thank you very much."
Piangi blinked again. "Mi apologies, signore—" he said. "I was offering you pasta."
"Were you?" said The Persian. "Were you? Right! Right! Could have fooled me!"
There followed a bit of a standoff while I tried to think of something else to happen.
Piangi offered his hand to The Persian.
The Persian took it.
Piangi said, "Um—"
The Persian snapped, "What?"
"I might-a need that-a back, later—"
"Oh, shut up," snapped The Persian, tied Piangi up, and marched him upstairs, where he turned him over to the police. The erstwhile ghost went to jail for a bit, where he discovered La Carlotta; they fell in love and eventually had several very large children.
The Persian, meanwhile, returned to the cellars wherein Piangi had been doing his dastardly cooking. He glanced around a bit and thought to himself.
"A little black paint— take down the pictures of gondolas— fix the blender— perfect."
It was with trepidation that the managers returned to the Opera House— they were immensely pleased to discover that there hadn't been pasta cooked in the great kitchens in all the months they had been gone. However, they found that there had been certain adjustments in the Opera House legend.
They interviewed Mademoiselle da Shea.
"A ghost?" they said.
"A tall, skeletally-thin man, dressed all in black—"
"Really."
"Who wears a white mask—"
"Ah."
"And instead of the smell of garlic everywhere, there is the sound of music drifting up from the cellars in the middle of the night."
"I see," said Andre, "and what truth is there to the rumor that he sleeps with the chorus members?"
"None at all," she said staunchly. "Although it is true that he has been seen inside my room more often than anywhere else—"
The managers stared at her.
She smiled back cheerfully.
"I see," muttered Firmin.
Then it was time for a big production number, and, eventually, life got back to normal.
