The Phantom of the Opera – Behind the Genius
Chap 3
Entry forty.
I'm, too sexy for Christine Daae, too sexy for Christine Daae, too sexy for –
"…Erik? What on earth…?"
Entry forty-one.
Stupid Nadir, interrupting my rehearsals. I push you in the lake, Monsieur!
Entry forty-two
…Oh, snap! You should have seen his face! Those Persians sure know how to look outraged.
Now he wants to borrow my blowdryer. Fine, but I'm not lending him a pair of my nice, dry pants. They're specifically tailored to emphasise my own personal… Contours. They'll make your soul begin to soar, baby.
Entry forty-three.
Wtf? Carlotta is still singing the lead? And they gave my box to RAOUL? Where the hell did I leave my lasso, anyway?
Heads will roll.
"I think the Headless Horseman already took that saying."
Well what the HELL am I supposed to say, huh?
I should be thy Adam; rather I am thy fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no reason!
"That's Frankenstein's monster quoting Milton."
Merde. Effing Frankie's Monster. And effing Milton. Think's he's so smart with his Paradise Lost.
My Don Juan Triumphant could kick his ass.
"If you ever finish it."
Shut up, Nadir! Your blowdryer privileges are revoked! You can just frizz, for all I care!
Entry forty-four.
I just love the opera - when I have my own personal seat. I can't believe they gave it away to that – that mincing dandy! Do fifteen years of diligent ghosting mean nothing to these people? Next they'll be giving me a gold watch for my retirement.
Anyway, I can't see a thing behind this woman's bloody great big feathered hat. I give up.
Ooh, idea.
Entry forty-five.
Je suis trop sexy pour Carlotta, trop sexy pour Carlotta…
Entry forty-six.
What the…? How am I supposed to drop more scenery on Carlotta when Joseph Buquet is actually at his post for once? Why isn't he drinking rum like a good stagehand?
Time for Plan B.
Entry forty-seven.
Laaaaa, la la la la la, ahahaha – CROAK.
Prima donna, you cannot hold the floor, when you ribbet, and my gibbet, is coming for you...!
Entry forty-eight.
Whoops. Buquet tripped and fell into the Punjab Lasso.
I'm sure Christine will understand.
Entry forty-nine
Oh, look at them all panicking like it's the end of the world. He was only a stagehand. And a drunkard, too. They'll get over it.
Angel of Music, you are so, so awesome.
Give yourself a gold star. In fact, buy yourself a new mask. One with sequins.
Raoul will be all, OMG D00DER I WISH I WAS U.
Entry fifty.
Zut alors – Did they have to drag me up to the roof? J'ai beaucoup de froid up here – I'm going to freeze if they don't hurry this along.
Wait, is he - ?
No. He is NOT singing to her.
That's my BIT, you petit batard! I sing! That's what I do!
No, no no no! You call that a C minor? I'll give you a C minor right in your – your shampoo!
Entry fifty-one.
Erik can't feel his special place any more. Erik is very concerned.
Why didn't I bring a thicker cape? Stupid rooftop. Stupid rooftop duets.
Entry fifty-two.
Sucks to be you, Raoul. I don't see her swooning. I mean, for one thing, you keep arguing that the fantome de l'Opera is a figment of her imagination. The way to win a girl's heart is not, in fact, to insinuate that she's a wee bit crazy.
Christine –
I'll figment you, Raoul. And your little dog too! Bwahahahaha!
Entry fifty-three.
I hope Nadir remembered to put my electric blanket on, tonight.
Entry fifty-four.
Gag me with a spoon. This is getting more nauseating with every passing second.
Entry fifty-five.
Seriously now. Erik's special place is reaching a critical status. If these two lovebirds don't wrap it up soon I might have to do a little premature punjabbing of le Viscomte, just so I can go inside.
Entry fifty-six.
Sudden identity crisis: even the Wicked Witch of the West has better catch phrases than me. 'Punjabbing'? What's with that?
Entry fifty-seven.
There, there Erik. It's okay. You'll find your place in the sun. Or eternal night. One of those. And when Christine tells Raoul to go to Hades with his fine horses and his silky drawers, you'll see you were worrying about nothing all along.
Entry fifty-eight.
She… Accepted his ring over mine?
WTF! Slutball!
Has she forgotten that I can rock her socks right off with only the sound of my beautiful music? That I rocked so hard, she had to go and find a casbah so I could rock that for her, too?
Trouble in Operatown. Storm's a-brewing.
You are so dead, de Chagny.
Entry fifty-nine.
I just realised my ankles look fat in these boots. And I've been prancing around in them all night like a king.
The perfect end to the worst day of my life.
AN: Thank you all so much for your reviews. I hope you found this chapter as funny.